I’ve never met anything as beige as you
have so many interesting angles.
Sandy flip flops, puddle-jumped wellies,
rush hour-shoes, weekend muddy walking boots,
you’ve seen so much and keep going.
You are creakless.
Whatever weight gets placed on your shoulders
you don’t make a sound.
You are an open invitation to murderers.
© Carl Burkitt 2020
Two pigeons outside my flat
nibble a kerb like a couple of old
widowers struggling to feed themselves.
I remember Grandpi’s first roast dinner
and how he only called my mum once
just to double check how to peel the spuds
and boil the spuds and how much oil
to preheat in a pan to roast the spuds
and if you peel carrots and if stuffing gets stuffed
inside the chicken and how much milk is mixed
in the Yorkshire pudding batter and
at what stage you add water to the gravy.
It tasted just like Grandma’s,
he said the next day. I was very proud.
© Carl Burkitt 2020
If these magnolia walls could talk
the living room would recite the plot
of How To Get Away With Murder.
The kitchen would explain every
gravy brown, egg yellow, ketchup red
splash across its encouraging face.
The porch would try to be cool and say
Nah, don’t worry, leave your shoes on.
The bathroom would gossip
about fingers poking through toilet paper,
hair being tied back and wee wee on sticks.
The bedroom better keep its mouth shut.
© Carl Burkitt 2020
I can see a man outside a block of flats
swinging a beige tote bag like a toddler
waiting for his mum to finish chatting.
A lady with a kind face walks out of the flats
and kisses the tote bag man in a way
I know she’s not his mum.
They start talking. Nice day,
one of them probably says.
The days are always nice with you,
I hope the other says.
But today is not a nice day.
The sun set on an entire community yesterday,
the cheeks of pavement are soaking wet.
The lady with the kind face kisses
the tote bag man again.
Nice day, I hope.
© Carl Burkitt 2020
You don’t so much build up my muscles,
rather collect the dust of my dead skin.
Whenever I move in to a new top floor flat
I feel stupid for buying you,
then I remember I’m not the one
with dumb in my name.
God you’re idiots. You could be in
the Guinness Book of Records
for the most pointless set of twins.
At least you have each other.
© Carl Burkitt 2020
I just kept looking out of the window
and let the leaves wave Hello.
A man on a red bike cycled by
and his spokes kind of blinked at me.
The tarmac smiled at the hug of tyres.
The tarmac didn’t smile. Tarmac can’t smile.
I like to imagine the air gossiping
about all of us sat inside looking back
at the air gossiping about all of us.
Maybe the tarmac did smile.
© Carl Burkitt 2020
That week we were all goats and hay fever.
Our ears were cockerels, our noses were cow pats.
Liam’s back got bitten by a pony,
Kieran got kicked by a goose.
Paul bamboozled Colin with a chip
and Gareth wiped his tears
with a future pizza payday.
I met a horse with asthma.
Chris had an empty plastic jug thrown
at his hips for nutmegging a farmer
and I watched you lose a sheep.
You’d probably still be chasing it
if you were here.
© Carl Burkitt 2020
Every time I step on you,
water trickling from parts unknown
down squeaky clean quads
and lime-scented calves,
I wish I could return the favour.
I wish I could lie all dry
staring up at your fluffy stuff, desperate.
Desperate to be useful.
Desperate to feel your heels
dig in to my chest until one of us whispers,
See you tomorrow, filthy bastard.
© Carl Burkitt 2020
When I‘m lost I start swinging steel chairs.
I hide brass knuckles in my pants.
I ignore kids and refuse photographs.
I poke eyes. I pull on tights.
I take off turnbuckle padding.
I rub gravel across my baby face
because when my eyes were at their bluest
I still had to go to teenage funerals.
I still had to sleep quietly as a man a thousand
miles away couldn’t believe his luck.
I still had to make tea and change the subject.
When I’m lost I set fires and tip ladders and want tables.
It all makes sense to me. I sit and scream silently
then my partner tags me back in
and distracts the ref so I can low blow the world.
© Carl Burkitt 2020
You hang outrageously on my living room
wall bigger than a king-size mattress.
No joke, you’re an absolute unit.
I can feel you daring me to fill you.
You swallow everything in sight
and when the light gets gobbled up
it’s like we’re living in a mansion.
But we’re not. God you’re imposing.
You’re like one of those two-way mirrors on
Inspector Morse, or something more modern.
There I am, just sat on the sofa being asked
what I want for dinner by good cop
as bad cop waits inside you desperate
to smash my face into a plate of gravy.
© Carl Burkitt 2020
Carl tells tales 