You are the last thing I see at night and
the first thing I see in the morning.
Curtains, you beautifully grey bastards,
I love you. You stop the outside coming in.
You absorb the rays
to protect my sensitive skin,
you blend the days into the next days.
You let me do that naked dance
and open up when you’re ready to.
© Carl Burkitt 2020
I can’t remember the last time
I saw my feet in a mirror.
I often forget I have organs inside my body.
My room is full of dust but my skin looks the same.
I can barely keep up.
I used to have three sugars in my tea and
mince pies had the taste of the Grinch’s armpit.
My eyes are the same size as when I was born
but my ears and nose won’t stop growing.
I get headaches in my face.
The creaking of my left knee sounds like
the squeaky front door hinge
of Grandma’s old house.
© Carl Burkitt 2020
Cold bathroom tap, you’re pretty cool.
You make quite the splash
of a first impression every morning.
You tell my face the sun’s alive again.
Remember that time I was sick on you?
And then used you to clean it off you?
I wish I was as self sufficient as you,
as chilled under pressure.
© Carl Burkitt 2020
We were all shocked when your eyebrows fell off.
You weren’t. You could feel it coming
beyond your roots.
You felt it in the blurred line between
where the sky starts and the ground stops.
It was a thousand knots tying themselves tighter.
It was the rumble of a never ending
dishwasher coughing up smoke.
It was the slow lane of a motorway to the moon,
a phone call, neatly stacked and organised boxes.
Your pillows were strips of plumped universe,
your hairs a thousand fallen stars.
© Carl Burkitt 2020
I’m alive with you in my hand,
mug with the pig on the side.
Your mud on my lips is the shit
your pink-hipped friend would kill to roll in.
It’s wicked, ancient Red Bull,
my tongue loves dancing inside you.
Two fingers through your handle
flickers my calves like candles.
I’m alive with you in my hand,
mug with the pig on the side.
© Carl Burkitt 2020
I want to come back as a chip shop chip.
I want to make boys like me swoon.
I want lips to be licked by my mere mention.
I want to be the reason people keep going until Friday.
I want my overdone crusty bits to be my best bits.
I want to have salt rubbed into my wooden fork wounds.
I want to come back as a chip shop chip
and hear people say
I probably shouldn’t but, oh, go on then.
© Carl Burkitt 2020
Take it easy, sofa. Put your feet up.
You’ve had a hard week’s work
taking my weight off.
Stretch your arms,
replump your cushions,
take the night for you.
Ground yourself. Scan your frame,
feel your feet on the old floorboards.
Have a catch up with the telly,
tell each other things you’d
rather not when we’re around.
© Carl Burkitt 2020
I saw a man having a jog in a sports top,
running shoes and a pair of jeans.
He didn’t look the type. I’m ashamed to say
his neat hair and thin-rimmed glasses
had me thinking he was one of those
thoroughly prepared, got the right gear kind of fellas.
I wonder what other surprises he pulls.
Maybe he swims with a fleece on,
does the gardening in a British racing green thong,
eats a chicken breast with a teaspoon.
Maybe he’s one of those otherworldly creatures
who walks around with his head held high
not caring what anyone else thinks.
© Carl Burkitt 2020
Cactus, you spiky sod,
sitting there all dry and prickly.
I see you, crusty cucumber with fangs,
S&M dildo, nature’s sand paper.
I see you, acting all hard,
smoking at the back of the bus
thinking water’s for the weak.
I see you, leaning towards the sun,
clearing your throat, dreaming
of grey clouds.
© Carl Burkitt 2020
It was only a frying pan. A circle to smash eggs in.
A black hole for red pepper flesh and weepy onions.
It was only a frying pan. The handle was huge,
longer than your arm, as heavy as I imagine
carrying you down the stairs was.
I wonder if you ever cooked a chilli in it.
The head was too small for pancakes.
Too small for meals bigger than meals for one.
That’s all I could think about when I put it on my hob.
It was only a frying pan.
© Carl Burkitt 2020
Carl tells tales 