Every time I step on you,
water trickling from parts unknown
down squeaky clean quads
and lime-scented calves,
I wish I could return the favour.
I wish I could lie all dry
staring up at your fluffy stuff, desperate.
Desperate to be useful.
Desperate to feel your heels
dig in to my chest until one of us whispers,
See you tomorrow, filthy bastard.
© Carl Burkitt 2020
When I‘m lost I start swinging steel chairs.
I hide brass knuckles in my pants.
I ignore kids and refuse photographs.
I poke eyes. I pull on tights.
I take off turnbuckle padding.
I rub gravel across my baby face
because when my eyes were at their bluest
I still had to go to teenage funerals.
I still had to sleep quietly as a man a thousand
miles away couldn’t believe his luck.
I still had to make tea and change the subject.
When I’m lost I set fires and tip ladders and want tables.
It all makes sense to me. I sit and scream silently
then my partner tags me back in
and distracts the ref so I can low blow the world.
© Carl Burkitt 2020
You hang outrageously on my living room
wall bigger than a king-size mattress.
No joke, you’re an absolute unit.
I can feel you daring me to fill you.
You swallow everything in sight
and when the light gets gobbled up
it’s like we’re living in a mansion.
But we’re not. God you’re imposing.
You’re like one of those two-way mirrors on
Inspector Morse, or something more modern.
There I am, just sat on the sofa being asked
what I want for dinner by good cop
as bad cop waits inside you desperate
to smash my face into a plate of gravy.
© Carl Burkitt 2020
I’m starting to forget what hands feel like.
And how to perform the two step dance with a stranger
before the weight of their chest against my stomach
makes me panic for being so tall.
It’s been centuries since I’ve put my cheek
on the cheek of someone in an office reception
and made a fake kiss sound.
Can anyone remember what my mum smells of?
I avoided eye contact with a spider plant yesterday
and resisted the urge to ask a spatula
if it was enjoying the sun as I waited for the lift
of my toast from the toaster.
© Carl Burkitt 2020
I’m ashamed to say
I can’t say your name.
Lur Kree You Set?
Luh Kree Uh So?
Lah Crew So?
I didn’t buy you.
You were handed down
by two hob-sized hands.
You’re just deep enough for a dish for one,
so you’re borderline useless here.
I’m grateful for that.
© Carl Burkitt 2020
Bottle opener. Cheese grater.
I love perfectly literal names.
Hand wash. Tooth brush.
Names that don’t bother messing about.
Flying ants. Orange juice. DVD case.
Names like that make me
wonder what I should be called.
Conscious organ sack. Breathing flesh skeleton.
Poo chef. Walking worry beast. Oxygen hotel.
Future hearse passenger. Theme park for blood.
© Carl Burkitt 2020
TV, can you see me?
You’re always holding court
telling stories,
when will you sit and listen?
Sometimes you’re a laugh,
but you can be a little horror.
More often than not
you’re full of drama.
When things get dark I watch my flat in you,
the main character perpetually deciding
whether or not to finish the share bag.
© Carl Burkitt 2020
If I was forced to eat a part of my own body
I would probably go for my quads.
They’re the right amount of meaty.
They feel like the kind of steaks I scoffed
before eating meat started making me queasy.
My head hair would be too curly to choke down,
my brain is full of rubbish, my skin is too dry
and my arse it too fine to get rid of.
I’d definitely go for the quads, they remind me
of the days I used to run through crowds,
sweat my way past whistles and horns,
cried in your raincoat skin at mile 13,
rejected the slice of pepperoni pizza from
the pensioner outside her terrace house
holding her Keep Going, Luvvies sign.
I’d reminisce over a slice of my quads,
they taste like trying.
© Carl Burkitt 2020
Slippers filled with football socks,
extra cheese deep pan stuffed crust,
Pringle smeared PlayStation controller,
I’ve never put a single mug of coffee on you.
An inch thick unticked to do list,
fallen egg yolk from my overwhelmed beard,
a laptop full of unanswered emails,
I’ve never put a single mug of coffee on you.
Elbows propping up my soaking face,
the jigsaw made of Christmas dogs,
your tiny hand resting on my bruised paw,
I’ve never put a single mug of coffee on you.
© Carl Burkitt 2020
Carl tells tales 