There’s a penguin in my house
built for cuddles. Its tummy
is soft like smooth mash,
its beak is a toffee
in my grandma’s handbag,
its flippers are permanently
come-here-son outstretched.
There’s a penguin in my house
who can’t talk. Its eyes
understand the situation.
© Carl Burkitt 2022
She doesn’t want cinnamon.
She doesn’t want cream.
She doesn’t want a cheese sandwich.
She doesn’t want a chocolate brownie
or a chocolate biscuit or a chocolate muffin.
She wants the hot cross bun latte
she asked for with almond milk.
Her black, logo-less cap sinks
further down her forehead
to the sound of her mum shouting
over everyone else, laughing
at daft puns from the man behind her,
coo-ing at the toddler with carrot puff dust
stained around his lips, asking strangers
if they have kids and telling the world
they’ll miss them when they grow up;
them and their ridiculous orders.
© Carl Burkitt 2022
After Lou Mach
You sit and think about how table legs have no feet.
You think about the mouth of a washing machine,
why our arms are not called branches,
why leaves on trees are not hairs.
You think about the life of a tea cup handle
and how few little fingers it’s been hugged by.
You think about whether or not
the blue you see is the blue I see
and whether or not eggs have feelings.
You think about it all and call it
The mysteries of life because you’re brave like that,
brave enough to think until your head
is a sock drawer eating everything it sees.
© Carl Burkitt 2022
She’s singing in a room of people
queuing for her to make them drinks.
She’s weaving reality into the lyrics.
Woah, I’m halfway there
Woah, livin’ on a prayer
Take your tea, I made it I swear
Woah, livin’ on a prayer
A man with a history creased
into his forehead yells Come again?!
The cafe’s supervisor falls over
in front of the cleaner holding
a CAUTION WET FLOOR SIGN.
A baby vomits. A chair breaks, untouched.
The woman won’t stop singing.
My skin loosens. My ears whisper,
You’re alive mate.
© Carl Burkitt 2022
Six spotless trainers
zigzagging in time
to the music of chitchat,
one wooden fork between three,
vinegar-soaked paper
flapping like gossiping lips
and oversized blazers.
Confusion. Too many fingers
get tangled. The bag of chips
drops as fast as jaws
to the floor. Silence.
The giggling points to a
future of soft shoulders
relaxing into a life
of not enough time.
© Carl Burkitt 2022
Her with a thick red coat.
You with a blue Cookie Monster jumper.
Her with a hot cross bun latte
and a slice of cherry Bakewell tart.
You with a miniature Tupperware pot
of sweetcorn and cucumber.
Her with not all of her teeth.
You with not all of your teeth.
Her with wrinkled skin and eye fireworks.
You on one side of the cafe.
Her on the other side of the cafe,
You waving.
Her shooting a finger pistol.
© Carl Burkitt 2022
They’re on a date sipping breakfast tea
in between questions they feel they need to ask,
How was your day? Where are you from?
The carpet sits beneath them: blue, clean, predictable.
The clear window next to their table shows
a black car, a black car, a black car driving past.
The sky is where it should be
and then the ceiling collapses, the walls melt
into a murder of crows, the afternoon
opens into a fire as she asks him
What scares you more than anything?
© Carl Burkitt 2022
The karate kids
are running towards each other;
one past the pizza place,
one past the estate agents.
They are white-pyjamaed weapons
smiling HIYA with a wave
then HIYA with a chop to the air.
Their belts are orange
like the weak squash in the bottles
held by their parents trying to keep up,
like the sun smacking their cheeks.
© Carl Burkitt 2022
The safety net disappears
from time to time, you are alive,
arms drop because joints soften,
a loose feeling of I can do this,
flying is easy when you have wings.
© Carl Burkitt 2022
Carl tells tales 