How do curly hairs know how to be curly?
Do they have roots like Turkey Twizzlers?
Is the bit between my skull and head skin
a farm of pigs in a row sticking their bums to the sky?
My eyebrows don’t curl.
My armpit hairs are as straight
as a punk rocker’s Mohawk
when I reach to the curly nest on my head.
Sometimes I sit and wonder
what kind of bird would live in my hair.
I wonder if they’d want to fly away
before they’d even learned to walk.
© Carl Burkitt 2020
The skin of a pear is hell to me.
It’s nails down a chalkboard,
a sandpaper condom.
It’s eating a nail file
with a tongue made of fingertips.
It’s small talk in a lift.
It’s pacificlly.
It’s an unscheduled family phone call at work.
It’s spring 2004 and all I want to do
is stay in Swindon and get a taxi
home with you.
© Carl Burkitt 2020
You are unlikeable,
you put me off my food.
You put the hurt in yoghurt.
You put the rot in carrot,
the cum in cucumber,
the fuck in focaccia.
A picnic with you
wouldn’t be worth the cramp.
If you invited me to lunch
I’d pretend a love one had died.
Probably not,
but just know I wouldn’t enjoy it.
© Carl Burkitt 2020
If my skin had feathers
I’d take better care of it.
I’d groom as others swooned.
I’d try not to puff my chest out too much.
Hopefully I’d be the kind of
feathered thing that could fly.
I’d giggle at the tickle of my chin
and climb inside pillowcases for tired people.
But not for my wife.
I imagine the downside
to having skin made of feathers
would be my wife being allergic to me.
© Carl Burkitt 2020
Arthur whizzed 3,500
New Year’s resolutions
up in his brand new blender
(a Christmas present from Mother)
and poured them directly into his mouth
until his stomach burst all over
his filthy little bedroom.
© Carl Burkitt 2020
I slipped my slippers on
and felt the years slip away.
Two aching soles
smiled from toe to toe.
We don’t hug our feet enough
when all they do is hold us up.
© Carl Burkitt 2020
I love goalkeepers.
Probably more than I should.
I think I love goalkeepers
because they’re loners on a crowded pitch.
They put everyone else in front of themselves.
I respect that they do a job no one else wants.
A job that when it goes wrong
it goes really wrong.
A job that when it goes well
it was just expected of them.
I like how everyone seems to think
goalkeepers are odd.
I like how they are odd.
I love watching them do nothing
for 89 minutes
then save the world in the other.
I like that they’re not footballers.
They’re handballers.
I like that they chose the one role
that goes against rule number 1.
I like that they’re number 1.
I like that they’re sometimes number 13.
I like that they’re not scared of number 13.
I like how they stand in front of bullets, willingly.
I like how when they do something good
after their defenders have done something bad
they never acknowledge the good thing they’ve done
and bang their important hands together
offering words of encouragement.
I once heard a story of a goalkeeper
so desperate for the loo
he popped his willy out the bottom of his shorts,
mid match,
hid it from the cameras and crowd
using one of his large gloves
and pissed up a goalpost.
It may or may not have been Fabien Barthez.
I love Fabien Barthez.
I love that goalkeepers have different
fashion sense than their mates.
I love that they can kick the ball
further than the players
who get paid to only kick the ball
can kick the ball.
I love that they can almost
throw the ball further
than the players who get paid to kick the ball
can kick the ball.
I love how long their arms are.
I love thinking about
how good goalkeepers are at hugging.
I love goalkeepers
because they play the game
longer than the outfield players do.
Something I wish came true for you
every time a Saturday kicks off.
© Carl Burkitt 2019
Back away with your Coco Plops
Jog on with your Wee-Weetos
I want me some Rice Creepies
Begone with your Sugar Guffs
On your bike with your Corn Fakes
I want me some Rice Creepies
Please leave with your Dreaded Wheat
Get out of town with your Unspecial K
I want me some Rice Creepies
Just give me that sneaky Snap
Just give me that cheeky Crackle
Just give me that peeping Pop
Just give me that peculiar three
Because I want me some Rice Creepies
© Carl Burkitt 2019
We don’t lick ladybirds,
that’s not what we do.
We giggle at them lots,
smile at their spots
and count their wings, one-two.
We don’t lick ladybirds,
that’s not what we do.
We hold them in our palms,
see if they have legs or arms
and wonder from where they flew.
We don’t lick ladybirds,
that’s not what we do.
We sing songs about them,
write poems about them,
then you lick them anyway
cos you’re only 2.
© Carl Burkitt 2019
the sun setting on a Sunday.
© Carl Burkitt 2019
