I’ll have the same again
and I want you to call me a Wanker.
Be a pedant. Laugh at the way
I hit the 1 instead of the 20.
Tell me when my toe is poking
over the improvised beer mat oche.
Point out the typo
on the subtitles of the football.
My body is a hand
in the wrong glove most days.
I don’t want to ache anymore,
so rub insults over my pink skin
in the way only you are allowed.
Tap me on the shoulder.
Kill me with your words.

© Carl Burkitt 2021