Something about skin

That’s all the note said.
Something about skin.
I tried to remember the feeling I must’ve had
in my muscles when writing those words,
but I couldn’t.
Something about skin.
Was it a handwritten scribble to jog a memory?
Or a warning for my largest organ’s future?
I often feel like a onesie for a wise creature
that dies the second the zip goes up.
Like a firework on a rainy November.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

A man from France

A man from France was outside my window.
At 3am his voice was the moon,
howling a language I didn’t understand.
He was one place, then another, then a cement mixer.
He was a summer window nightmare.
A man from France was outside my window.
At 6am his voice was a family of birds
screaming for a reason to be awake.
He was a Monday morning bottle bin memory.
A man from France was outside my window.
At 9am his voice was two voices
arguing through phones, through fences.
He was an analogue alarm cock.
A man from France was outside my window.
I think. I hope I didn’t make him up.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

What is orange?

Orange is the morning tickling your feet.
Orange is night vision.
Orange is the toe of Christmas.
Orange is a snowman’s nostril, a naked callipo.
Orange is red and yellow
setting their differences aside.
Orange is Wait, no need to rush off.
Orange is halftime.
Orange is condensation down a pint glass. Orange is a Thursday firework.
Orange is the flame of truth.
Orange is the peeling of an old skin,
a trusting reveal of the soft bits.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

I’ve been

I was legs, a burger, a baby bucket.
I’ve been birdshit, snappy, nesthead.
My sliced up Portside big toe,
key-holed kneecap, hernia memory
and the ghost of a concrete face plant
made me lefty. I was Bergertron 6, lanky, pubetop.
Son, brother, up, down, tired, bleak,
groom, smile, trier, tired, up.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

By committee

If I was a part of the committee
in charge of designing me,
I wouldn’t have gone for biscuit bones
or the 75 year old hip joint.
I’d have made my wisdom teeth grow straight
and stopped my body at around six foot one.
Instead of paper thin skin I’d have chosen
armadillo shell and a layer of gravel.
And I’d have vetoed the crooked second toe.
I wouldn’t have approved creepy nighttime breathing
and I don’t think I’d have agreed
to the constant negative fog or acorn penis.
I’d have kept the peach arse though,
and the sunflower eyes you opened.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

My first puddle

Do you ever think about the moments
when you saw something for the first time?
Like your mum presenting you
to the reflection of your baby self,
or hospital car park rain splashing
against your newborn skin.
Can you remember popping your first white head?
Imagine seeing a soft boiled egg for the first time,
watching your dad finally
hitting six skims with a seaside stone,
breaking your tastebuds’ ice cream virginity.
I have no memory of my feet meeting their first puddle.
I wonder if they took the sensation for granted.
I hope they smiled in the slosh.
I hope they marvelled as the ripples
danced around them.

© Carl Burkitt 2020