And they all lived happily ever after. Not really.
If anything, they were worse off than before:
bits of flesh dangled from bones,
hair was on fire, eyes were inside out.
Not really. They queued up in a post office
for the two hours. Not really. A cloud
swallowed them up and poured them
over a dead field. Not really. They all enjoyed
small talk in a lift. Not really.
One of the characters was a telephone
ringing at 2am with the power of a thousand
horses running over an eyeball. Not really.
I didn’t get round to watching it. Not really.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

Blimey,
it’s hard feeling like you’ve lost.
Like the first 45 minutes were a waste –
especially when those minutes are
days and weeks and months.
When it’s raining
it’s hard to imagine being dry again.
When I’m stood in a porch:
ten slugs for toes, my sleeves dripping
to the ground, my head melting into my neck,
I think about a dog’s tail
dancing to the sound of whistle,
having no concept of the end.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

where our roundabouts are magic
and James Bond runs across Motorola.
Our lot don’t put up with David Brent
and Disneyland Paris was our twin.
Melinda is our messenger,
Billie is our piper,
Diana is our Dors.
Steam runs through our train track veins,
our sky is poured concrete:
durable, hardworking and present.
No matter how big your smile is
you will be asked Alright?
Yeah fine, you?
Yeah, you?
Welcome to Pig Town.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

I promise to be alive
in your curious way.
I will put burgers in hot cross buns.
I will watch TV shows about yachts.
I will drink Ribena in the morning.
I will stand at the window a 3am
peering through the blinds with you
when strangers are gossiping outside.
I promise to stand in the sun sometimes
and pretend to be a gorilla
and take a joke
and moan when I’m annoyed
and feel lost
and struggle to get out of bed sometimes.
I promise to be alive.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

is a door
and another door
and another door
and another door
and a hallway
to a room
filled with doors
and walls
and windows
and a floor
and a future
that could go
either way.

© Carl Burkitt 2021