I’m a hairy boy. My body’s getting bigger.
My ears are full of curls and my eyes
can see more than eyebrows.
My face is thick. My fingers have new
candy floss cheeks to play with.
I caught some cucumber on my chin-Velcro today
like a fluffy baseball glove doing its job.
I’m a hairy boy. My body’s getting bigger.
I don’t recognise my shadow. I have the silhouette
of decisions I’ve always chosen not to make.
I’m Tarzan growing the jungle from my pores.
I’m a mole on Bigfoot’s back.
I’m a welcome mat not quite up to the job.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

The buses are empty.
But they keep going.
Morning, noon and night
they drive by my living room window
with the eeriness of a hearse
heading back to its garage.
It’s like the ghosts have opted
for a cheaper commute home.
It’s strange not seeing a bus stop.
They’re like hungry sharks never sleeping.
Always moving.
The buses are empty.
But they just keep going.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

My world is getting smaller,
but everyone’s in my front room.
My nephew’s on the dining table
bouncing on a trampoline.
My niece is planting cucumbers
hovering above a keyboard.
I saw an executive on the bed,
a director on the toilet, an officer by the toaster.
House parties want me to dance down a lens.
I’ve got my therapist in my ear
as I sit on my own sofa.
The faces that made me are squashed together
lying across my palm.
My world is getting smaller
and the entire universe is trying to climb in.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

Every Week Should Be Yacht Week.
Never have words on a poster,
written in the language I speak,
felt more alien to me.
What about Jogging Bottoms Week,
Feet Up On The Sofa Week
or Salt and Vinegar Pringles Week?
How about Giving It A Go Week,
Screaming Into The Void Week
or A Packet of Mini Twisters Week,
Why can’t every week be
the week before we got that phone call?

© Carl Burkitt 2020