Fairy lights

Every time you enter the room
you switch the fairy lights on

and my eyes join them.

© Carl Burkitt 2018



Lenny felt lonely so started playing footsie with himself. It felt lovely, so he slid his left foot up his inner leg and tickled his willy with his big toe.

© Carl Burkitt 2018

What it feels like to have depression when you’re the happiest you’ve ever been

My glass is half full, of emptiness
I’m on cloud 8.9
I’m smiling like a Cheshire bat
I’m as happy as a clammy palm
I’m over-the-moonpig.com
I’m an optimisty morning
I’m a happy camper van
I’m on top of the world of warcraft
I’m in Seventh Haven Holiday Homes
I’m having a killer wale of a time
I’m walking on an airbed
I’m grinning from beer to beer
I’m as happy as Larry David
I’m as happy as a shit in a pig

© Carl Burkitt 2018


For two weeks words have struggled to enter my brain.
The few that have either didn’t feel strong enough
to travel down my long arms and out of my fingers,
or were negative, mean and not cool about me.
I’ve kept myself locked away and avoided people
and things and haven’t even looked and my notepads.
But today is the day to celebrate poetry
and I’d be remiss to miss out and have another blank page.
So for you today, on World Poetry Day, I’d just like to say:
I’m not OK.
And that’s fine.
But I will be.
Also: Midwifery.
What a great word that is.

© Carl Burkitt 2018


You know the tiny pocket that lives inside your jeans pocket? What’s that for? Is it a pocket for your pocket? Does your pocket keep its pocket money in there? Its pocket knife? Its pocket dictionary? Probably not, it’s too small to hold a dictionary. Or is it? Surely a pocket’s pocket dictionary is even smaller than our pocket dictionaries. How many words does a pocket need to know? Wallet. Coins. Change. Fingers. Keys. Fluff. Why don’t jogging bottoms have tiny pockets in their pockets? Maybe jogging bottom pockets don’t carry things when they go jogging. Makes sense.

© Carl Burkitt 2018


Having not written anything for a week, the writer forgot how to do it. He picked up a baguette and tried scribbling in a notebook. Nothing. He rubbed a squirrel on a Post-it note. Nothing. He delicately peeled off his forehead, pierced a hole in his skull and let blood and bits of brain and his inner most innards drown his keyboard. Bestseller.

© Carl Burkitt 2018