A witch left her pointy hat and broomstick
in the reception of my office job. I popped
the hat on my head and took the broomstick
for a fly around town. It was a disaster.
The hat fell off immediately in the wind
and the broomstick flew me into the first tree
we encountered. I broke my nose during the fall
to the ground. My complexion was swamp-like
as I vomited from the sheer agony of it all.
An old lady with soft cheeks and a scent
of lavender offered to help me up. I refused,
utterly embarrassed, and slapped her hand away.
Back at my flat I stirred a pot of homemade soup
with an unnecessarily long wooden spoon and hid
from the night in a thick, black dressing gown.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

He’s built from the bits we had lying about:
wispy hairs from the bathroom sink,
penne pasta and veg sauce from the freezer,
bits of skin that rarely see the sun,
eyes keen to open, hands terrified of change,
a forehead attracted to the ground,
hips that move when no-one is around.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

I decided to treat myself
to quitting my job and becoming
a magician’s assistant. On my first shift
he cut me in half with a rusty hacksaw.
When he picked my hips and legs off the floor
he took a second to make them tap dance,
I think. I can’t be sure, my eyes felt heavy
and the room disappeared.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

I walked through a new ghost.
I apologised
but it was cold and blanked me.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

She was called April
and liked scratching human skin
with her front claws
if she felt they were being a bit much.
She caught my mate’s ankle on our driveway
after he was pogo-sticking too loudly
and my cousin’s finger
when he chased her around the sofa for too long.
I don’t remember her drawing my blood,
but the six million threads from the blanket
I wrapped around her entire body
one winter’s night still live under my fingernails.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

Did I ever tell you about the summer
I spent as a bat? It wasn’t easy.
My eyelids handled the brightness of days
as poorly as my skin put up with
the heat of the sun. I was a fruit bat, so
the diet was sweet, but I am not
built for heights or sleeping upside down.
I quickly understood
why Bruce Wayne was sceptical of us
but when the nights got tough
and we needed to band together, we did.
Moving as one felt as alien as wings
on my torso, but we did it.
We had to.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

I took a bite out of the thigh of a man
in front of me in the queue at Costa. 
It tasted of Calvin Klein aftershave
and the confidence to tell a barista
they’ve been given the wrong order.
He didn’t turn around
when my teeth sunk into his leg meat.
I had bits of hair and suit in my molars
and he simply readjusted
his wireless headphones and left a voice note
to someone about inflation and targets.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

I had a coffee with a vampire this morning.
I don’t drink coffee – it doesn’t agree
with my tongue – so I just had a breakfast tea.
But the vampire had a very dark coffee.
He said his life was draining
so sucked up caffeine whenever given the chance.
His hair was hypnotically slick and pristinely
combed back. I asked him how work was
going and he talked about nightshifts
and struggling to make long lasting relationships
with colleagues. He asked me a lot of questions
about my son. He wanted to know
how it felt watching a body I could once hold
in one hand grow with the knowledge
I am likely to die before seeing him at his peak.
I nibbled the foot off a gingerbread man
and wondered how I’d look in a cape.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

I spent the worst part of a week caught
in a giant spider’s web hanging between
two roof beams of a cottage in a city
I cannot remember the name of.
My limbs stopped thrashing after about 12 hours
and I was surprised how quickly I got used to
the fact I probably wouldn’t eat again.
If I was able to hold a pen and paper
I would’ve written a farewell letter
to anyone likely to read it, but instead
I had a think about all of the times
I never stepped out of my comfort zone
and let the warmth of four walls
let me be someone who gets caught
in a giant spider’s web.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

I’ll carve a pumpkin
to look exactly like you one day.
The eyes will be open
and the mouth will have curious teeth.
I’m not skilled enough to give it hair
but I’ll make the skin look resilient
and give it unrelenting ears.
I’ll keep the gloop from inside
to spread on toast for my breakfast;
a chance to be full of kindness.

© Carl Burkitt 2023