Walls have so much power.
Without them we’d realise the ridiculousness
of the fact, once a day, on average, most people
have a shit mere inches away
from a colleague / stranger / boss / potential friend.
When I’m in a hotel I smile at how many people
are definitely having sex above, below and next to me.
And then I don’t sleep thinking about the likelihood
of being adjacent to a murder.
If walls could talk, I don’t think they would,
like a toddler who’s seen so much
they don’t know where to start.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

I have blobs on my skin that have no pigment,
mainly on my hands and a few dots
up my arms and legs.
My limbs are like a painter’s palette,
if the painter only painted
rented accommodation in magnolia,
or the occasional ivory when feeling fancy.
There’s one paper white patch
around my right eye slowly growing bigger.
I’m half a panda from Opposite Land.
A negative pirate.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

My belt is cow leather, as is my wallet.
I got them before becoming a vegetarian.
Throwing them away feels like
binning a ham sandwich made by a forgetful Nan.
I’ve never worn fox fur scarves,
leopard patterned trousers or snake skin shoes.
I struggle enough wearing my own skin.
If someone peeled off my top layer,
I’d make a pretty good waterproof dressing gown
for an average sized person looking
for a bloody hug.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

I enjoy washing the dishes.
I pretend the tablespoons are battleships
and that I’m giving my hands a bubble bath.
I don’t, but I might next time.
I pretend the plates are my babies
and I’m cleaning a weekend adventure off them.
I don’t, but I might next time.
I like that it forces me to be on my own for a while.
I like that it slows me down, makes me feel useful.
I look out at the bus stop opposite my flat while I scrub
and wonder if the combination of a waist-high
windowsill and a first floor kitchen
makes it look like I’m masturbating to passersby.

© Carl Burkitt 2020