Today I was a chicken
volunteering for the oven.
I am now a spicy blush.
I am neither a yellow nor a green pepper.
I am the devil’s anus, crispy rose petals,
the tip of Thunderbird 1.
I am the bottom part of a Fab ice lolly –
one that’s been doused in petrol and set on fire
and dragged through the street by its hair
to be booed by the elders
for bringing shame upon the village.
I am a lava orgasm.
I am a pig’s ear, a Labrador’s penis.
I am a red light telling me to stop
being stupid.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

My beard hairs
spread across the pillow
like pigeon feathers
across a motorway windscreen;
the bedsheet a slow lane
screaming for a hard shoulder.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

If my skin was made of shirt
I wonder if I’d iron it.
I wonder if I’d take it off
after a day of work
or just fall asleep in it
and spray extra deodorant
over the particularly sweaty bits
the next morning.
I know I wouldn’t fix
broken buttons or frayed seams
and just let gravy live on it.
If my skin was made of shirt
I hope it would find its way to someone
who needed it when I was dead.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

Excuse me sir, can I see your letter again?

Of course, here it is.

You see, it says here your appointment is the 19th.

That’s correct, 5 o’clock, I’m a little early!

I’m afraid you’re quite early. Today is the 18th.

It is?

It is.

Not to worry, I’ll see you tomorrow.

No, please, let me see if there’s a free appointment.

…

You’re in luck!

Marvellous!

Such civility before I heard one explain to the other
how he had to shove a camera up his arse.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

My nostrils cried gravy.
My skin was pastry
holding a mix of unnamed meat
and gone-off cubed potatoes.
My stomach was a lonely bin.
The devil scoffed hot food
on a windows-shut bus.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

If Toy Story could happen in real life
but with body parts instead of toys,
I wonder which characters my bits would be.
Woody is an obvious one.
My spindly pins would be Slinky Dog.
My arse cheeks would be Mr and Mrs Potatohead –
almost identical but one nicer than the other.
My futuristic thumbs are Buzz Lightyear,
making my dusty fingers jealous.
My Pringles gut is Hamm.
I’d love to say my nervous system is Bo Beep,
but we all know it’s Rex.
My brain can be Sid sometimes, which is a shame,
but I try my best to have three eyes and green skin.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

A strawberry Cornetto wrapper.
Double figures worth of houseplants.
Bending bookshelves.
An 18 month old pumpkin.
The set-list from a daydream evening.
Miniature llama dungarees stuffed with a future.
Occupied ring fingers.
A firework in pyjamas.
The reflection of a hairy boy
who doesn’t know how he got here.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

I’m hungry. I think.
I want to bite
the invisible blowy thing
on the other side of the door.
My nose is wet,
but I feel sick.
Maybe they’re tears.
My legs aren’t working.
A moving tail
isn’t the full story.
I’m hungry. I think.
I keep going in circles.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

I’m watching David Bowie
drinking milk from a carton
in the back of a limousine
wearing a cowboy hat
listening to Aretha Franklin.
I’m drinking milk from a pint glass
sat on the sofa
wearing a wrestling t-shirt
listening to David Bowie
drinking milk from a carton
in the back of a limousine
wearing a cowboy hat
listening to Aretha Franklin.

© Carl Burkitt 2020