I want to come back as a chip shop chip.
I want to make boys like me swoon.
I want lips to be licked by my mere mention.
I want to be the reason people keep going until Friday.
I want my overdone crusty bits to be my best bits.
I want to have salt rubbed into my wooden fork wounds.
I want to come back as a chip shop chip
and hear people say
I probably shouldn’t but, oh, go on then.
© Carl Burkitt 2020
Take it easy, sofa. Put your feet up.
You’ve had a hard week’s work
taking my weight off.
Stretch your arms,
replump your cushions,
take the night for you.
Ground yourself. Scan your frame,
feel your feet on the old floorboards.
Have a catch up with the telly,
tell each other things you’d
rather not when we’re around.
© Carl Burkitt 2020
I saw a man having a jog in a sports top,
running shoes and a pair of jeans.
He didn’t look the type. I’m ashamed to say
his neat hair and thin-rimmed glasses
had me thinking he was one of those
thoroughly prepared, got the right gear kind of fellas.
I wonder what other surprises he pulls.
Maybe he swims with a fleece on,
does the gardening in a British racing green thong,
eats a chicken breast with a teaspoon.
Maybe he’s one of those otherworldly creatures
who walks around with his head held high
not caring what anyone else thinks.
© Carl Burkitt 2020
Cactus, you spiky sod,
sitting there all dry and prickly.
I see you, crusty cucumber with fangs,
S&M dildo, nature’s sand paper.
I see you, acting all hard,
smoking at the back of the bus
thinking water’s for the weak.
I see you, leaning towards the sun,
clearing your throat, dreaming
of grey clouds.
© Carl Burkitt 2020
It was only a frying pan. A circle to smash eggs in.
A black hole for red pepper flesh and weepy onions.
It was only a frying pan. The handle was huge,
longer than your arm, as heavy as I imagine
carrying you down the stairs was.
I wonder if you ever cooked a chilli in it.
The head was too small for pancakes.
Too small for meals bigger than meals for one.
That’s all I could think about when I put it on my hob.
It was only a frying pan.
© Carl Burkitt 2020
Non functioning fireplace, I know how you feel mate.
All dressed up like a night full of tiles
stood static in one place with nothing to say.
Remember when you believed in Santa?
They soon put a stop to that,
stuffed your open mind with bricks
to prevent him sliding in.
They left your safety guard in front of you.
They call it decoration. I call it a temptation
to restart your burning imagination.
© Carl Burkitt 2020
I remember two bottles of orange Reef
in each hand. I remember short sleeve shirts
and silver buckled loafers. I remember vibrating
phones and voicemail tones. I remember
wet-look heads, piss in phone boxes, cartwheels
down high streets. I remember pretending
it wasn’t real. I remember Justin Timberlake.
I remember garlic mayonnaise
and finding the hotel key. I remember
the three of us with 30 seconds alone making
an underage toast, unsure what the words meant.
© Carl Burkitt 2020
Christopher Walken
Couldn’t stop talkin
In the voice
Of Christopher Walken.
He felt, with a bit of practice,
He’d soon be able to nail it.
© Carl Burkitt 2020
I bite my finger nails. I like to nibble my claws.
Not when I’m nervous, when I’m bored.
Anxiousness gets my legs dancing.
Before an exam I could ride a tricycle
up a black ice covered mountain.
When a video conference call dials
I’m Road Runner smashing through a wall.
Sat around a meeting room table waiting for my turn
to announce my name and one fact about me
I could teach Michael Flatley a thing or two.
When I stood at the end of the aisle on that sunny
October morning, I was a gold spray-painted busker
frozen on the local high street.
© Carl Burkitt 2020
Carl tells tales 