I got tickled by a spider
for nearly three years.
The little bugger used all eight legs
at the same time to reach all
my tickly bits – you know,
belly button, under the chin,
between the toes, right earlobe,
calves, eye lids, elbows,
the bit in the brain that enjoys
the right amount of pain.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

I opened the lid of the coffin
and saw myself staring back at me
only joking
it was the person I was expecting
to see
only they looked like me
and were terrible with small talk
only joking
they were properly dead
and just a bundle of bones
dust
and stories that will be completely forgotten
only joking
the room was stuffed with people
sharing anecdotes of a life well live
and I was rugby tackled to the ground
for opening up the coffin lid and
only joking

© Carl Burkitt 2023

I walked
into a cobweb
and felt at home.
Wall, not cobweb.
Hole, not wall.
Mind, not hole.
Puddle, not mind.
Quicksand, not puddle.
Bed, not quicksand.
Nails, not bed.
Swimming pool, not nails.
Memory, not swimming pool.
Memory, not memory.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

A clown sat in the seat next to me
in an afternoon cinema screening
of a film I didn’t catch the name of.
We were the only two people there.
His popcorn box was already empty
and a bottle of gin was his breath.
The white paint on his face showed
no skin and his melted red nose had
lost its honk. I said hello. And he said
goodbye. The film never started and
the cinema never opened that day.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

A witch left her pointy hat and broomstick
in the reception of my office job. I popped
the hat on my head and took the broomstick
for a fly around town. It was a disaster.
The hat fell off immediately in the wind
and the broomstick flew me into the first tree
we encountered. I broke my nose during the fall
to the ground. My complexion was swamp-like
as I vomited from the sheer agony of it all.
An old lady with soft cheeks and a scent
of lavender offered to help me up. I refused,
utterly embarrassed, and slapped her hand away.
Back at my flat I stirred a pot of homemade soup
with an unnecessarily long wooden spoon and hid
from the night in a thick, black dressing gown.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

He’s built from the bits we had lying about:
wispy hairs from the bathroom sink,
penne pasta and veg sauce from the freezer,
bits of skin that rarely see the sun,
eyes keen to open, hands terrified of change,
a forehead attracted to the ground,
hips that move when no-one is around.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

I decided to treat myself
to quitting my job and becoming
a magician’s assistant. On my first shift
he cut me in half with a rusty hacksaw.
When he picked my hips and legs off the floor
he took a second to make them tap dance,
I think. I can’t be sure, my eyes felt heavy
and the room disappeared.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

I walked through a new ghost.
I apologised
but it was cold and blanked me.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

She was called April
and liked scratching human skin
with her front claws
if she felt they were being a bit much.
She caught my mate’s ankle on our driveway
after he was pogo-sticking too loudly
and my cousin’s finger
when he chased her around the sofa for too long.
I don’t remember her drawing my blood,
but the six million threads from the blanket
I wrapped around her entire body
one winter’s night still live under my fingernails.

© Carl Burkitt 2023

Did I ever tell you about the summer
I spent as a bat? It wasn’t easy.
My eyelids handled the brightness of days
as poorly as my skin put up with
the heat of the sun. I was a fruit bat, so
the diet was sweet, but I am not
built for heights or sleeping upside down.
I quickly understood
why Bruce Wayne was sceptical of us
but when the nights got tough
and we needed to band together, we did.
Moving as one felt as alien as wings
on my torso, but we did it.
We had to.

© Carl Burkitt 2023