The barman asks if we’re together
and the woman on my right laughs
as hard as she would
in a poem designed to beat myself up.
I let my ego grow a pair of gruesome wings
made of old skin and greying pubic hair
and crash through the wall,
leaving bits of guts stuck to brick and cement.
I fly my way into a reluctant sky,
rooftops pretend to chat to each other.
I go fast enough for my spine to reject me,
the pores in my skin to scream bloody murder
and the corners of my lips rip wider
than a Chelsea smile saying
Haha, yeah, we’ve never met.

© Carl Burkitt 2023