I like hearing the voices
my friends who have dogs
have to use to tell them No.
It makes me feel safe
knowing blood that grew
from similar soil to me
has the power to command
and protect and love deeply.
I hear them talking
when I float off to the bad place,
or say yes to plans
when all I want to do
is sit next to the universe
and count its freckles.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

I lick my finger
and rub your cheek
and your bones rattle red
to the tune of my
800 year old voice
singing your favourite song
down the bread aisle
trying to hold your hand.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

Her fingers are holding the hand of an alien,
a forbidden straw, an adult water pistol,
an outstretched metallic nipple,
the drooling nose of a puppy we’ll get
when a patch of grass outside
your bedroom is a reality.
Your teeth are axes
chopping the forecourt trees into pages
to teach you how to spell
Her hands fill emptiness.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

Written using sentences found by searching
for ‘some’ in my WhatsApp search bar.

I’m just putting some trousers on.
I’ll do you a recording of bath time some time soon.
Something something pigs ear.
I got some bourbon from our neighbour.
Might give some money to charity.
Always good to see someone happy.
I’ll look for some boxes.
I’ll chuck some sausages in now,
some Prosecco for the park,
I’ve already snuck you some jelly beans.
I just got some bad news.
It always helps to know someone.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

His eyes were chopping boards and trivets,
the wheels on an out of stock drinks trolley,
the miniature holes on a novelty cheese grater,
over cooked meatballs, melted Dime Bars,
the fading Two Metres
on blue and yellow floor stickers.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

is to fall
into a dinner lady
with a grazed knee
and a battered sausage.
It is drowning in aftershave
and garlic in molars.
To think of hugs
is to stick to the stomach of a man
who enjoyed your attempted volley,
to say How are you?
to say Thanks for asking,
to feel fingertips on ribs
unsure if they’re going to break.
To think of hugs
is to remember and restart.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

What are you like in the evening?
Are you a morning person?
I’m getting worse at small talk.
I have zero opinions.
I watch the soft spot on my son’s head
vibrating like the heart of a kitten
punching against ribs.
He has the eyes of a man
who could pick up the phone
and discuss the day’s news with ease.
I had a dream last night:
I walked him to school
and his tongue fell off.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

I sat in front of the window
and melted through the glass
and through the green bush outside
and over the road and up the tree
that has just enough leaves to feel alive
and beyond the electrical cables
attached to petrified wooden masts
eager to please the people in the houses
I could no longer see in the clouds
I was passing by to slip through the lip of space
to search for the planet you came from.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

The puddle was my mouth
waiting for miniature wellies
to wake my teeth up.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

and watch the man in the black tracksuit
stand up from the pub garden picnic bench
with a jump in his Air Jordan’s
and give a thumbs up to the couple
on the table next to him chatting about figs
and smile at the woman in the blue Fiesta
who lets him cross the road
to turn right at the Pharmacy
and pretend to limbo into the Co-op
as the automatic doors open
to a cheer from the shopkeeper
who already has his white bloomer prepared
to take home to no one to make a ham sandwich
and text a mate to find out how he’s doing.

© Carl Burkitt 2021