When you were a poppy seed then a lentil
then a peanut then a grape then a fig
then a hamster then an apple then a banana
then a melon then a puppy then a rabbit,
who knew you would become
a file name on our laptop
stuffed with documents you cannot see.
© Carl Burkitt 2020
When I run out of answers
I look at the skin around my hands.
I study the swirling contours
like unfamiliar lines on a tourist map
and follow the shadow of vein rivers
in the disgusting translucent patches.
I feel sick at the thought
of how many things they’ve touched
until I remember they’ve fixed
as many things they’ve broken
and get to hold the thin limbs of a creature
who will show me what’s what.
© Carl Burkitt 2020
The words trickled into my inbox
with a sinister creeping wetness.
As the water submerged my ankles
I realised I’ve never seen a zebra up close
or held a trombone or bought a seesaw.
My leg hairs floated to the idea
I’ll probably only watch Godfather once or
twice more and read less than a thousand
books and have a different fringe each year.
Sitting in drenched clothes I made peace
with the fact I’ll never be able look
at a taut rope tying a canal boat to a dead weight
concrete bollard or a rustic wooden beam in a
Spanish villa on Place in the Sun: Winter Sun
without drowning in the knowledge
time runs out.
© Carl Burkitt 2020
You’re sat on my lap
and a man with leather tight skin
has a shotgun in the mouth
of a man with chin stubble.
You don’t even flinch.
Your limbs relax
into the soft of my stomach
as your bullet eyes shoot
across the eight inches they can see,
stealing all my oxygen.
© Carl Burkitt 2020
Untouched bubble wrap begging to be popped,
the sun refusing to go down on the day,
your name in lights across a palm-sized screen,
a gap for a bum on the chipped window sill,
unusually forced conversation, silence,
the news, freezing cold magnolia walls, silence,
broken white blinds, a deflated football,
one beige curtain peppered with bullet holes,
a birds eye view of my dangling feet,
a discarded chicken wing shaped like a man,
seven empty pint-glasses lined up like headstones,
a carpet made from the quicksand
of unasked questions and a goodbye.
© Carl Burkitt 2020
A pint for your birthday
will be swallowed without question.
But this year I will bathe my baby before bed.
As I let the water wash over 4-week-old fingers
I will imagine who he will sit with on a school bus.
I will imagine who will copy his German homework.
I will imagine him being a below average goalkeeper.
I will imagine him asking me to learn to ride a moped.
I will imagine him all over the local news
and the two grey hairs in my beard will be a sad man
standing behind a plinth reading memories.
Tonight your dad will set off fireworks at home
while I grab a dry towel and get used to now sharing
more in common with him than I did with you.
© Carl Burkitt 2020
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
