It will happen again:
the falling,
the surprise inside of a doughnut,
the water on the face,
the broken mind your head sign,
the phone call in the morning.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

I don’t ask them
what’s the weather like up there
because I can see it from down here.
I say Thank you, sorry to bother you
when they get me the last box of cereal
from the back of the top shelf.
When mountains sit in front of me
in the cinema I move seats
without tapping them on the head.
It doesn’t take much
to not ruin a lump’s day.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

When the days
are as blue
as an empty tub
of salt and vinegar Pringles
I think about Simone Biles
back flipping
around your brain
on a Tuesday
when I ask
What are you thinking?

© Carl Burkitt 2021

Feathers shimmied
like a melting rainbow
on a day
that couldn’t decide
if it wanted
to be remembered.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

Look! There’s grey and
a tiny bit of yellow and
grey and a bit of white
and lots and lots of grey
and some pink and grey
and necks and wings
and grey and are they
bald heads I can’t tell
because there is just
so much grey
but
here comes
the rainbow
to shake us
all up.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

I’m going to fold you into a pretzel
after skipping down a ramp to Black Dog.
I’m going to flick your head wearing black jeans
and no t-shirt and black elbow pads.
I’m going to bop you on the bum.
I’m going to evaporate your eyes.
I’m going to peel your back skin off.
I’m going to post you to your past.
I’m going to count your ribs with your lies.
I’m going to strangle your hobbies.
I’m going to try.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

a stack of unread books smiling patiently,
pink lady apples dropping seeds
to sprout toffee apple trees,
double-glazed eyeballs,
dust that whispers Thanks for the ride,
ears that absorb pain
and do not know the word advice.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

for a mint flavoured pond,
37 degree palms
gently around my neck,
a red spatula to talk to,
silver beads leading
to a disc-shaped protector of fun,
twisty wrists
sending my beak below the tide,
skin untouched by unhelpful comments.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

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