My living room floorboards moan
when I stand on them.
So I stay on the sofa
and let the cushions smile
around my arse cheeks.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

If reincarnation is real
I want to come back
as a large portion
of chip shop chips
and be delivered to
a person who struggles
to finish me off
but refuses to admit
a regular portion
would’ve been enough.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

Imagine a blue whale crying. Like, really crying.
Sobbing, shaking, snot sinking to the ocean floor,
its fins flailing like heartbroken prey between teeth,
its tail slapping waves to the other side of the world.
Imagine the noise. The screams. The salt levels rising.
Imagine a blue whale crying. Like, really crying.
The way you did that time
when you thought we were all in bed.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

I see myself
in the scum of an over-brewed cup of tea,
the correct answer in a pub quiz
crossed out and replaced with a second thought.
There’s a phone charger
at the back of my broken chest of drawers
that’s frayed in three separate places.
It still works, if you position it right.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

I once heard that the roots of a tree
grow as tall as the tree itself.
I often think about that
when combing my beard at night.
I imagine the inside of my skull
to be stuffed with moustache and sideburns.
If I stood still long enough outside
would a 6 foot 4 me grow underground?
I wonder if he has bad knees,
wishes he likes the taste of coconut
and loses track of his thoughts.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

When a
professional
athlete
gets cramp,
I remember
how useless
I am.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

My skin is inside out.
I’ve got feet on my wrists
and bum holes for eyes.
I’ve got a cat called dog,
a cow called pig,
a bunny called Daffy.
My fingernails are liquid.
My kneecaps are swimming caps.
I’ve got pubes on my head.
The stars are freckles.
I’m sleeping on Mars.
I’m a fish with legs.
Last week
we swapped
sides of the bed.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

I can’t confirm whether or not this is true,
but last night a faceless goblin
melted itself down to a filthy, thick, tar-like liquid
and slid through my front door’s grateful letterbox,
effortlessly puddled its way up the stairs
and under the crack at the bottom of my bedroom door,
then silently shuffled across the floorboards
and up the bed frame and under my duvet
and swapped my bones for dust.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

Seeing light
reflect off my ring finger
is like spotting my birthday
on a yogurt pot.

© Carl Burkitt 2020