Here he comes, back with his name:
new moustache, crap goalie gloves.
He looks good having been dead,
drinks shit lager still.
© Carl Burkitt 2023
My school friend’s name: Dodoitsu
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Category Archives: Poems
My school friend’s name: Clogyrnach
My friend’s name walks into the bar,
asks everyone how they are,
can’t recognise me.
Alive again, he
died, 16,
woke my heart.
© Carl Burkitt 2023
My school friend’s name: Chueh-chu
In the pub walks my school friend’s name,
thick, moustachioed, not the same.
It’s old enough for grandchildren,
exaggerates its footy game.
I drink a pint for 19 years,
see his face in a photo frame.
The walls turns 12.30am.
It’s cold. I see its smile again.
© Carl Burkitt 2023
My school friend’s name: Acrostic
Good evening, says my school friend’s name,
Ready to ignore me with his new moustache
And thicker waist in the pub.
Everyone talks about how the name is still alive.
My right hand holds 19 years in a pint glass,
Each sip the taste of a memorial tree outside a school.
© Carl Burkitt 2023
My school friend’s name: Cinquain
A name
will walk into
a bar. Thick, blood pumping.
I’ll drink 19 years. We won’t talk.
Blissful.
© Carl Burkitt 2023
My school friend’s name: Limerick
There once was a school friend’s name
That didn’t quite seem the same
It never spoke to me
Was cold and ghostly
And exaggerated its goalkeeping game
© Carl Burkitt 2023
My school friend’s name: Haiku
Thick, moustachioed,
The name talks, but not to me.
Blissful ignorance.
© Carl Burkitt 2023
My school friend’s name
My school friend’s name walks into a bar: thick, moustachioed, blood pumping through its heart. It orders the weakest lager it can remember pretending to like and sits on a secure seat. The name has lived long enough to have grandchildren and is exaggerating its skill as a goalkeeper to the tired locals. The name talks, but not to me. It does not recognise my chin or the way I laugh half as much as I used to. My right hand is holding a pint of 19 years and the empty chairs around me are filled with ghosts from the outskirts of London, Poland, the old town of Swindon. The walls are 12.30am and my friend’s name looks cold. Its arm hurts, but I can just make out its smile, the size of a tree planted outside a school gate or a double decker bus filled with blissful ignorance.
© Carl Burkitt 2023
I am too long for a bath
I am too long for a bath.
I need to make a decision between
lying down with bent legs
or sitting up with straight legs,
AKA cold dry knees v cold dry chest.
I do not relax in a bath.
I cannot drink red wine
and catch up on my stories.
I cannot think about my day
and scan how it affected my skin
or count the relationships
I haven’t lost yet or the things
I said to strangers in a voice
that isn’t mine.
When I am in a bath
I spend my time thinking
I am in a bath.
© Carl Burkitt 2023
Wind machine pop
Three and a half minute souls are sitting
in the hands of the radio presenters’ voices.
After each track has finished they’re throwing
around words like ‘wind machine pop’,
‘gospel cheese’ and ‘electric posh’.
The writers of the songs are in different towns
buying milk for the morning, getting their
haircut before getting home in time to put
their children to bed, opening their notepad
when everyone else is asleep.
© Carl Burkitt 2023
Carl tells tales 