There’s a Mini in the recycling truck,
an octopus on the train tracks,
a fake hotdog in a pushchair.
Books are hats and shoes and pillows.
Your legs are dog legs, your tongue
is a bubble catcher, your hand is a spade.
The tractor is a head massager,
the DVD case is a fly swatter,
the wooden egg is a grenade.
Today is tomorrow and yesterday
and forever and the corner of a room
built by the fingers in your mind.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

On second thoughts, go for it.
Throw the stroopwafels in the basket,
push the bag of lentils, scream at the cereal.
Have at it; stand in the middle of the coffee shop
and eat your sandwich under the fan,
we can relearn how to sit down tomorrow.
It’s 6.30am, of course we can walk
past the charity shop to check it’s open
even though I know it’s not.
Look at that man chewing a Solero in two bites,
he won’t mind you rubbing your fingers
under your sweaty armpits and licking them clean.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

The men are yelling
compliments at each other
outside the pub like bombs
they’ve been desperate
to throw for years.
If you don’t start
treating yourself kindly,
I will break your nose.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

It was shuffling around the garden
thanking the God it believes in
for not having human skin in 40 degrees
with a wedding shirt on its back.
Nice winklepickers, it whispered
in a French accent as it stretched its toes
wider than the Dordogne.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

I often wonder
what I would call a band if I was in one.
Flakes of pastry (that’s good)
fell on my knees while
my mate drove a Fiat (not bad)
on the other side of the road.
Vineyards are aliens (pretty good)
to city eyes. I like to imagine running
through fields screaming (maybe not)
and watching my voice
ping pong between the stars (definitely not)
like a conversation with old friends
between bites of
croissants in a hire car (nah).

© Carl Burkitt 2022

They all laugh when she says it,
impressed with how she can read
the word Bergerac at least 20 metres away
on a departures board while breaking down
the sugars, fats, and starches
from a fry up far too early in the morning.
The hand of a friend grabs her shoulder
as her chest beats to the rhythm of someone
unsure how to say I love your blood.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

It was obviously a slip of the tongue
but every word drove through my ears
like a 4×4 into a soft brain.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

He’s eating a peach
on a picnic bench
listening to Paul Simon.
His radio has an aerial
as long as the past.
The soles of his shoes are coal,
his teeth are diamonds.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

The tote bag
hangs off the strawberry soft skin
in the middle of your arm.
The skirt around your waist
floats towards the door
as sunflower flip flops say
Text me if you need anything.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

Janine Butcher is hugging Danny Dyer
and the caption underneath says
Kat and Sharon reel from the night’s events
and struggle to see eye to eye
and my body remembers Phil Mitchell
crying on his sofa while I ate
mashed potatoes on mine not understanding
why he let things get to this point
and I think about his brother leaving
and eating exotic animals
and interviewing deadly men
and how my brain could do with a good
clear out with some soap.

© Carl Burkitt 2022