I’ve never met anything as beige as you
have so many interesting angles.

Sandy flip flops, puddle-jumped wellies,
rush hour-shoes, weekend muddy walking boots,
you’ve seen so much and keep going.

You are creakless.
Whatever weight gets placed on your shoulders
you don’t make a sound.

You are an open invitation to murderers.

© Carl Burkitt 2020


If these magnolia walls could talk
the living room would recite the plot
of How To Get Away With Murder.

The kitchen would explain every
gravy brown, egg yellow, ketchup red
splash across its encouraging face.

The porch would try to be cool and say
Nah, don’t worry, leave your shoes on.

The bathroom would gossip
about fingers poking through toilet paper,

hair being tied back and wee wee on sticks.

The bedroom better keep its mouth shut.

© Carl Burkitt 2020


You don’t so much build up my muscles,
rather collect the dust of my dead skin.

Whenever I move in to a new top floor flat
I feel stupid for buying you,
then I remember I’m not the one
with dumb in my name.

God you’re idiots. You could be in
the Guinness Book of Records
for the most pointless set of twins.
At least you have each other.

© Carl Burkitt 2020


Microwave, I live for your ding.
You sound like an action film
when you’ve got popcorn in.
I love how you bring forgotten tea
back to life.

Every now and then your warm light hum
spins me back to Grandpi’s sofa
as he wide-eye giggles his way
through the story of him and Grandma

getting dressed up in their finest garb
to pop down the Moonraker’s pub to watch
Swindon’s first ever microwave
cook a shepherd’s pie.

It took 40 minutes.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

Bath mat

Every time I step on you,
water trickling from parts unknown
down squeaky clean quads
and lime-scented calves,
I wish I could return the favour.

I wish I could lie all dry
staring up at your fluffy stuff, desperate.
Desperate to be useful.
Desperate to feel your heels
dig in to my chest until one of us whispers,
See you tomorrow, filthy bastard.

© Carl Burkitt 2020


You hang outrageously on my living room
wall bigger than a king-size mattress.
No joke, you’re an absolute unit.
I can feel you daring me to fill you.

You swallow everything in sight
and when the light gets gobbled up
it’s like we’re living in a mansion.
But we’re not. God you’re imposing.

You’re like one of those two-way mirrors on
Inspector Morse, or something more modern.
There I am, just sat on the sofa being asked
what I want for dinner by good cop
as bad cop waits inside you desperate
to smash my face into a plate of gravy.

© Carl Burkitt 2020


TV, can you see me?
You’re always holding court
telling stories,
when will you sit and listen?

Sometimes you’re a laugh,
but you can be a little horror.
More often than not
you’re full of drama.

When things get dark I watch my flat in you,
the main character perpetually deciding
whether or not to finish the share bag.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

Coffee table

Slippers filled with football socks,
extra cheese deep pan stuffed crust,
Pringle smeared PlayStation controller,
I’ve never put a single mug of coffee on you.

An inch thick unticked to do list,
fallen egg yolk from my overwhelmed beard,
a laptop full of unanswered emails,
I’ve never put a single mug of coffee on you.

Elbows propping up my soaking face,
the jigsaw made of Christmas dogs,
your tiny hand resting on my bruised paw,
I’ve never put a single mug of coffee on you.

© Carl Burkitt 2020


Duvet, you’re pretty smooth hey?
I fall for you every night.
You barely say a word
but I can’t resist the way you lie
with me.

My feet stick out the end of you
but you never mention it.
You focus on my torso, wrap tight,
work up a sweat.

We’re not good at goodbyes.
When the sun comes and ruins our fun
you whisper words of encouragement,
and promises of more of the same later.

© Carl Burkitt 2020