They sit in cupboards unsure if they’re green
in AirBnBs and caravans in the ‘90s.
I like drinking orange juice from them
and thinking I am in an American diner
waiting for pancakes and eggs over easy.
The person I’m with probably has
a chocolate milkshake she needs to try
really hard to get through the straw.
I sat in the bathroom at a house party once,
a Coca Cola glass being topped up
with Portuguese rosé by one of my hands
that hadn’t been very nice to me.
I sipped it until I was in a Welsh chalet
counting my holiday money
to see how many goblets I could afford.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

The stick is wider than the path
and is hanging out of both sides
of the dog’s mouth like a fisherman
showing off his afternoon.
Strangers are smiling as they step
into the road to let him by.
They are willing to die
for him to do what makes him happy.
A man in a bottom of the ocean black suit
is on the other side of the street,
his steps not reaching their potential.
The blue tooth headset in his ears
makes it look like he is telling the world
I’m not sure how long I can do this.
Nobody breaks their stride.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

They’re pecking at each other –
from the way they are dressed
to their favourite type of crisp
to the Pokémon cards they’re opening.
The shortest chicken does not want
to walk alongside the tallest chicken.
The tallest chicken tells the shortest chicken
he hates the way he clucks so loudly.
Come on, little chickens, Mother hen says
from way out in front. Let’s go get some nuggets.
The little chickens nod their plucked heads,
link wings, and fly 20 feet together.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

Jaw like a Pukka pie, scampi eyes,
crispy battered cod hair. He is easily
confusable with the drinks fridge.
A Tuesday cuboid. Refreshing to see.
He’s left his armour at home. His sculpted chest
is tightly wrapped in a red, white and blue
hoody with a star in the middle. His jeans
are dappled in salt stains. I can count four
biceps per arm. Vinegar? What do you think?
He is ready to tear off the rough of his mouth,
peer inside his skull and count the fires
he’s put out today.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

I remember when they were bodies
without name badges. They had
the kind of arms you could bend with until
speakers died, legs longer than beaches,
hands built for bags of Sunday night reductions.
Our skulls were yet to be invented.
We would listen to people smarter than us
talk about things smarter than us
and see how many peanuts we could fit
into our belly buttons. I sit behind a desk
and imagine fresh suits asking shoulders
that once helped Bournemouth back to its feet
how they got to where they are today.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

I will be 11 years old and the skin on my cheek
will dissolve like butter in the bottom of a soup
pan. Grandma will be there, scouring brush hair,
gently simmered leek palms, softened
potato eyes. The next time I fall over
I will be 18 years old and I will enjoy it
and the next time I fall over I will be 25 years old
and the world will hang from a wooden beam
and the next time I fall over I will be 28 years old
and my brain will land in a set of open ears
and the next time I fall over I will be you
and my mouth will be wood chips
and my chin will quiver and I will stand
like I was born standing. I will try again
and I will keep falling.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

She is a mountain
in the mouths of her friends.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

Your hands are wrapped
around a balloon filled
with the warm air
of a stranger’s reassurances.
Your eyes are puffed,
part deflated. We’re here
to pick you up, lift you up,
to hear about your morning.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

Email subject lines land
like fists in the middle of the day
making you wish you knew
what boxers mean by duck and move
or the names of clouds,
or tried enough crisp flavours,
swam naked from time to time,
licked more stamps instead of listening
to stories about spider eggs on envelopes,
drank fizzy drinks, dealt with trapped wind,
wore shorts around the house,
stayed in touch before batteries died.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

The online fire safety training voice wants me
to stay alive. He believes the closest door will
let me keep eating Pink Lady apples,
dip the tips of my boots in puddles,
watch strangers talk to each other,
stand down-wind from bakeries,
give names to ducks, yawn
as far as the muscles in my mouth let me,
scrunch clouds up like tissues,
press the windows of skyscrapers
with my finger tips and hear them pop,
nod at squirrels, draft letters to you,
sit on benches with nothing to do
or think about and nowhere to be
other than inside skin that is sometimes fire
I’ve never understood how to stop.

© Carl Burkitt 2022