a wardrobe of floral shirts,
a fake love of toffee vodka,
football boots held together with masking tape,
a Welsh telephone box filled with urine,
a moped driven into the sun,
a foggy three year trip to the seaside,
a dinner plate across the head,
floor nuts, a small joint of beef,
800 BMX rides up a hill with no peak,
a wooden beam and a spotless house,
phone calls, phone calls, phone calls,
the opening of a creaky hinge of a closed mind,
pop-up restaurants, softball bats,
a star falling through a river, time, ears,
a melting urge of tingling skin,
an inevitability wrapped in metal rings.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

Take another look, it’s only me:
the one with Pringle tube legs,
former pepperoni nipples
and Renault building
sized sweat patches.
Listen closely and you’ll hear
Status Quo while I undress
and car horns beeping their way
around my magic roundabout eyes.
My kneecaps are the number 16 bus
and my dandruff drops
like that supply teacher
who stacked it while leaning
on a pile of German dictionaries.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

The teenager melts out of me
to the sound of right clicks
and broken spreadsheet formulas.
There’s a thirsty cactus on my desk,
Post-It Notes with Don’t Forget
and a complimentary calendar from a company
called PRINT THINGS or INSTANT STUFF.
My trousers embrace the chaos.
Today, my son sneezed on some grass
without putting his hand to his mouth.
The snot stretched out
like a gap year of mistakes.
I waited a while before cleaning it up
to watch it experience the outside.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

A robin is on the beach
burying chicken nuggets in the sand.
Its head twitches left and right
watching a motorbike ride
across the outgoing tide.
Goalie gloves bob up and down
where the sky meets the water
and the sun is a bottle of Orange Reef
spilling across grey dance floor clouds.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

There were no bags of Scampi Fries left
and the bubbles in the lager were dead
and the quiz machine was rigged
and the wallpaper was half on or half off
and I couldn’t feel my toes
and a moped tore down the roof
and the landlord was a lizard
and the tables were priests on all fours
and the carpet was a secret
and the windows were elbows
and the beer mats were lungs
and the clock hadn’t been invented yet
and I refused to leave.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

The dolphins are laughing
in the changing room
whipping legs with rolled up towels.
Rat tail, rat tail, rat tail.
Shane is against the lockers
a fin-print across his chest,
red spots on his bottle nose.
The pool is full and empty.
Blow holes are stuffed
with orange sherbet,
chicken and mushroom Pot Noodles
and the ancient urge to follow.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

I request the square metal dish
for my lunch. I bang the spoon
against the silver slop bowl
shouting More, more,
before even having a mouthful.
The woman who the older people call Janet
swings a soggy ladle in front of my bucked teeth
and a lumpy green waterfall flows.
It looks like sick and smells like home.
I’ve never seen a leek in solid form.
Rumour has it they look like truncheons
and a word I don’t understand.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

And they all lived happily ever after. Not really.
If anything, they were worse off than before:
bits of flesh dangled from bones,
hair was on fire, eyes were inside out.
Not really. They queued up in a post office
for the two hours. Not really. A cloud
swallowed them up and poured them
over a dead field. Not really. They all enjoyed
small talk in a lift. Not really.
One of the characters was a telephone
ringing at 2am with the power of a thousand
horses running over an eyeball. Not really.
I didn’t get round to watching it. Not really.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

Blimey,
it’s hard feeling like you’ve lost.
Like the first 45 minutes were a waste –
especially when those minutes are
days and weeks and months.
When it’s raining
it’s hard to imagine being dry again.
When I’m stood in a porch:
ten slugs for toes, my sleeves dripping
to the ground, my head melting into my neck,
I think about a dog’s tail
dancing to the sound of whistle,
having no concept of the end.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

where our roundabouts are magic
and James Bond runs across Motorola.
Our lot don’t put up with David Brent
and Disneyland Paris was our twin.
Melinda is our messenger,
Billie is our piper,
Diana is our Dors.
Steam runs through our train track veins,
our sky is poured concrete:
durable, hardworking and present.
No matter how big your smile is
you will be asked Alright?
Yeah fine, you?
Yeah, you?
Welcome to Pig Town.

© Carl Burkitt 2021