I hope no one is reading this.
I hope they’re all smiling at penis-shaped clouds.
I hope they’re losing at Scrabble.
I hope they’re cooking a fresh meal.
I hope they’re cooking a dirty ready meal.
I hope they’re completing a jigsaw or starting
a jigsaw or buying a jigsaw or selling a jigsaw.
I hope they’re crying.
I hope they’re inventing dog names.
I hope they’re practicing their autograph.
I hope they’re whistling the Changing Rooms theme.
I hope they’re doing nothing.
I hope no one is reading this.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

If my flat was a Cluedo board you’d find me dead
in the hallway with the extendable rubber broom
or in the living room with the Cool Original Doritos
or in the kitchen with the easily split bin bag
or in the bathroom with the broken flush
or in the bedroom with thoughts racing.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

I like taking the bins out.
I like opening the grubby mouth
and feeding it a homemade buffet.
Nom nom nom nom nom.
I like taking the bins out.
I like being a filthy Father Christmas,
a stinky Easter Bunny hiding giant crap eggs.
I like taking the bins out,
shooting a wink at the foxes –
the sexy ones waiting to pounce.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

Leave the house and take the first right.
Put one foot in front of the other,
stepping into the road every now and then.
Look at the tabby cat next to the dog poo bin
and wonder what it’s planning.
Put one foot in front of the other.
Wave at the stranger walking towards you.
Not really, but imagine being that kind of person.
Put one foot in front of the other.
Remember there’s a sky
that goes through dark and light and wet.
Put one foot in front of the other.
When you see the supermarket, just keep going.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

That’s all the note said.
Something about skin.
I tried to remember the feeling I must’ve had
in my muscles when writing those words,
but I couldn’t.
Something about skin.
Was it a handwritten scribble to jog a memory?
Or a warning for my largest organ’s future?
I often feel like a onesie for a wise creature
that dies the second the zip goes up.
Like a firework on a rainy November.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

A man from France was outside my window.
At 3am his voice was the moon,
howling a language I didn’t understand.
He was one place, then another, then a cement mixer.
He was a summer window nightmare.
A man from France was outside my window.
At 6am his voice was a family of birds
screaming for a reason to be awake.
He was a Monday morning bottle bin memory.
A man from France was outside my window.
At 9am his voice was two voices
arguing through phones, through fences.
He was an analogue alarm cock.
A man from France was outside my window.
I think. I hope I didn’t make him up.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

Orange is the morning tickling your feet.
Orange is night vision.
Orange is the toe of Christmas.
Orange is a snowman’s nostril, a naked callipo.
Orange is red and yellow
setting their differences aside.
Orange is Wait, no need to rush off.
Orange is halftime.
Orange is condensation down a pint glass. Orange is a Thursday firework.
Orange is the flame of truth.
Orange is the peeling of an old skin,
a trusting reveal of the soft bits.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

If you
turn the
midnight
universe
on its back
you’ll hear
the snore
of comets
firing their
charm
through
your heart.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

I was legs, a burger, a baby bucket.
I’ve been birdshit, snappy, nesthead.
My sliced up Portside big toe,
key-holed kneecap, hernia memory
and the ghost of a concrete face plant
made me lefty. I was Bergertron 6, lanky, pubetop.
Son, brother, up, down, tired, bleak,
groom, smile, trier, tired, up.

© Carl Burkitt 2020