Game 1: Imagine a toddler running into a bunch of pigeons.
Game 2: You are the toddler. Write for 4 minutes about the experience.
Game 3: You are the bunch of pigeons. Write for 4 minutes about the experience.
Game 4: Stick the two poems together with a ‘but’, ‘and’, ‘however’, linking word of your choosing. OR, create a poem from alternate lines from each perspective.
I’m going to fold you into a pretzel
after skipping down a ramp to Black Dog.
I’m going to flick your head wearing black jeans
and no t-shirt and black elbow pads.
I’m going to bop you on the bum.
I’m going to evaporate your eyes.
I’m going to peel your back skin off.
I’m going to post you to your past.
I’m going to count your ribs with your lies.
I’m going to strangle your hobbies.
I’m going to try.
© Carl Burkitt 2021
Game 1: You are a wrestler. Take a minute or two to come up with your name, what entrance music you come down to and what outfit you wear.
Game 2: Spend 8 minutes writing the speech you will yell down the camera to your opponent. Try to get the name, music and outfit into the poem somehow.
a stack of unread books smiling patiently,
pink lady apples dropping seeds
to sprout toffee apple trees,
double-glazed eyeballs,
dust that whispers Thanks for the ride,
ears that absorb pain
and do not know the word advice.
© Carl Burkitt 2021
Game 1: Think of the name of a new planet and take a minute or two to jot down a few descriptions of what the place looks like.
Game 2: You have been declared president! Write your manifesto for the new planet’s future.
for a mint flavoured pond,
37 degree palms
gently around my neck,
a red spatula to talk to,
silver beads leading
to a disc-shaped protector of fun,
twisty wrists
sending my beak below the tide,
skin untouched by unhelpful comments.
© Carl Burkitt 2021
Game 1: You are a rubber duck.
Game 2: You are a rubber duck that is no longer used.
Game 3: Write a poem about your old life.
a wardrobe of floral shirts,
a fake love of toffee vodka,
football boots held together with masking tape,
a Welsh telephone box filled with urine,
a moped driven into the sun,
a foggy three year trip to the seaside,
a dinner plate across the head,
floor nuts, a small joint of beef,
800 BMX rides up a hill with no peak,
a wooden beam and a spotless house,
phone calls, phone calls, phone calls,
the opening of a creaky hinge of a closed mind,
pop-up restaurants, softball bats,
a star falling through a river, time, ears,
a melting urge of tingling skin,
an inevitability wrapped in metal rings.
© Carl Burkitt 2021
Game 1: Think of someone you haven’t spoken to since school.
Game 2: Take 9 minutes to write a poem explaining everything you’ve been up to since you last saw each other and chuck in two or three memories from back in the day with them. Be sure to exaggerate with wild metaphors that only you two understand.
Take another look, it’s only me:
the one with Pringle tube legs,
former pepperoni nipples
and Renault building
sized sweat patches.
Listen closely and you’ll hear
Status Quo while I undress
and car horns beeping their way
around my magic roundabout eyes.
My kneecaps are the number 16 bus
and my dandruff drops
like that supply teacher
who stacked it while leaning
on a pile of German dictionaries.
© Carl Burkitt 2021
Carl tells tales 