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
but you have picked up a fallen leaf
and you are trying to stick it
back on the tree. I’m learning
to say nothing.
© Carl Burkitt 2022
He doesn’t seem to mind
yelling it on the high street
drinking from a Costa Coffee cup.
There’s a child holding the hand
of a man wearing a Captain America T-shirt
walking towards a bloke selling candy floss.
YOUR BODY IS GOING TO DIE.
YOUR BODY IS GOING TO DIE.
YOUR BODY IS GOING TO DIE.
The man wearing a Captain America T-shirt
buys one bag of blue and one bag of pink.
YOUR BODY IS GOING TO DIE.
He takes another sip
from his Costa Coffee cup and chokes.
© Carl Burkitt 2022
They’re all singing it:
the shelf-stacker putting eggs on top of eggs,
the man who hates avocados,
the bloke unsure which ketchup to buy,
the woman who likes your jumper,
the woman juggling broccoli,
the checkout guy with a smile
in the shape of a bread knife.
None of us ever sat in your car.
We never felt the seatbelts tighten,
the leather never stuck to our legs.
We heard all about it though,
it was easier to talk about.
© Carl Burkitt 2022
Carl tells tales 