He’s sitting on a chair made from little
imagination (four legs, hard back, no cushion)
attempting to put a Christmas playlist together.
He cannot remember his own opinions. What
makes his feet tap? What makes his fingers smile?
What makes his hair pick him up like the claw
of a Weston-super-Mare arcade toy grabber
and drop him in a living room with bacon
for wallpaper, wrapping paper for carpet,
pink cheeks from laughter and closed windows?
He’s sitting on a chair made from an ache
to put a Christmas playlist together.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

There’s a green, felt dinosaur
hanging off the Christmas tree.
It was placed there by someone
yet to be told they are extinct.

I think about hearing what a T-Rex is
and feeling safe because the people
in my home don’t seem to be scared.

I think about living in a world
made of absolute fact and certainty.

I think about being told I am a beautiful boy,
knowing it has only been said because it is true.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

Billy made a snowman.
He wondered what it would be like to fuck it,
But got cold feet and wandered back inside.

© Carl Burkitt 2015

After slaving over Christmas dinner, to little appreciation,
Mrs Wick doused her little pudding in brandy and set it on fire.

Mr Wick coughed and died from the agonising burns,
Cursing his wife’s stupid pet name for him.

© Carl Burkitt 2015