Spent the morning trying
to use my coiled tail as a pogo stick.
Didn’t work. Rolled in mud for a bit,
listened to a bloke telling his date
on the other side of the gate in my field
that I am in fact smarter than a dog.
Watched him talk about the benefits
of high intensity interval training,
recite his favourite Jay-Z lyrics,
lie about feeling comfortable
in his demanding office job, not
ask her a single question, recommend
an organic chorizo he’d seen on Kickstarter.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

They’re kicking each other.
They shouldn’t be kicking each other.
They should be kicking the football
into the goal.
I want a yogurt.
I want a strawberry yogurt.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

She doesn’t believe in dinosaurs.
She whacks another cod
in the deep fat fryer and tells her colleague
through a knuckle of chewing gum
that bones the size of a T-Rex’s leg have no business
walking about. She talks about dead liars,
how she only believes in what she can hold.
Her colleague pours vinegar
on an extra large portion of chips and says
if you can’t believe in the past
why invest yourself in the future. He tells me
they’ve sold out of Coke Zero, hands me my dinner,
tells me to come again soon.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

He sees a camel
on the cinema screen
and yells, CAMEL.
His mum smiles,
pinches a piece of
popcorn from his box
and doesn’t tell him
it’s a horse.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

He bought me a stout.
A chocolate spiced stout.
He bought me 1/3 of a pint
of chocolate spiced stout.
He said he appreciates me
being nice and talking to him
once a week in a pub older
than my bones and he wanted
to buy me a 1/3 of a pint
of chocolate spiced stout
because he knows I wouldn’t
like it, and it’s nice to disagree
from time to time.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

Not much to report.
Popped one sugar in a breakfast tea
after scooping out the bag.
Stirred it in.
Had a quick rinse under the cold tap
then got dropped in the sink.
Lay on the plug for a few hours,
thought about a big spoon.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

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