They’re swapping the names of influences,
the two poets at the party,
and how not writing every day
makes them feel heavy, unimaginative,
like a
heavy
unimaginative
thing.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

He declared it – his love – with spray paint
the colour of an infected organ on the bridge
halfway down a local dual carriage way.
He declared it at night – his love –
as not to scare daytime drivers
into thinking he was a teenager plotting
to drop bricks on car bonnets or a jumper
minutes before his final minute
or a police officer with a speed gun.
It was difficult – his love –
to write upside down using his weak hand
as his strongest held his body
from the railing. He declared it – his love –
on the road leaving town.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

What are you looking at,
stupid sod. You walk into this pub
every week with a notepad,
chuck open its pretentious elastic clasp
and flick the tied-on fabric bookmark
aside with the theatrics of a magician.
You have no tricks. Nothing but the art
of cracking on and stealing the moments
from strangers’ mouths. Say hello.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

The two of them are sitting on chairs,
one behind the other,
like a couple in a canoe
or strangers on a packed double decker
bus. If this wasn’t a pub
this could be a dentist’s waiting room
or a church confessional. The guy
at the back of the canoe is throwing
small talk against his mate’s skull.
They’re chatting about work, children,
their health conditions. It’s a shame
their faces are allergic to looking
at each other. They need to see
each other’s smiles.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

Watch out for kangaroos in your subconscious.
The lack of walls means kangaroos will reach
whatever size you can imagine. They will not
hide. They will not sit still. They will jump
from joy to fear. They will stuff your self-
esteem into their pouch or mouth and take it
to memories that will never die. You cannot kill
a kangaroo. They feed off indecision and hunched
shoulders.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

He’s not himself.
Sandra said he bit her head off
Thursday night. Geoff reckons he didn’t
say a word yesterday, not ever to Rich
or Pete. The landlord’s heard something
about his daughter of the anniversary
of his wife. He’s just come out of the toilet
and ordered two sparkling waters.
He’s not himself.
The buckles on his loafers are polished.
He won’t stop looking at his watch
and checking the pub door.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

The man is talking
about the Isle of Wight Festival
and hog roasts and cheap cider.
His estranged mates in front of him
asks what the large red mark on his brow is.
I wiped sweat off my head the other day
and it turns out I had shit on my hand
and rubbed it into an open wound.
This is not a poem.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

Weyhey! Here we are!
Hello! Can you believe it?!
There’s a bloke over there kicking
a pomegranate. Blimey!
Walkers have released Pickled Onion
Monster Munch flavoured crisps. Flamingos
are born grey and their diet of brine shrimp
and blue green algae contains
a natural dye that turns their feathers pink.
Interesting! The second hand furniture shop
Opposite the flat never turns its lights off.
Crikey! Today’s death poem
focuses on unrelated things
before bringing it back
to death. Wowzers!

© Carl Burkitt 2023

The Very Hungry Caterpillar no longer eats
five ojanges on a Friday. It eats five oranges.
Your fingertips are strong enough, nimble
enough, to separate and turn the pages
individually in the way everyone else does.
You walk the story in a straight line.
You take comfort in the accomplishment.
When they arrive, let your wings take you
into incorrect corners and gardens that might
get you bitten. Enjoy the cocoon for now.
Remember to shout ONE SLICE OF WATERMELON.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

I opened a sandwich bar and called it
something like The Club Club or Slice of Life
or Sam Wich’s Sandwiches. Business boomed
immediately. Every seat was filled with a local
bum, and mouths spoke of a breath of fresh air
between bites of salt beef paninis and chilli
con carne ciabattas. The 21-year-old owner
of the cocktail bar opposite approached me
for a collaboration and we held Build-A-Bap
workshops for the surrounding primary schools.
The shop closed eventually because I got into
a new project or died or the stress became
too much.

© Carl Burkitt 2023