In the evenings
I feel like a dusty shelf of games.
My bones are loose Jenga blocks.
My fingers are KerPlunk sticks.
The toothpick size scar on my left arm,
the keyholes on my left knee
and the tiny cross on my wrinkled scrotum
are countless rounds of Operation.
Every orifice is a circle on a Twister mat.
My freckles and moles are dot to dots,
my mind a half full Scrabble bag
with an I here, an O there,
and more than one Y.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

And like that,
you made
a home
inside my
ventricles.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

My piss smells
of Sugar Puffs
when I’m stressed.
Or dehydrated.
I don’t drink water
when I’m stressed.
Or miserable.
I’ve been drinking
a lot of water
lately.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

If I was a cartoon the first thing I’d do
is run through a wall and leave a hole
the shape of my body behind.
I’d draw a semicircle on a skirting board
and shuffle through like a mouse.
I’d boink myself on the head with a giant anvil
off a cliff. I’d run in that way
where you furiously spin your legs on the spot
before shooting off with a squeak of trainers
and puff of smoke behind you.
I’d melt underneath a doorway.
I’d ask for the channel to be changed
and have some time alone.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

I swapped my blood for lava.
I swapped my eyes for charcoal.
I swapped my fingers for matches
and ran them across sandpaper.
I swapped my heart for a bonfire.
I swapped my anus for chilli peppers.
I swapped my sweat for kettle water.
I swapped my tongue for something.
I swapped my toes for candle wax.
I swapped my arms for something.
I swapped my hair for something
and my teeth for something else.
I swapped.

© Carl Burkitt 2020