I must confess,
I love stuffing a sausage in you
carefree.

But perhaps it’s about time
I got on my knees,
poked my head around,
got elbow deep
and gave you what for.

You are filthy.

(Don’t get me started on your dirty ring.)

© Carl Burkitt 2020

Lap tray.
Weyhey!
Saviour of jeans.
Gravy blocker for the knees.
You are our baked bean wicket keeper,
our graveyard of stains.
A thousand tea time stories
splashed across your face,
you are a buffet of the past.
A dribbling artist’s finest work.
Morning, noon and night
you do great holding a plate
for my ring-finger room mate
and every one
of her glorious cutlery mistakes.
Lap tray.
Weyhey!

© Carl Burkitt 2020

You’ve been built a bit premature.
A future alarm clock
poised in the corner of the room.

A friend of a friend
says he hears phantom screams
when he stays in hotel rooms.

My hangover won’t stop crying.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

You’re a peculiar looking bugger.
I wouldn’t put a penny on you at the Grand National.
You couldn’t handle a jockey’s weight.
The good news is, when I’m forced
to put you down, I can pull you up again.

You’d be lost in a motorway-side field.
Drivers would certainly stop and stare.

I’m still not used to seeing
bras and pants draped over you
like a wiry blue Tom Jones.

I’m excited to see you try on socks
a hundred times too small for you.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

You’re two feet long and nailed down.
You’re a hello hostage forced to small talk
with every shoe, flip flop and wellie.

Nice weather for ducks
I hear you cry
after rainy forest walks.

You hold on to shit for weeks,

struggle to brush off daily swipes
from the arrogant door
flapping its oily gums.

You sit and listen,
sharpening your bristles.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

That morning the sun was out in a way
it made London look like it had just been born.
All stranger smiles and movie vibes.
My feet were gentle springs on pavement.

Walking towards the studio to make you
my palms were Patrick Swayze,
my ears were my best friend Whoopi Goldberg.
I was as light as a ghost, baby.

But when our hands touched I didn’t understand.
My thumbs were stab wounds,
my fingers broken car crash bones.
You were a sloppy corpse, drunk in the afternoon.
London died.

The bowl looked alright though.
I sometimes use it for olives.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

I’ve never felt more embarrassed.
Steam was coming out of my ears.

It was the day I completely lost control
of what I do and why I do it.
Life was a meta spiral
of my brain not knowing who it was.

You loved it.

You stood all proud,
your squeaky hinges giggling
as I opened the packaging
and used you to iron
a brand new iron board cover.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

Kitchen cork notice board,
you hang out by the fridge door
clinging on to varied chaos.

You’re all out of date Big Mac vouchers, garish third place rosettes, free Boots eye tests.

You’re Christmas at Morden Hall brochures,
a sweaty festival wristband, the yawns
of business cards from conference rooms.

You’re weekly reminders of which bin’s next,
unattended Spring 2019 Art Exhibition leaflets.
You’re pictures of inside the universe,
a scanned network of nerves ready to dance.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

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