he is 11 foot tall and has six eyes.
I like how his arms are made
of wooden beams and his hands are
goalkeeper gloves and his teeth are
the knobbly bits on a guitar’s head.
He is always there, under my skin,
buried in the bones of my wrist joint
when winter decides it should hurt.
I like how when things are going well
he turns up as a grey mist
to remind me that death is always there
and it’s a choice whether I join him
or do what I can to remember buttercups exist.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

The man on the television is having surgery
and he will probably die because his life is filled
with love and laughter and his wife is expecting
a baby and all the actors playing doctors
believe he will be absolutely fine. I saw a dog
yesterday run across the road without looking
left and right and the cars just drove
and the dog made it to the other side
and into the park and its owner didn’t say a word
and oh look the man survived his surgery.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

There’s a Mini in the recycling truck,
an octopus on the train tracks,
a fake hotdog in a pushchair.
Books are hats and shoes and pillows.
Your legs are dog legs, your tongue
is a bubble catcher, your hand is a spade.
The tractor is a head massager,
the DVD case is a fly swatter,
the wooden egg is a grenade.
Today is tomorrow and yesterday
and forever and the corner of a room
built by the fingers in your mind.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

On second thoughts, go for it.
Throw the stroopwafels in the basket,
push the bag of lentils, scream at the cereal.
Have at it; stand in the middle of the coffee shop
and eat your sandwich under the fan,
we can relearn how to sit down tomorrow.
It’s 6.30am, of course we can walk
past the charity shop to check it’s open
even though I know it’s not.
Look at that man chewing a Solero in two bites,
he won’t mind you rubbing your fingers
under your sweaty armpits and licking them clean.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

The men are yelling
compliments at each other
outside the pub like bombs
they’ve been desperate
to throw for years.
If you don’t start
treating yourself kindly,
I will break your nose.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

It was shuffling around the garden
thanking the God it believes in
for not having human skin in 40 degrees
with a wedding shirt on its back.
Nice winklepickers, it whispered
in a French accent as it stretched its toes
wider than the Dordogne.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

I often wonder
what I would call a band if I was in one.
Flakes of pastry (that’s good)
fell on my knees while
my mate drove a Fiat (not bad)
on the other side of the road.
Vineyards are aliens (pretty good)
to city eyes. I like to imagine running
through fields screaming (maybe not)
and watching my voice
ping pong between the stars (definitely not)
like a conversation with old friends
between bites of
croissants in a hire car (nah).

© Carl Burkitt 2022

They all laugh when she says it,
impressed with how she can read
the word Bergerac at least 20 metres away
on a departures board while breaking down
the sugars, fats, and starches
from a fry up far too early in the morning.
The hand of a friend grabs her shoulder
as her chest beats to the rhythm of someone
unsure how to say I love your blood.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

It was obviously a slip of the tongue
but every word drove through my ears
like a 4×4 into a soft brain.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

He’s eating a peach
on a picnic bench
listening to Paul Simon.
His radio has an aerial
as long as the past.
The soles of his shoes are coal,
his teeth are diamonds.

© Carl Burkitt 2022