I’m alive with you in my hand,
mug with the pig on the side.

Your mud on my lips is the shit
your pink-hipped friend would kill to roll in.

It’s wicked, ancient Red Bull,
my tongue loves dancing inside you.

Two fingers through your handle
flickers my calves like candles.

I’m alive with you in my hand,
mug with the pig on the side.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

Take it easy, sofa. Put your feet up.
You’ve had a hard week’s work
taking my weight off.

Stretch your arms,
replump your cushions,
take the night for you.

Ground yourself. Scan your frame,
feel your feet on the old floorboards.

Have a catch up with the telly,
tell each other things you’d
rather not when we’re around.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

Cactus, you spiky sod,
sitting there all dry and prickly.

I see you, crusty cucumber with fangs,
S&M dildo, nature’s sand paper.

I see you, acting all hard,
smoking at the back of the bus
thinking water’s for the weak.

I see you, leaning towards the sun,
clearing your throat, dreaming
of grey clouds.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

Non functioning fireplace, I know how you feel mate.
All dressed up like a night full of tiles
stood static in one place with nothing to say.

Remember when you believed in Santa?
They soon put a stop to that,
stuffed your open mind with bricks
to prevent him sliding in.

They left your safety guard in front of you.
They call it decoration. I call it a temptation
to restart your burning imagination.

© Carl Burkitt 2020