The man is talking
about the Isle of Wight Festival
and hog roasts and cheap cider.
His estranged mates in front of him
asks what the large red mark on his brow is.
I wiped sweat off my head the other day
and it turns out I had shit on my hand
and rubbed it into an open wound.
This is not a poem.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

Weyhey! Here we are!
Hello! Can you believe it?!
There’s a bloke over there kicking
a pomegranate. Blimey!
Walkers have released Pickled Onion
Monster Munch flavoured crisps. Flamingos
are born grey and their diet of brine shrimp
and blue green algae contains
a natural dye that turns their feathers pink.
Interesting! The second hand furniture shop
Opposite the flat never turns its lights off.
Crikey! Today’s death poem
focuses on unrelated things
before bringing it back
to death. Wowzers!

© Carl Burkitt 2023

The Very Hungry Caterpillar no longer eats
five ojanges on a Friday. It eats five oranges.
Your fingertips are strong enough, nimble
enough, to separate and turn the pages
individually in the way everyone else does.
You walk the story in a straight line.
You take comfort in the accomplishment.
When they arrive, let your wings take you
into incorrect corners and gardens that might
get you bitten. Enjoy the cocoon for now.
Remember to shout ONE SLICE OF WATERMELON.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

I opened a sandwich bar and called it
something like The Club Club or Slice of Life
or Sam Wich’s Sandwiches. Business boomed
immediately. Every seat was filled with a local
bum, and mouths spoke of a breath of fresh air
between bites of salt beef paninis and chilli
con carne ciabattas. The 21-year-old owner
of the cocktail bar opposite approached me
for a collaboration and we held Build-A-Bap
workshops for the surrounding primary schools.
The shop closed eventually because I got into
a new project or died or the stress became
too much.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

He asks the best questions.
He doesn’t laugh or understand
the snide comments of the other guests.
He wants to know what other people think
about the bad guy hurting the good guy
and if they noticed the change in lighting
or musical shift or the way the champion
has started to grow his beard recently.
He apologises for talking too much.
He apologises for stuttering.
He apologises for being in the way.
A man called Kyle calls into my favourite
podcast ever week and they always call him
Carl. He never corrects the host’s mistake.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

and I’m thinking about you lying
in bed, your blood working out
if it is going to play tennis one day,
build a library, make bread, deliver post,
invent something I can’t think of right now,
dance, do dentistry, sell building tools,
drive a futuristic lorry, be a clown,
draw people to you for doing your best.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

His knees know too much.
He is as old as the 20th century was
the year I was born.
The tongues in his trainers
have as many stories as the one in his mouth.
Sweat suits him. It runs
like time over Lycra skin. He nods at trees
and whistles the clouds away.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

Kathy Burke says people stop her
in the street asking her to tell them
to Fuck off instead of asking for a photo.
Perhaps the man in the park,
the one telling me to Fuck off
while I’m trying to take a picture
of a daft squirrel in a tree,
thinks I made the same request of him.
He’s gone now
unaware my brain will wear him
like a mole I’ll have to keep an eye on
for eternity. 

© Carl Burkitt 2023

I am topless in the kitchen. My son
asks why my stomach has hair on it.
Three hours later – in the café
reading a book about a man desperate
to find his fun self again, the self he was
when making friends was easy
and his skin was knife-proof, the self
that had heard of thunderstorms
but never felt one – I thought of my reply:
You know the patches of Nana’s grass
that are slightly taller because of dog wee?
That’s what’s happening to my chest.  

© Carl Burkitt 2023

The newspaper says we live
in the 26th most desirable place in Britain.
It speaks of cask ale pubs, cocktail bars,
the proximity of the train station
to most amenities. Linda, who’s been here
for over 50 years, says she’s surprised
it’s so high because the green spaces have gone
and the infrastructure can’t support
the ever increasing population. Ben, 21, says
he’d like at least two more pubs
and I can’t find anywhere to buy a new belt.

© Carl Burkitt 2023