Twelve polished loafers
Half a dozen pints of ale
Zero how are yous

© Carl Burkitt 2023

Air cannot breathe between them,
the two-headed boy sharing shoulders.
The other kids at football club
respect space, spread out like new freckles
on hairless skin, but blood flows
between these two, sticks them together,
burns like jealousy or first love.
They will grow, call each other words
not yet invented, press each other’s buttons
with knowing bones. They will score
different goals, concede different goals.
Air will breathe between them.
Blood will continue to burn.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

My barber moves in precise silence.
When he’s in the weeds of my scalp
he does not care about my holiday
or what I am up to on the weekend.
He cannot see the weather through walls.
His scissors chat nervously.
The barber nods hello to every hair
and whispers goodbye.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

She doesn’t have enough time
to bite her cinnamon and sugar ring doughnut
because she’s writing poems with a pencil.
Her blunt silver tip is busy
scribbling what her eyes are looking at:
the man at the till ordering a chocolate muffin
wearing a novelty pizza T-Shirt
fashionably too big for his frame.
He has a thick wet tongue,
teapot-for-two sized biceps,
a moustache she may one day recommend
trimming.
Her coffee is asking to be sipped
but the man just waved at a baby in a pram
and has eyes that want to phone his mum
just to say hello. I wonder if it feels intrusive
having a poem unknowingly written about you,
the bits of you that pop recorded by a stranger,
and I contemplate asking her
where she bought her sleek reusable bottle.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

on and on and on.
He goes on about the bills
they’ve been charged not matching up
with the amount of energy they’ve used,
she says to her friend. He goes on about TV
shows going on too long. He goes on
about it raining and being sunny or cold
and how the chip shop up the road –
the one that does three different sizes
of curry sauce – is getting expensive. He goes
on about dust. He goes on about the importance
of play and creativity. She’s not touched her
sandwich or sipped her coffee. He goes on
about cheese. He goes on about 20 years ago
and the taste of Rennie’s. He goes on about
exploring the Lake District and James Bond
and the way our hands age faster than we do.
She says he goes on and on. On and on, she says.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

Kathy Burke wants to know how
you would like to die
and you do your best
to be funny about being swallowed by a dinosaur
or eating your favourite pizza until explosion
or being the oldest man in the world
and shrinking to the size of raisin and
falling down the plug hole
or being kicked by an impressive cow
or all of your skin falling off
through delight when your local football team
surprisingly win the Champions League Final
or being suffocated by kittens and puppies
and you ignore
the sudden truth.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

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