In modern professional wrestling
fans prefer cheering the bad guys.
They say the good guys are not relatable.
They say the good guys are bland.
They say the good guys are not cool.
Last week I saw a customer in Sainsburys
get down on his hands and knees
and pull the tins of tomato soup
from the back of the shelf to the front
so no else had to go to the trouble.
When he stood up, his muscular puffed chest
was bedazzled in a Spandex leotard
and thrash metal blared down the aisle.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

After Tishani Doshi

A 50 pence piece, a fingernail sized pebble,
the wiggle of a worm, an unopened pot of Pringles,
an outstretched top corner save, Moria Stuart,
pickle on a Tuesday, my son’s future voice,
a splinter of a perfectly boiled egg shell,
a pint of cold water on an empty summer stomach,
the holes in running shoes, gherkins, pigs,
learning how the perfect high five occurs
when you look at your partner’s elbow.
The grass was hiding things that get you through.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

Fortunately,
my skin is the green ink
my wife is drawn to at lunchtime.
My bones are the crisps
that once lived in closed, greasy foil.
I am open.
WALKERS is a word I no longer need.
My eyes are floating barcodes
scanning for shades of grey.
The miniature jagged edges
are my baby teeth
dripping
for something to chew on.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

I think I can only leave,
I don’t think I can end it.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

If you keep growing
to your current scale
your eyelashes
will be broom heads
sweeping the dust
from my days.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

if I had a name like Butch or Randy
or I wasn’t shaped like an uppercase i
or I had a name like Captain Big Boy
or music played when I won arguments
or I had a name like Dumpster Truck Junior
or my hair looked good when wet
or I had a name like Josh Hardmouth
or I wasn’t convinced I was a bad guy
even when the crowd chanted my name with love.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

The babies are having a conference call.
They have so much to say.
The one with the deep voice
is booming through the screen
to the screeching backdrop
of the high pitched one
and the raspberry blowing one
and the waffling other one.
They have so much to say
these conference call babies.
Ours is sat with his mouth
the shape of a black hole
swallowing every noise and colour.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

It wasn’t a ghost postman
delivering letters from the dead.
It wasn’t an invisible menu dropper
letting us know about the latest
zero calorie pizza from Crust Begone.
It wasn’t the combined air
of the local foxes laughing
about the state of our front garden.
It wasn’t a sigh from my self esteem
wondering why I was still in yesterday’s pants.
It wasn’t a tut from my to do list.
It wasn’t the huff of a miserable goalkeeper.
It was just a gust of wind
opening and closing our gate,
reminding me of your chatty jaw.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

What do you think
our photographs of people are?
2D ghosts?
Shit TV?
Pink shadows?
Broken iPhones?
Miniature rude
family members
ignoring your
smiles and screams?
You look at them
with an old fashioned awe.

© Carl Burkitt 2021