I have never lied to anyone
as much as I lie to my barber.
It’s usually things like Not much,
when he asks what plans I have that day
or No, I’m fine actually,
when he asks if I would like a drink.
Once, when he said he was thinking
of getting into yoga, I said
I’ll text you the place nearby I used to go,
despite never doing yoga and not having his number.
And when he asked if I believed in God, I said
Not one entity, I’m more of an energy kind of guy,
despite not understanding what I was saying.
Today when he asked how I was, I said
Not bad, despite being on top of the world.
And then there was the time I made up the names
of hair products I’ve tried. I think I said
something like Hope, For Men.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

An offshoot from the Seagullean word Kaw,
meaning To shit.
An 18th Century title given to young boys
deserving of only coal from Kris Kringle.
An extinct Viking term for a matted mulch of curls.
The collective noun for Scarlets.
An acronym for Cute Arse, Rubbish Legs.
An ancient misspelling of Snarl.
A 12th Century prince who, rumour has it,
spent too much of his time questioning why
he had fingers, he forgot to leave the house.
The original spelling of the word Can’t.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

The coffee table water-ring was eyeing me up
like it knew every mistake I’ve ever made.
No doubt it had been chatting to
the chocolate fingerprints on the fridge door,
the fallen curly hairs on the toilet seat,
the teabag juice up the wall behind the bin,
the toenails in the landing carpet,
the words from 20 and 15 and 12 and five
and three years ago painted across
the inside of my eyelids at night.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

You were a fish remembering it was a fish.
You were a jet ski instructor.
You were Marti Pellow coming up with band names.
You were Kevin Costner in Waterworld.
You were Michael Phelps with his knackers out.
You were Free Willy.
You were a 50m badge sewn to a Speedo.
You were a hot and cold tap cocktail.
You were condensation down a champagne glass.
You were serenading dolphins in their language.
You were every puddle and every river
and every lake and every ocean
ever created on a planet designed for you.
You were just a clueless baby
forced to have a bath.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

The lady asked for a large cappuccino.
The barista asked Wet or dry?
The lady said Dry
and everything I knew about milk
and water and cream poured from my ears.
As dry as possible, she said.
I found comfort in the image of an old couple
sat at a table, peacefully reading
separate copies of the same newspaper.
As I floated by to find the toilet
I saw they were silently doing the same crossword
in separate copies of the same newspaper.
As dry as possible.
Words stopped making sense.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

I see more dust than alive humans.
I wonder how many old eyelids and curious
fingertips are sprinkled across our bookshelves.
There must be the shadow of an anus or two
floating around the bathroom skirting boards.
The range of DNA on the front door handle
has been known to stress me out.
There are scratches on our bedroom floorboards
we were told were from former cats.
I can hear the struggles of ghost-meows
on the particularly tough days.
Snakes get a lot of attention for shedding their skin
but we are not the people we once were.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

I watched the rain fall
to the ground
and my flat was the caravan
I cut my lip shaving in for the first time.
The carpet was a water-logged 18-yard box.
The taps were the River Forth.
I watched the rain fall
to the ground
and it was a billion teardrop shaped people.
It was me. I was falling
to the ground
until I ran my fingertips across the stiff arms
of the sofa and reintroduced my feet
to the warm floorboards.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

I open envelopes like the dog you’ve always wanted.
You place the remains of packages
around the flat with the touch of a hurricane.
There’s not a skirting board
you haven’t stubbed a toe on
or a door frame that hasn’t banged my head.
But even vicars
forget the odd Sunday.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

Up and down.
Up and down.
Your lungs are welcome
to my share of oxygen.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

The man had three separate name badges.
One was clipped to his navy blue tracksuit jacket,
one was clipped to his lime green polo shirt,
one was clipped to his charcoal jeans.
Each one said Brian.
I wonder if his mates call him Brian Brian Brian.
Or Tri Bri or 3B or Triple Briple,
or Once, Twice, Three Times a Brian.
I wonder if they call him at all.
I wonder if they ask him how he is.
I wonder if they listen.
I wonder if they make him feel seen
as much as he’d like.

© Carl Burkitt 2020