You are unlikeable,
you put me off my food.
You put the hurt in yoghurt.
You put the rot in carrot,
the cum in cucumber,
the fuck in focaccia.
A picnic with you
wouldn’t be worth the cramp.
If you invited me to lunch
I’d pretend a love one had died.
Probably not,
but just know I wouldn’t enjoy it.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

If my skin had feathers
I’d take better care of it.
I’d groom as others swooned.
I’d try not to puff my chest out too much.
Hopefully I’d be the kind of
feathered thing that could fly.
I’d giggle at the tickle of my chin
and climb inside pillowcases for tired people.
But not for my wife.
I imagine the downside
to having skin made of feathers
would be my wife being allergic to me.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

Arthur whizzed 3,500
New Year’s resolutions
up in his brand new blender
(a Christmas present from Mother)
and poured them directly into his mouth
until his stomach burst all over
his filthy little bedroom.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

I slipped my slippers on
and felt the years slip away.
Two aching soles
smiled from toe to toe.
We don’t hug our feet enough
when all they do is hold us up.

© Carl Burkitt 2020