after Brian Bilston

for anyone who is interested
in the make up of a cereal bowl
of a man they never met. He had them
with full fat milk, probably, and used the
heavy spoons that continue to live
in my cutlery drawer
with their fork and knife siblings
that stand with straight backs. They’d salute
if they could but they are civilians
being used for eggs on toast brunches
by people unaware how to talk
about the army, desperate to talk
about him.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

His denim shirt looks casual
over a torso fit for a robot.
He’s sat awkwardly on a metal stool
like the unloved one in a boy band
in the dying weeks of Tops of the Pops.
It’s half time of a football match
people in this pub care about
and Lucian’s on a screen the size of a TARDIS.
He wants me
to reconsider what phone I have in my pocket,
but there are people in there,
numbers of corpses, hours of game time,
work I’ve been made to think is important,
photos for a child to remember I wasn’t always sad.
For a moment, Lucian’s paid-for smile
almost convinces me.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

I like pubs
that place little flip top jars of ale
in front of their corresponding pumps
for punters to get a preview.
They are a wet breadcrumb trail
leading to a house
that, some days, feels made
of rickety wood,
damp skin and rotting bones,
and others is nothing short
of a fairytale.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

He was the kind of man
who helped old ladies cross the road, rescued cats from trees, got cereal
down from the top shelf for strangers
in the supermarket, called his mum
three times a week, kept a baseball bat
under his bed, carved his son’s sandwiches
into the shape of a smiley face.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

To the uninitiated, this is a book
about nothing. Don’t get too attached
to any sentences or images or themes.
Don’t be fooled by the upbeat words
or the bits that make you feel
like they’re leading to a neatly
wrapped ending. You’ll meet a few people.
Some will be dressed in suits or running
shoes or will have jewellery on their bodies
left by a loved one. Some will
have sing-song voices, some will be afraid.
Some will have jobs, some will cook food,
some will climb mountains. Say hello
to them, sure, but don’t get too attached,
this is a book about nothing.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

He walks into the pub – black duffle coat,
black beret, black jeans, black running shoes.
Looking suave, I say, as he whistles towards me.
Even with these soup stains? he says,
lifting up a splashed sleeve of his jacket.
What flavour soup? I say.
Who knows. Here, he says, You’re a writer,
you’ll like these. His hand dunks itself
into his black satchel, pulls out a notebook
stuffed with the last words of dead celebrities.
Peanut? he offers.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

His neck is a rainbow –
thick, drenched in light,
dancing secretly to Hall & Oates
from the only living speaker
in the far corner of the café
while his mate talks about
the most recent traffic jam
he was stuck in.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

I heard today that too much water can kill you.
I’m 60% water, so too much of me can kill you.
When I get talking about the importance
of a left-footed centre back to the balance
of a four-four-two formation, or my teeth
can do nothing but explain why the latest
Roman Reigns storyline in WWE deserves
an Emmy Award, or my tongue mentions
the way my hip feels 40 years older than me,
or I list my ever changing top 10 crisps,
or bang on about or bang on about John Hegley poems,
I can see your eyes drowning.
If you don’t want to swim with me, piss off.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

leaning against the oven,
watching life unfold.
It opened the window earlier
and cannot feel the breeze
against its see-through skin.
It just put a pen in its eye
but nothing happened,
the clocks just kept going
and the air was nothing but news.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

every word ever invented
sits behind a frame in an art gallery
next to a sign saying DO NOT TOUCH.
The air is glue. I cannot remember
what happened on my weekend
and cannot remember how to ask you
about yours. The weather doesn’t exist.
I can see everything: fingerprints
on the windows but not who they belong to,
a water ring on a brand new coffee table,
a packet of crisps and no-one to eat them.
A vein in my neck wants to know
about your heart and how it works
and you want to know what I do
for a living.

© Carl Burkitt 2023