Most mornings I scream myself awake.
It’s a full on guttural yell as my limbs remember
they have blood in them.
It’s the kind of noise a corpse would make
if you jammed jumper cables in its ribs.
I feel like roadkill when the sun comes up.
I’m chewing gum on the arse of your jeans.
I’m like the part of a pancake holding on
to a bit of peeled away non-stick magic
on my mattress frying pan.
I like looking back on how my day went at night,
it means I did it again.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

The shelves on my bookcases are bowing.
Not because they’re overstuffed with literature
but because they’re doorless wardrobes
with extra shelves screwed in.
Most days I feel like a cheap version
of the real thing struggling to do its job.
I’m a floorboard with a nail sticking out,
a washing machine with no door.
I’m a room temperature freezer, a deflated football.
I can be a fluffless rug, a toothless tiger.
I sometimes don’t drink water when I’m thirsty
because I’m in one of the rooms with no taps.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

The young boy stood
on the back of the moving pram
pointing his telescope arm diagonally to the sky
like a lookout pirate spotting danger.
He was Short John Silver of the seven-year-old seas.
His dad steered through the choppy tarmac
with black bag shipwrecks for eyes
and a heart of hidden treasure.
I was across the road, anchored to my desk.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

There’s a tree outside my bedroom
with popcorn-like blossom. It’s the tastiest
looking nature.
When I stand at the window I feel like a movie star
staring out at a cinema full of snacks:
salt sprinkled branches, sugar coated leaves.
If popcorn grew on trees I’d getting nothing done.
I’d spend more time outside, climb up trunks,
watch the world do it’s thing snuggled up in an oak
nibbling on a large box of sap.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

The sign read
Please don’t fly kites near the skylarks.
They were our stringless entertainment for the day.
I hope I’m remembered as a groundlark,
someone who gave it a good go,
played when he could,
looped and dipped when he was bored.
I’m probably more of an urban slug;
slow off the mark,
vulnerable to being walked all over,
a trail of sparkling tears behind me.

© Carl Burkitt 2020