Walking to the shops
to buy milk is a chance
to remember I’m alive.
If I had a milkman,
I’d order bottles of stuff
Sainsburys don’t have in stock:
liquid birdsong, full fat laughter,
the cure for the thing on your finger,
a ten count, bouncebackability,
self-esteem, Graeme’s smile,
the ability to put my socks on
without sitting down.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

The lollipop lady wrote ‘Go’ on both sides of her stick.
The ice cream man used razor blade sprinkles.
The milkman delivered four pints of PVA glue.
The postwoman shat through the letterbox.
Peppa Pig snapped George’s Trotters.
Tinky-Winky stabbed Po.
Elmo sang F is for Fuck You.
Willy Wonka kicked Charlie Bucket in the cock.
Scooby-Doo ate his own eyes.
I had to peel two plasters off my baby’s thighs.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

I am filling the boot, you are milk.
I am high notes and woof woofs.
You are Hello!
You are Hi!
You are Hiya!
I am raspberries.
You are a race car.
We are white noise.
We are a made up song.
We are every trick in the book.
We are clueless.
We know everything.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

I’ve never liked flannel shirts.
When did Frank Skinner
have a baby with Peter Crouch?
Did he just order a portion of chips
after already eating a burger and chips
and onion rings?
Jeremy Clarkson looks younger than I thought.
He fiddles with his wedding ring a lot.
He’s definitely pretending to read that book.
I wonder if he’s the kind of guy
who looks in the mirror and asks his reflection
questions he doesn’t want the answer to.
It won’t be long until he has to shave that head.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

More than twice a week
I think about the extra I saw
in an episode of EastEnders
who accidentally dropped tea
down his trousers in the café
as Phil and Grant Mitchell
argued in the foreground.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

Sometimes things are late.
Three FA Cup Final goals arrived
outside M&S while my wife
went through the weirdest time
of our lives.
Our son looks like
every human ever made
but I can wait.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

The head
of a poorly poured beer
is the fuzzy optimist
I wish to be.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

Four pairs of underwear
is not enough for two days away
because what if I shit myself more than twice?
What if five friends need to borrow a pair?
What if six mice need parachutes?
What if there’s no confetti at the wedding and we
need to shred my pants to throw at the couple?
What if I accidentally murder someone in the street
and the ambulance never arrive and there’s
no one to cover the body like they do
when someone dies in a film and I have to sew
my underwear together and lay it over the corpse?
I hate packing.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

The couple of old men
are sat side by side
like two halves of a Twix
silently nestled
in a pub bench wrapper.
Their shoulders daren’t touch
but their hearts are screaming
through their forward facing mouths
and painfully strained peripherals.
As I walk past
with my 7-week-old son,
worry lines soften and pint glasses rise
and every word they want to say
dance silently like the ribbons
of a shredded dictionary in a breeze.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

I would write about how
I like mucking about in a garden
and eating fried eggs on hash browns.
I would write about how
I go for walks in the afternoon
and lie with my son on the ground.
I would write about how
on paper this is all very standard,
but then you can’t hear my tone.

© Carl Burkitt 2020