They have to ask where you are.
Upstairs, they will be told.
Downstairs, they will be told.
Turn left at the four sections of Travel Writing,
past the Manga, beyond Smart Thinking
and it should be on a shelf
between Diet & Fitness and European History.
The lightbulb above you doesn’t work.
There’s a screw missing in your wood.
The books on your back are more dust than paper.
Two people are stood in front of you
queuing to use the shop’s toilet.
You say nothing. You feel the thoughts
inside of you, the worlds, the colour, the heart.
You laugh. You worry. You hug yourself.
You thank the gods you are not short stories.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

The mossy bridge halfway down
the street playing home to my family
has been demolished. It was
too dangerous, too old, too unreliable
to sit under Reebok Classics
and Raleigh bike wheels.
How will dens made from fallen
branches and stolen tarpaulin
give a roof to lungs too scared
to try smoking cigarettes or
stockpile damp pages of lost porn
magazines? The banks are overgrown.
The trolls have left the stream.
Skateboards must stop
dreaming they can roll on grass.
Will the trees miss being climbed?
Will the twigs dream of being swords,
strong enough to fight all afternoon,
young enough to bounce back
when snapped in two?

© Carl Burkitt 2023

The adults’ heads
were as tall as the black sky,
organised fire spat
under their chins.
I was in the grass of my
primary school’s field, hot
chocolate with hidden whiskey
dripped onto the top of my
beanie. My gloves were too
nervous to let sparklers dance.
I positioned my eyes forward,
told my ears it will be over soon.
Then a ginger cat climbed out
of the lit bonfire, shook debris
off its back. It stretched its legs,
yawned, thought nothing of the show.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

The foxes are fighting.
Or making love.
Or sharing a meal.
Or exploding
into a million pieces.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

Every so often I think about the word
X-Ray, and how it’s the only word I remember
Every time I’m asked to think of a word beginning with X.
Perhaps other people remember others. But not me.
How could I? Especially
On those days my bones want to fall from a great height.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

I guess you are
the graffiti on a German class desk,
a freckle on a right cheek,
a moped’s skid mark on a B road ,
the trail of a sparkler
the sky clings to after the flame
has died.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

You never know what moustache you will get
until you grow one. I knew a man whose moustache
was as thin as his wedding ring. I had
a neighbour with shoulders strong enough
to withstand the pressure of one shaped like a handlebar.
I saw a man yesterday drinking a milky coffee,
white clumps stuck to his stubbled tash
like they were excited to be a part of something
new. I haven’t shaved my face clean for nine years.
I can’t remember what the last words my naked
lips said. Maybe it was ordering a pepperoni pizza,
cheering a free kick going in, complimenting a beer,
whispering about low self esteem, wondering
what moustache I would get if I grew one.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

The floorboards above my head started creaking.
I couldn’t hear the couples on Married At First Sight
yelling so I turned the volume up on the television.
The floorboards started creaking louder. As loud
as they would when Dad climbed the stairs
when the first series of Big Brother began.
His mouth wouldn’t say a word but the house would
growl until his feet found his jigsaw puzzle,
carried it down to the kitchen for a cup of tea
and a chance to build a world of no arguing.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

My reflection in a puddle
told me my face was now
the mask from the film Scream.
I have never killed a person
but it was nice having a smaller nose.
The long, dark mouth got me
wondering how many Pringles
I could squeeze in it at once.
The ghostly complexion was
the same as ever and the dead,
mournful eyes made me feel
at home.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

Something went bump
in the night,
I think.
I’m a heavy sleeper
and no-one was in
the house to ask
the following morning.

© Carl Burkitt 2023