Every night is bin night –
a chance to leave
bits of you in the front garden
for foxes to scream at the bones
and take what they need
until your skull sits empty,
ready to be overstuffed again.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

Every August
I drink to commemorate
the death of Phil Mitchell.
I mean, it may as well have been him,
it was just as sudden
as the EastEnders’ outro drums.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

I wonder how big you’ll get.
I wonder if you’ll sprout hairs.
I wonder if your hairs will be brown
or blonde or orange or grey or tired.
I wonder if you’ll always quiver in the cold.
I wonder if you’ll spend an afternoon
Googling which of your childhood
sitcom stars appeared in porn.
I wonder if you’ll wander about unsure
if you can be bothered
to scrub all the blemishes off you.
I wonder if you’ll smile at men
in charcoal suits on New Year’s Day in Morrisons
who, instead of a using a basket,
are dragging a loaf of white bread
through the aisles on an adult scooter.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

A man is on the phone
saying I love you
in that way people do
when they mean it.
Over his mouth
is a face mask
decorated with the snarling teeth
of a furious dog
desperate to bite
my staring eyes out.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

There’s a zip down the spine
of a man from our street
with teaspoon coloured hair.
I’m yet to open it,
but I daydream about wearing him like a onesie
to shuffle up to Sainsburys
or the dusty roadside barbershop,
past the leafless trees that droop
like his bones on a good day,
and back again.
I want to know how long it takes
for his paper white running shoes to fade
and if the tweed jacket
and Jaffa Cake box blue tracksuit trouser
combo
is a comfy as I tell people it looks.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

Sweet and Savoury
Tea and Biscuits
Little and Less-So
Stumble and Crumble
Creepy and Crawly
Left and Right
Matte and Gloss
Bucket and Pipes
Slap and Tickle
Nosy and Not-So
Mash and Gravy
Honest and Weary
Daft and Trying
Knackered and Hopeful

© Carl Burkitt 2020

For me it’s a packet of honeycomb
from a pop-up fairground.
It’s dancing with no pants on
with the curtains wide open.
It’s flicking the correct light switch first time.
For me it’s pancakes on a Wednesday.
It’s knowing who’s walking down the stairs
based purely on the creak of the floorboards.
For me it’s the perfect text back
to a message about my favourite tree dying.
It’s smashing old fashioned toffee
with a mini hammer.
It’s leek and potato soup in a metal bowl.
For me it’s a missed call
followed by an Everything’s OK voicemail.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

10 minutes into wandering
through an M&S petrol station
I realised I’d forgotten my headphones
and the podcast I thought was boring
was in fact two middle aged men behind me
chatting about A roads.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

Bored.
Tight trousers.
No one’s trimmed their nails.
Horrible smells.
Can’t read.
Can’t eat bread.
Can’t spell bread.
Dead arm.
Dead leg.
Dead people they’ll never meet.
Can’t say I want bread.

© Carl Burkitt 2020