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

I got a job as a grave digger.
I had great difficulty completing
the digging bit, so my thick knuckled
colleague, Jeff, would do that part
for me. I would just stand back and cheer
him on, clapping every time he lifted
a particularly large clump of dirt.
Jeff wouldn’t say much during a shift,
on account of him not having a tongue,
but we knew how to communicate. He had eyes
that could talk – if you know what I mean.
He’d wink when I’d open my lunchbox
to let me know he wanted one of my ham sandwiches
and then wink again to let me know
he didn’t like it. Haha. If he wanted water
he’d blink blink blink, and you should have seen
how wide those peepers would open
whenever a corpse broke out of its coffin
and through the earth and grabbed our shins.
I could hear his eyelids screaming.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

I came across a
charcoal-coloured
cauldron roughly
the size of a hippo
or a childhood mistake.
It was in the park near
my house completely
alone. I got close to
it and peered inside.
It was empty, clean,
except for a cry
that I recognised.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

I woke up
with green skin, again.
I was too tired to ask why
so I just embraced it.
I pretended to be a witch
and cackled at the thick layer
of raspberry jam on my toast.
I swept crumbs off the floor,
slipped the broom between my legs,
and jumped out of the window.
I didn’t fly, obviously, but I didn’t
die, which was nice, but my nose
did break and I terrified my neighbour’s son.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

The gravestone had my name on it,
followed by a date far later than expected,
and a witty engraving along the lines of:
Do not disturb
or
Arrrgggh I’m still alive
or
Lived as he died: naked
or
Died as he lived: terrified.

© Carl Burkitt 2023