You make my fingers dance.
They separate from my thoughts
and tap keys in an order I didn’t know existed.

They pick up pens and pencils
and draw lines from a
happy beginning to no end.

You make my fingers dance
to their own tune.
A tune for no one else.
The tune of you.

© Carl Burkitt 2017

‘I’ll write a poem about this one day,’
mused Harry.

‘Shut it!’ said the prison guard,
as he put the final boot in.

© Carl Burkitt 2017

The writer was stuck for ideas. He looked around the room for inspiration. In the corner was a man juggling three toddlers. A woman on a flaming moped crashed through the front door. The corpse of Elvis Presley played guitar on the armchair. A little girl turned the carpet into candyfloss. A chipmunk spoke some Spanish. The writer tutted as he put his pen lid back on and went to bed.

© Carl Burkitt 2017

He watched her pluck the strings.
The double drop down D sound
Knocked his heart to the ground
As the notes made a home in his chest.

It was a song he’d never heard
But he knew every word
While he imagined the tabs were his flesh.

© Carl Burkitt 2016

Simon was crying on his bed.

He’d just been dumped.

As he convinced himself it was

the worst thing to ever happen to him,

his CD cases began singing him a break up song.

It was awful.

© Carl Burkitt 2016

The tennis man
hit the ball
so bloody hard
he had to buy
a new racquet!

While he was at it
he bought three
more balls and a
12-bedroom house.

© Carl Burkitt 2016

The poet gazed at the triple
shaded clouds rolling atop the trees
as the smiling sunshine burst
through like the thumping love
of his life-long muse and he thought:
“Fuck me, those cunts look gorgeous.”

© Carl Burkitt 2016

They all put their hands
on top of one another’s.

They all chanted a rather loud
and intimidating chant.

Then they giggled as they
grabbed their weapons.

© Carl Burkitt 2016

I stole your hat.
It lives next to my bed.
The stains whisper names
That occupy my head.

© Carl Burkitt 2016