Most mornings I scream myself awake.
It’s a full on guttural yell as my limbs remember
they have blood in them.
It’s the kind of noise a corpse would make
if you jammed jumper cables in its ribs.
I feel like roadkill when the sun comes up.
I’m chewing gum on the arse of your jeans.
I’m like the part of a pancake holding on
to a bit of peeled away non-stick magic
on my mattress frying pan.
I like looking back on how my day went at night,
it means I did it again.

© Carl Burkitt 2020