I walked past a man today
whose scent melted my kneecaps.
He smelt like a hard day’s fun
mixed with apples picked
by the hands of an old lady
planning to make a crumble
for a son she barely sees.
He had the eyes of someone
who had been crying for a while
but there was a cold wind blowing.
He wasn’t whistling,
but I bet he bloody had been,
the half skip in his step
and 600g pot of Cadbury Roses in his hands
gave it away.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

Watching a professional football player
gently control a bullet of a 40-yard pass
with the inside of their weaker foot
while barely looking
reminds my bones what they’re capable of.
My heart backflips
when a goalkeeper lets a simple cross
slip through their hands
because they’re too busy
thinking about the future.
Bovril is the only meat-based liquid
I’ve ever had
with 60,000 people shouting Wanker.
I wonder if referees have friends
who are kind enough to ask How are you?
and mean it.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

Business names with puns,
like Jason Donervan,
make me want to meet the owner.
I want to know what came first,
the business or the pun.
I want to know if they smile
every time they see their sign.
I want to know if they can handle
the small talk from new customers,
I see what you did there!
Your name is funny!
I want to know if they use puns
for other stuff, like their pet’s name
or to explain how they’re feeling sad.
I want to know if they’re OK.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

I would have about three or four legs
and patchy fur and dry skin
and a couple of eyes in the back of my head
and a thick skull and long tail
and I’d lose the eggs I had to look after
and wouldn’t bother flying or swimming
and would nibble grass and crisps
and just watch all the humans
walking confidently on their two legs
making clear decisions
and wonder how on Earth they do it.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

The moon last night
was a perfect crescent.
A sideways smile
at another crap poem
written about it.
I bet the tide
looked very sarcastic.
And wet.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

I miss mornings of music festivals
when it looks like the world is over.
Corpses with a pulse clutching toilet rolls
and meandering like retiring Pac-Man ghosts
knackered from a pointless chase.
The smell of bacon and eggs
crashing into the sound of cymbals
and bass drums testing if they’re alive
and a parliament of night owls ignoring the sun
has risen to keep hooting about the past
with their feathers wrapped around warm scrumpy.
I miss the shadows of people I knew
making shapes their bodies whispered
they didn’t know how to do.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

It’s always your eyelashes.
The pines of a Christmas tree
twinkling from the headlights
of buses driving passed our window.
Broom heads ready to get to work.
It’s always your eyelashes
and the way they curve
to the straightness of a death slide
on a south Devon holiday.
A sunflower folding in half.
A family of spiders giggling on their backs.
It’s always your eyelashes.
Miniature rakes dragging me in.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

There’s a rubber duck
in my bathtub these days.
It’s always smiling.
If the water’s too cold – smile.
If the water’s too hot – smile.
If the water’s just right – smile.
I hope it’s OK.
I mean, really.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

My hand is a slice of pizza.
My hand is a nappy shovel.
My hand is a retired ham.
My hand is an old lover.
My hand is a thousand creaky gates.
My hand is a mouse conductor.
My hand is a caravan for veins.
My hand is cotton wool stapled to a desk.
My hand is an overstuffed glove.
My hand knows what it’s up to.
My hand is a liar.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

A giant harness wrapped around the roof
and, before I knew it, a mechanical arm
tore it out of the ground, taking with it
every fingerprint smudge from past
journeys across a faded map.
It took every timetable squint,
every smug on-time passenger look,
every late comer For fuck’s sake.
It took all the small talk and the no talk
and the please stop talking
and the let me know if you want to talk
and the wish we could really talk
and it just took it – bang –
and replaced it with a fresh start.

© Carl Burkitt 2020