It was a simple choice, really –
tear off my thigh skin
or gently sing the song
that boils the lightening
of your spine
into a soft plate
of spaghetti.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

There is a shelf on my bookshelf
that middle,
bows in the
like a grin to a new bedtime story.
Book spines are teeth desperate
to bite down and chew on any kind
of adventure that takes them away.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

I walked past
the most handsome man
I have ever seen
in my life today.
I didn’t see his face
but his strides
had a bounce
like he was plotting
to go to the moon.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

What took you so long, Russell Crowe?
I had visions of meeting over foamy pints
and shouting through drum and bass
in a smoky club we couldn’t remember
who suggested we head to
before giggling over a slippery kebab
on a walk through thick Bournemouth air
on the way to my Uni halls
where we’d put a dusty copy of Gladiator
into my creaking TV/VCR combo
and every time Joaquin Phoenix would appear
on screen you’d shout WHACK and slap my back
and force me to neck a tequila
until I fell asleep to the sound of you
convincing yourself you’d make a good Robin Hood.
But it’s 14 years later and here you are,
sitting in my room asking my 3 month old son
Are you not entertained?
and I don’t know what to do.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

We’re stuck
to the sofa
stronger than
the too-thick coating
on our homemade
toffee apples
is to the backs
of our fillings.
Two years down,
a million more
mistakes to go.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

Your crab claw hand
clamps down on my beard
like hungry teeth on crispy seaweed.
You tug at it until your fingers
slip off like a soft tide.
You slap my chin. You slap it again.
You rub your thumb
down my neck like a blunt razor.
You lick your knuckles and drag them
across the hairs under my bottom lip
and look surprised the hairs are still there.
What do you think is happening?
Do you think my face is covered in wiry dirt?
A tiny forest? Useless snakes?
You rest your palm on my moustache and sigh,
desperate to talk.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

I’ve never been afraid of ageing,
but I have been guilty of comparing
the years of my bones
to what position on a football pitch
they could be the peak age for.
When I turn 34 in December
I’ll be a third choice keeper,
signed to fill the English quota of a top six club.
Long gone are the days my legs were made
for last ditch tackles, overlaps,
or, further back still, being called upon
to casually sprint on to an over hit through ball.
I can’t wait until I’m old enough to be the kit man,
to run my fingers across a shirt I barely remember
and allow the future to flourish.

© Carl Burkitt 2020