Dehydrated potato

© Carl Burkitt 2020

I almost cried on my barber today
when he asked me if I thought it was sad
how, at the age of 21,
he didn’t enjoy drinking
or going to parties
or being in large groups
and his best friends are his mum,
his girlfriend, and his boss (in that order)
and his ideal sort of day
is waking up when his body lets him,
having zero plans and resting
both his body and his mind.
When he sprayed my neck
with the scent of cloves and oranges
he’d hand chosen for the festive season,
I replied,
Your life smells pretty content, mate.
His laugh was soft, but long.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

When I’m in a room
that is pitch black
I walk around
with my eyes closed.
I wonder what
I’m scared to see.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

I am not the ‘I’
in my poems.
I am the ‘Y’,
shrugging my arms
to the sky
in another day.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

surrounded by furniture woods.
Creaky floorboard leaves
crunch under my slipper boots.
I want to chop something.
The weak radiator sun won’t stop my bones
shivering against charity shop checks.
Blunt white axes clatter in my mouth.
I need to chop at something useless;
my slowly softening hands won’t let me.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

I spent what felt like four weeks
taking the socks off the clothes airer.
Each one a cartoon cloud.
Each one a microwave
for the world’s smallest buffet food.
Each one a tiny judge’s wig.
Each one decorated
with the head of a fox
or a chicken or a duck or a dog.
Each one a safe made from candy floss.
Each one with no idea
what they’re in charge of.
Each one with no concept of the value of gold.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

I’m in a café
watching a man watching a man.
The man I’m watching is watching his man
with a look I hope I’m not watching my man with.
My man’s nose is scrunched up
like he’s walked into a bakery that smells like turd.
His eyes are so tightly squished
I’m surprised he can see the man he’s watching.
The man I’m watching has the softest looking skin
but his clenched jaw is stretching it to cracking point.
It’s a shame the man he is watching
is doing whatever he is doing
because I’ve waited all day
to see the man I’m watching smile.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

God, you look cool in the passenger seat.
All leaned back, imaginary chin pointing up.
If you weren’t covered in a 7-foot hairnet
I know your pines would be flowing in the wind.
If you had arms
I know you’d have slipped Top Gun Aviators
over your alpine green eyes,
you’d have your left hand resting
on the edge of the door and your right
slowly passing through your spiky hair.
If you had lips
I know you’d be holding back a smile.
I know you’d be mouthing Call me to passersby.
I know you be hoping that wherever you’re going
has an organised colour scheme.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

The rain is drip
drip
dripping today.
That’s all I’ve got, to be honest.
Sometimes the rain just
drip
drip
drips
and it doesn’t mean the day is over.
It doesn’t mean that God wants me drowned
or that you two are melting
or the birds have exploded
or the ghosts are crying.
The rain is just
drip
drip
dripping
on the outside today.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

After Edward Hirsch

In spite of everything,
my skin is attached to muscle
and I wear grey slippers at night.
There’s a replica wrestling belt on our wardrobe,
I carry 8-foot Christmas trees for half a mile
and up one flight of stairs. In spite of everything,
I get to smell chocolate in the morning (in bed)
and listen to incorrect lyrics. I get to dance
in my pants, play code words and eat Pringles
and promise to stop eating Pringles
and then eat Pringles. I get to stretch my legs,
unfurl my spine, forget to shave my neck.
The next time a doctor has to ask
In spite of everything,
why do you think you’re still here?
I will say what I always say.

© Carl Burkitt 2020