Easy-peelers
must hate all the attention.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

I bang my head in the loft on Sundays.
Our Christmas decorations live neatly behind me
as I enter the roof hatch for emergency access,
but the rest of the space is organised chaos.
My thumbs are too wide to be trusted
to send emails from a phone.
I have grown to love the dappled snowflakes
of pigmentless skin sprinkled across my arms.
I call my son Buddy.
My shoulders don’t feel strong enough sometimes.
I’m still waiting for my thigh-thick wrists,
roast beef hands and eyes
that both fall asleep mid-conversation
and make people feel heard with one look.
I do call inanimate objects Bastards, though,
when they dare to scratch my skin.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

I woke up in the middle of Dawson’s Creek.
No one knew when the evening would come.
A man coughed until his bus showed up.
I could hear a kettle screaming.
Puddles gathered like gossiping nuns.
I remember everything about that ham sandwich.
Who knew that many people have freckles?
Coffee table dust whispers all day.
Your smile killed a kitten.
I still text you once a year.
I still send you a text once a year.
Once a year I’ll text you before midnight.
I wonder if you know I text you every year.
I don’t know why I bother texting you every year.
I wish I took the time to text you.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

Normal, please,
was the answer.
What milk would you like?
was the question.
Do you think goats are jealous
of the monopoly of the cows?
Do oats and almonds feel insecure
that they’re not normal enough?
When I watch my son breast feed
is it normal to panic
about him growing up
and being turned into a leather wallet?

© Carl Burkitt 2020

I used to watch the guys at house parties
who would lick their fingertips
to poke them into candle flames
then drip wet wax
on the backs of their hands
and wonder what they were like at sex.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

You start the day
with the eyes that chose your first goldfish,
a smile as long as a slipper’s opening,
the feet of a puppy on laminate flooring.
Your clean shirt is excited
for a day of sweat and penguin shit –
there’s no time to hibernate
when gentrified jungle cats need brunch.
When asked if you’re scared
you think about the hand of an ex colleague.
Morning handsome, you lie to a giraffe
and skip lunch to count the chimps
like school kids who never understood you.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

Every night
before bin collection day I forget
whether it’s general waste and cardboard
or glass and plastic I need to put out,
so I look outside the living room window to see
what bins the next door neighbour’s lined up,
the one to the left
who trims her shrubs with a smile
and has hair as snow white and trustworthy
as David Attenborough’s.
In the short walk down the stairs
towards my front door I think I hear
her husband in his purple trilby laughing,
convinced today is the day he’s finally tricked me.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

It was a simple choice, really –
tear off my thigh skin
or gently sing the song
that boils the lightening
of your spine
into a soft plate
of spaghetti.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

There is a shelf on my bookshelf
that middle,
bows in the
like a grin to a new bedtime story.
Book spines are teeth desperate
to bite down and chew on any kind
of adventure that takes them away.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

I walked past
the most handsome man
I have ever seen
in my life today.
I didn’t see his face
but his strides
had a bounce
like he was plotting
to go to the moon.

© Carl Burkitt 2020