Robbie Robertson is talking
in the middle of his own song
as if there are no rules to anything.
My son is trying to put a Cheerio
down the straw of his drink
and my cells are shaking at the fact
they also live in a daredevil.

Carl Burkitt 2024

Written while listening to ‘Somewhere Down the Crazy River’ by Robbie Robertson.

I gave being a lumberjack a go.
I’d grown the beard years earlier
to hide the gentleness of my cheek skin
and my wardrobe was already stuffed
with checked shirts because a guy in a pub
once said I suited them. I bought a trucker
style cap with ‘Lumberjacked’ embroidered
on the front and a massive axe
from a massive axe shop. The bloke serving me
had a chest built for getting lost in and he taught me
how to swing without being afraid.
Once I’d put my new steel toe cap boots on
I walked into the woods with my axe
over my shoulder. I sang songs about meat
and biceps and chopped a dead tree
down to the size of my torso. I yanked
a heart-sized lump of wood off it and shoved
it in my satchel to remember my weekend.

Carl Burkitt 2024

Written while listening to ‘Where The Wild Things Are’ by Luke Combs.

My Walkman is broken
and I just forgot to take my headphones
out of my ears –
at least that’s what I’m telling
the bigger boys on the bus home
while trying not to weep
to Chris Martin’s beautiful voice
holding my freshly made scones
for Mum in home economics class.

Carl Burkitt 2024

Written while listening to ‘The Scientist’ by Coldplay.

The first song I laughed at in a funeral
was the theme tune to Winnie the Pooh
as a Charlton Athletic fan was carried
in a coffin down a crematorium aisle.
At least 95% of us had no idea
Winnie was a family nickname for him –
on account of his head shape and giggle –
but we all whistled the tube over ham sandwiches
that afternoon. I smiled while Mr Big Stuff
sang a teenage Mercedes apprentice
through a different crematorium
past the borrowed suit on my body trying
to retain its Geography revision. I ate a flapjack
watching the live stream of an uncle’s
COVID-19 funeral. I caught pixelated tears
on my finger tips and strained to hear any music.

Carl Burkitt 2024

Written while listening to ‘Fat Bottomed Girls’ by Queen.

My backpack is carrying a box of pick and mix
bought using my £5.00 Christmas Woolworths
voucher from Uncle Norman. I used the technique
passed down to me from my brother:
a layer of foam sweets, a layer of bon bons,
a layer of foam sweets, a layer of boiled sweets,
a layer of foam sweets, and so on to maximise
the tub’s airspace. The lady on the till
used a bit of sticky tape to keep the lid down.
I’m walking to the newly opened Swindon Subway
to buy a bacon footlong on Italian herb bread
and I’m probably going to buy American Pie on DVD.
The sun is shining because this is a fictional memory,
which means Alicia fancies me and I’m not going to
lose the hurdles final. I’m still too scared to try
skateboarding, but I’m head to toe in Vans and Tony
Hawk is waiting for me to get the number 1 bus home.

Carl Burkitt 2024

Written while listening to ‘The Middle’ by Jimmy Eat World.

Jason Statham is in Costa Coffee
eating a shortbread biscuit. He’s already
chopped it in two with his talented punching hands
and is telling anyone who will listen
about the subtlety of his performance
in the film Snatch. “I could’ve been the bare
knuckle boxer played by Brad Pitt,” he growls
at a group of mums with prams catching up
after their weekly baby class, “but it’s important
to stretch yourself sometimes, you know.”
He orders a third double espresso and asks
the tattooed guy behind the till if he even remembers
Stephen Graham in that film, ignoring the pay machine.
“Of course you don’t,” interrupts Statham,
“I stole every bleedin’ scene.”

Carl Burkitt 2024

Written while listening to ‘Golden Brown’ by The Stranglers.

I was taught how to shave in a caravan in Devon.
My parents were getting ready to go out
and play Scrabble with their best friends

but Dad took 10 minutes to explain the importance
of dabbing hot water on my teenage neck
and barely ready cheeks, chin, and top lip –

before applying shaving foam – to prevent dirt
and dead cells clogging up his expensive blade.
“Go in the direction the hair grows,” he said

and I imagined the girls back home
being impressed with the way I followed instruction.
I sloshed the finished razor in the mini sink

the way Grandad would have done in the RAF
or Uncle Jim in the middle of the Gulf War.
In the night, I felt uncut fluff on my bottom lip,

reached for the razor and hacked in the dark.
“Girls like scars,” Dad said, passing tissues
for the blood gathering on my smile.

Carl Burkitt 2024

Written while listening to ‘King of Carrot Flowers Pt. 1’ by Neutral Milk Hotel.

Bottles of WKD Blue are wearing off
while silver buckled black loafers
are upside down on the landing.
A Pot Noodle is brewing on the desk
next to highlighted AS Geography revision
and Eurosport is playing German football
on a perfectly square 12-inch TV.
It’s 3am. Wet look gel continues
to make a naturally curly fringe
as straight as a soldier blending in.
The Pot Noodle is ready now.
It’s chicken and mushroom
and life, no matter what the ache
in the very tip of your skull thinks,
will never be as wonderful.

Carl Burkitt 2024

Written while listening to ‘Sweet Child O’ Mine’ by Guns N’ Roses.

She enters the room like a surprise
bass drum in the middle of a song
you thought you knew every note of.
BOOM.
Let’s go sit in a park and talk about our fears
of spiders and being falsely imprisoned.
BOOM.
Let’s buy a dog from a bloke at a bus stop.
BOOM.
Let’s swap books about mass killings.
BOOM.
Let’s feed some goats in a city farm
and have a son in six years who loves trains
and hold hands at funerals and eat cake
and gossip on car journeys across the world.
BOOM.

Carl Burkitt 2024

Written while listening to ‘Stuck On You’ by Meiko.

Cool dads do not exist in this house.
We take off our tops and beat our chests
pretending to be gorillas
managing a breakfast cafe
if it means getting cereal into you
without a fight.
We sit on train station toilet floors
transcribing the hedgehog story you must capture
if it means you’ll take a dump
before we go for a walk.
We worry and moan and cry and scream
and punch and tear at our skin
behind closed doors
if it means turning your mouth
into a hot air balloon smile
floating you towards sun and only sun.

Carl Burkitt 2024

Written while listening to ‘Float On’ by Modest Mouse.