Poet by Adrian Mitchell
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Author Archives: carltellstales
Ironing board
I’ve never felt more embarrassed.
Steam was coming out of my ears.
It was the day I completely lost control
of what I do and why I do it.
Life was a meta spiral
of my brain not knowing who it was.
You loved it.
You stood all proud,
your squeaky hinges giggling
as I opened the packaging
and used you to iron
a brand new iron board cover.
© Carl Burkitt 2020
Let’s have it
A woman wearing tight black cycling shorts,
a thick, fluffy, bright orange fleece jacket
and brown leather high heeled boots
strutted past my flat eating a mid-morning ice lolly.
She wasn’t licking it. She was biting it.
Each crunch of tooth screamed
All bets are off mate!
Her frozen breakfast was made up of colours
from streets I haven’t been through in weeks.
Her hooped earrings were moons of planets
she’d invented. I bet her living room is fun.
She probably has sofas stuck to the ceiling
like The Twits, but loves it.
© Carl Burkitt 2020
Cork notice board
Kitchen cork notice board,
you hang out by the fridge door
clinging on to varied chaos.
You’re all out of date Big Mac vouchers, garish third place rosettes, free Boots eye tests.
You’re Christmas at Morden Hall brochures,
a sweaty festival wristband, the yawns
of business cards from conference rooms.
You’re weekly reminders of which bin’s next,
unattended Spring 2019 Art Exhibition leaflets.
You’re pictures of inside the universe,
a scanned network of nerves ready to dance.
© Carl Burkitt 2020
Woefully underqualified
I can feel a promotion looming.
Something like Co-Director of the Universe,
Chief Executive of Skull Protection,
PR Director of Your Achievements. I’m set for
Digital Media Officer of Expanding Limbs Limited,
Arse-Wiper of the Stars, PA to Zeus.
I’m gonna be Administrator of Numbers and Shapes
Finance Director of Future Endeavours,
Head Deer in Headlights.
I can feel a promotion looming and I’m woefully
underqualified. But then we all lie on our CV.
© Carl Burkitt 2020
Stairs
I’ve never met anything as beige as you
have so many interesting angles.
Sandy flip flops, puddle-jumped wellies,
rush hour-shoes, weekend muddy walking boots,
you’ve seen so much and keep going.
You are creakless.
Whatever weight gets placed on your shoulders
you don’t make a sound.
You are an open invitation to murderers.
© Carl Burkitt 2020
Do you peel carrots?
Two pigeons outside my flat
nibble a kerb like a couple of old
widowers struggling to feed themselves.
I remember Grandpi’s first roast dinner
and how he only called my mum once
just to double check how to peel the spuds
and boil the spuds and how much oil
to preheat in a pan to roast the spuds
and if you peel carrots and if stuffing gets stuffed
inside the chicken and how much milk is mixed
in the Yorkshire pudding batter and
at what stage you add water to the gravy.
It tasted just like Grandma’s,
he said the next day. I was very proud.
© Carl Burkitt 2020
Walls
If these magnolia walls could talk
the living room would recite the plot
of How To Get Away With Murder.
The kitchen would explain every
gravy brown, egg yellow, ketchup red
splash across its encouraging face.
The porch would try to be cool and say
Nah, don’t worry, leave your shoes on.
The bathroom would gossip
about fingers poking through toilet paper,
hair being tied back and wee wee on sticks.
The bedroom better keep its mouth shut.
© Carl Burkitt 2020
Nice day
I can see a man outside a block of flats
swinging a beige tote bag like a toddler
waiting for his mum to finish chatting.
A lady with a kind face walks out of the flats
and kisses the tote bag man in a way
I know she’s not his mum.
They start talking. Nice day,
one of them probably says.
The days are always nice with you,
I hope the other says.
But today is not a nice day.
The sun set on an entire community yesterday,
the cheeks of pavement are soaking wet.
The lady with the kind face kisses
the tote bag man again.
Nice day, I hope.
© Carl Burkitt 2020
Dumbbells
You don’t so much build up my muscles,
rather collect the dust of my dead skin.
Whenever I move in to a new top floor flat
I feel stupid for buying you,
then I remember I’m not the one
with dumb in my name.
God you’re idiots. You could be in
the Guinness Book of Records
for the most pointless set of twins.
At least you have each other.
© Carl Burkitt 2020
Carl tells tales 