Author Archives: carltellstales

Hat trick

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Erling Haaland believes in magic.
The egg he’s beating has turned
into an orange puddle, a wet sun.
He adds milk like a white water fall
and tips it all into a mixing bowl
with plain flour, golden sugar, baking powder
then watches clumps form holiday islands.
The whisk is a cement mixer.
He thinks he prefers scotch pancakes
because of the pinch of salt
and sits on the kitchen counter
while circles of batter sizzle in the hot pan.
He stops himself eating the birthday cake
to the left of him and writes ‘mummy’
in his best handwriting on a crisp envelope.
He might score a hat trick tomorrow.

Carl Burkitt 2024

Scuff resistant shoes

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Slip on your scuff resistant shoes
heart first and kick out at life.
Cause a fuss. Colour the clouds green.
Try chunky pasta sauce and stone fruits.
Climb walls. See what’s on the other side.
Scream until you no longer have to scream.
Plasters exist: slide tackle on concrete.
Wave at the lollipop man. Speed towards bumps.
Sing terrible songs. Write worse poetry.
Let people know you are worried.
Listen to your dad. Don’t listen to your dad.

Carl Burkitt 2024

That limo

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I am still in that limo
ready for our year eleven prom.
My black bow tie has been knocked over
by the whiff of my Foster’s breath.
You live in the foreground
waving out the window as we pull out
of the driveway of your family home
and we take the piss out of your floral tie.

I am still in that limo
watching Arsenal drawing with Brighton today.
My four year old son is next to me on the sofa
and I’m explaining that goalkeepers are the bravest
because everyone’s mood rides on them.

I am still in that limo
standing in a muddy field in the 1990s
as you pull the ball out of your net
for the sixth time that afternoon.
Your smile is as white as the gloves
you are pounding together
encouraging your defenders to keep going.

I am still in that limo
walking through a snowy Berlin
with men you once rode school buses with
and slapped with wet towels after swimming.
Each crunch of my walking boots is
the tut of Mr Collingridge telling us to shush
at the back of the German classroom.

I am still in that limo
drinking in a Welsh pub with Sunday league adults
who don’t know you. I’ve not seen you
for five months since we went in different directions:
me to sixth form, you to a Mercedes apprenticeship.
Bottles of Orange Reef and Smirnoff Black
clink to the tune of a Nokia 3210 ringtone:
it’s a lad from back home in Swindon
telling me you came off your moped.

I’m still in that limo
sitting on the grassy mound of our primary school
swapping my packet of ready salted Walkers
with your packets of cheese and onion Walkers.
We wonder what it’s like to kiss a girl.
We wonder what big school will be like.
We wonder if we’ll be mates forever.

I am still in that limo,
the picture of us ready for our year eleven prom
is printed in local newspaper and shown
on National TV news channels
next to headlines explaining three years later
how you’d still be alive today
if doctors acted appropriately.

I am still in that limo
walking into our reception class playground.
Chris tells me that your name is Graeme.
Chris tells you that my name is Carl.
We look into each other’s eyes
and walk in different directions
because making new friends is boring.

I am still in that limo.

Carl Burkitt 2024