I just kept looking out of the window
and let the leaves wave Hello.
A man on a red bike cycled by
and his spokes kind of blinked at me.
The tarmac smiled at the hug of tyres.
The tarmac didn’t smile. Tarmac can’t smile.
I like to imagine the air gossiping
about all of us sat inside looking back
at the air gossiping about all of us.
Maybe the tarmac did smile.
© Carl Burkitt 2020
Microwave, I live for your ding.
You sound like an action film
when you’ve got popcorn in.
I love how you bring forgotten tea
back to life.
Every now and then your warm light hum
spins me back to Grandpi’s sofa
as he wide-eye giggles his way
through the story of him and Grandma
getting dressed up in their finest garb
to pop down the Moonraker’s pub to watch
Swindon’s first ever microwave
cook a shepherd’s pie.
It took 40 minutes.
© Carl Burkitt 2020
That week we were all goats and hay fever.
Our ears were cockerels, our noses were cow pats.
Liam’s back got bitten by a pony,
Kieran got kicked by a goose.
Paul bamboozled Colin with a chip
and Gareth wiped his tears
with a future pizza payday.
I met a horse with asthma.
Chris had an empty plastic jug thrown
at his hips for nutmegging a farmer
and I watched you lose a sheep.
You’d probably still be chasing it
if you were here.
© Carl Burkitt 2020
Every time I step on you,
water trickling from parts unknown
down squeaky clean quads
and lime-scented calves,
I wish I could return the favour.
I wish I could lie all dry
staring up at your fluffy stuff, desperate.
Desperate to be useful.
Desperate to feel your heels
dig in to my chest until one of us whispers,
See you tomorrow, filthy bastard.
© Carl Burkitt 2020
When I‘m lost I start swinging steel chairs.
I hide brass knuckles in my pants.
I ignore kids and refuse photographs.
I poke eyes. I pull on tights.
I take off turnbuckle padding.
I rub gravel across my baby face
because when my eyes were at their bluest
I still had to go to teenage funerals.
I still had to sleep quietly as a man a thousand
miles away couldn’t believe his luck.
I still had to make tea and change the subject.
When I’m lost I set fires and tip ladders and want tables.
It all makes sense to me. I sit and scream silently
then my partner tags me back in
and distracts the ref so I can low blow the world.
© Carl Burkitt 2020
You hang outrageously on my living room
wall bigger than a king-size mattress.
No joke, you’re an absolute unit.
I can feel you daring me to fill you.
You swallow everything in sight
and when the light gets gobbled up
it’s like we’re living in a mansion.
But we’re not. God you’re imposing.
You’re like one of those two-way mirrors on
Inspector Morse, or something more modern.
There I am, just sat on the sofa being asked
what I want for dinner by good cop
as bad cop waits inside you desperate
to smash my face into a plate of gravy.
© Carl Burkitt 2020
I’m starting to forget what hands feel like.
And how to perform the two step dance with a stranger
before the weight of their chest against my stomach
makes me panic for being so tall.
It’s been centuries since I’ve put my cheek
on the cheek of someone in an office reception
and made a fake kiss sound.
Can anyone remember what my mum smells of?
I avoided eye contact with a spider plant yesterday
and resisted the urge to ask a spatula
if it was enjoying the sun as I waited for the lift
of my toast from the toaster.
© Carl Burkitt 2020
I’m ashamed to say
I can’t say your name.
Lur Kree You Set?
Luh Kree Uh So?
Lah Crew So?
I didn’t buy you.
You were handed down
by two hob-sized hands.
You’re just deep enough for a dish for one,
so you’re borderline useless here.
I’m grateful for that.
© Carl Burkitt 2020
Bottle opener. Cheese grater.
I love perfectly literal names.
Hand wash. Tooth brush.
Names that don’t bother messing about.
Flying ants. Orange juice. DVD case.
Names like that make me
wonder what I should be called.
Conscious organ sack. Breathing flesh skeleton.
Poo chef. Walking worry beast. Oxygen hotel.
Future hearse passenger. Theme park for blood.
© Carl Burkitt 2020
Carl tells tales 