and you’re waking up yelling NO BIG SPIDER
through a baby monitor we don’t even
keep the volume turned up on
because your room is so close to ours
between walls thinner than a womb.
How long will it be before it is creepy
that we watch you sleep? One eye on you
the other on a phone like a paparazzo
desperate to take a picture of your
vulnerable state.
© Carl Burkitt 2022
He’s up there, the space bastard,
slurping his tea, telling stars to run faster,
picking his nose and rubbing his finger
across the universe. I hear him at night
revving the engine of his 4×4,
farting in a supermarket freezer
and shutting the door to keep the smell in
for the customer behind him to find.
He’s up there, the space bastard,
writing an apology to his dog,
playing Shirley Bassey, nodding
every time his cutlery gets used.
© Carl Burkitt 2022
Sitting on the motorway, a pot of Pringles
rolling around the footwell, we are
the words written on a Hovis van.
© Carl Burkitt 2022
Shortly before sunset,
when the daylight is redder
and softer than when the sun is higher
in the sky, a white dress and green suit
stand in front of a broccoli shaped tree;
colours ready to mix into a life time
of meals and cities and conversations
invented in a time of confusion
ready to be set free.
© Carl Burkitt 2022
The graffiti is sprayed
out of morning eyes
on to the window of a phone box
stood like a solider
ready to dip into the unknown.
I liked sitting next to the boys
in science class
who had a tag to carve
into the desks: JT Woz Ere,
Dog Dirt, Fuck you.
Each of them knew
who they were and why
they were here. I love eggs
and the way they crack
under pressure.
© Carl Burkitt 2022
Yep. Yep.
Bunny ear. Yep.
Hmm. Nice one.
Yep. Yep.
Can you smell leeks?
Yep. Soft, like ageing palms
in mashed potato. Well done.
Let’s start again. Yep.
Bunny ear, call it Sammy
build it a hutch in the back garden
but keep the cat away. Yep.
Oh look, the cat likes Sammy.
It will sit where the hutch was
and purr when it’s no longer alive.
Yep. Yep. Done. You’re amazing.
© Carl Burkitt 2022
They’re here every day,
taking it in turns to do
the bird of paradise pose
they learned in yoga.
The tide is wrapping itself
around their ankles
like a cup of tea
around a weekend biscuit.
© Carl Burkitt 2022
on the beach, all small pants,
big hair, black eyes,
each step a scene change
in an evolving montage.
I’m not sure if I’m getting better
but I can’t stop imagining
Adrian dying.
© Carl Burkitt 2022
He’s telling me about how
his label machine is the god damn slowest thing
the world has ever seen, it smudges ink
all over envelopes and if the Post Office
don’t do something about it soon
he will have to write a strongly worded letter.
A packet of Quavers sits on the counter
between us. He stamps his foot and asks me
if there’s anything else I need and thanks me
for understanding about the god damn wait.
© Carl Burkitt 2022
and I am finally him
whipping crosses in the box
for the handsome boys to head the ball
into the goal, rolling my shoulders
like they were monster truck wheels,
shooting finger pistols at strangers
firing back smile bullets. She calls me Craig
and I’m in the park pretending
I understand how to kiss with my lips
and like the taste of Sour Chewits.
© Carl Burkitt 2022
Carl tells tales 