They are walking sticks
for jazzy-minded blind mice.
They are sugary hooks
for dragging panto actors off stage.
They are stripy elephant tusks
or branches of forests
in a world I wouldn’t mind living in.
They are definitely not
good Christmas tree decorations
when you take the plastic off
and hang them next to warm lights.
Carl Burkitt 2024
My brother-in-law understands water,
he has a saw to open up the truth of a problem.
My father-in-law’s patience for surprise drips
with a steady, unbroken stream,
into a seemingly unfillable bucket.
This morning they have plans to fix the world.
I have been hired to write poems for strangers,
to swallow their entire lives in five minutes,
set fire to their emotions, make them feel seen,
all while men fix a leak in my kitchen ceiling,
men I’ve only ever signed birthday cards to.
Carl Burkitt 2024
With you, I am a professional wrestler
walking into rooms with my own theme.
The ramp down to the ring
is an escalator for my light toes to float on.
The crowd want me to do well.
My chest is the size of an elephant
and I know all the right moves.
With you, I am a professional wrestler
showing off, comfortable behind a mic,
happy to tag you in to show me
how it’s really done.
Carl Burkitt 2024
The kitchen shop at the end of our road has closed for business. I guess everyone already has a kitchen. It’s autumn and I am standing in the kitchen of a house we’ve owned for two weeks. I guess the previous owners had no space in their car to take it when they left. Either that or the new build they moved to already has a kitchen. I’m preparing some broccoli to roast in the oven and I can see fingerprints on the handle that don’t belong to me or my wife or our son. It’s nice to have a hand when cooking. I’m not someone who needs to be alone in a kitchen, but I need to hear the water boiling of the tick tick of a gas hob telling me it’s ready. I’ve never owned a kitchen before. The boiler didn’t say hello when we moved in, but my wife and I nodded at the fact it’s not hidden in a cupboard and discussed future layouts of units like we are grownups.
Carl Burkitt 2024
Not a single person in this pub has noticed
I am wearing a new coat.
Granted, none of them know who I am,
but surely they can sense the confidence of my shoulders,
the freedom of my hips walking with that warmth provides.
Surely they heard the comfort in my voice
when I ordered a hazy pale ale, safe
in the knowledge my underlayers wouldn’t get wet
in the event of a walking-to-the-table-spillage.
“Alright?” asks a T-Shirt stranger.
“More than you’ll ever know,” I don’t say.
Carl Burkitt 2024
Let’s go w…
Eeeeeeeeee
Aaaaaahhhhhhhh
Fuuuuuuuuu
c
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Carl Burkitt 2024
Erling Haaland believes in magic.
The egg he’s beating has turned
into an orange puddle, a wet sun.
He adds milk like a white water fall
and tips it all into a mixing bowl
with plain flour, golden sugar, baking powder
then watches clumps form holiday islands.
The whisk is a cement mixer.
He thinks he prefers scotch pancakes
because of the pinch of salt
and sits on the kitchen counter
while circles of batter sizzle in the hot pan.
He stops himself eating the birthday cake
to the left of him and writes ‘mummy’
in his best handwriting on a crisp envelope.
He might score a hat trick tomorrow.
Carl Burkitt 2024
You are 85 years old
wearing your school uniform,
saying newly learned words like “officially”.
There’s ice cream on your shirt,
a slap of afternoon sun on your cheeks
and a tie around your neck.
I’m pushing you on a swing
designed for babies
and I am the bar across your stomach
desperate to keep you in there.
Carl Burkitt 2024
Slip on your scuff resistant shoes
heart first and kick out at life.
Cause a fuss. Colour the clouds green.
Try chunky pasta sauce and stone fruits.
Climb walls. See what’s on the other side.
Scream until you no longer have to scream.
Plasters exist: slide tackle on concrete.
Wave at the lollipop man. Speed towards bumps.
Sing terrible songs. Write worse poetry.
Let people know you are worried.
Listen to your dad. Don’t listen to your dad.
Carl Burkitt 2024
I am still in that limo
ready for our year eleven prom.
My black bow tie has been knocked over
by the whiff of my Foster’s breath.
You live in the foreground
waving out the window as we pull out
of the driveway of your family home
and we take the piss out of your floral tie.
I am still in that limo
watching Arsenal drawing with Brighton today.
My four year old son is next to me on the sofa
and I’m explaining that goalkeepers are the bravest
because everyone’s mood rides on them.
I am still in that limo
standing in a muddy field in the 1990s
as you pull the ball out of your net
for the sixth time that afternoon.
Your smile is as white as the gloves
you are pounding together
encouraging your defenders to keep going.
I am still in that limo
walking through a snowy Berlin
with men you once rode school buses with
and slapped with wet towels after swimming.
Each crunch of my walking boots is
the tut of Mr Collingridge telling us to shush
at the back of the German classroom.
I am still in that limo
drinking in a Welsh pub with Sunday league adults
who don’t know you. I’ve not seen you
for five months since we went in different directions:
me to sixth form, you to a Mercedes apprenticeship.
Bottles of Orange Reef and Smirnoff Black
clink to the tune of a Nokia 3210 ringtone:
it’s a lad from back home in Swindon
telling me you came off your moped.
I’m still in that limo
sitting on the grassy mound of our primary school
swapping my packet of ready salted Walkers
with your packets of cheese and onion Walkers.
We wonder what it’s like to kiss a girl.
We wonder what big school will be like.
We wonder if we’ll be mates forever.
I am still in that limo,
the picture of us ready for our year eleven prom
is printed in local newspaper and shown
on National TV news channels
next to headlines explaining three years later
how you’d still be alive today
if doctors acted appropriately.
I am still in that limo
walking into our reception class playground.
Chris tells me that your name is Graeme.
Chris tells you that my name is Carl.
We look into each other’s eyes
and walk in different directions
because making new friends is boring.
I am still in that limo.
Carl Burkitt 2024
Carl tells tales 