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

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

I’m ashamed to say
I can’t say your name.

Lur Kree You Set?
Luh Kree Uh So?
Lah Crew So?

I didn’t buy you.
You were handed down
by two hob-sized hands. 

You’re just deep enough for a dish for one,
so you’re borderline useless here.
I’m grateful for that.

© 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

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

Hello down there.
I don’t think we’ve formally met,
tiny cream bathroom pedal bin.

I’m Carl.
I’ve lived in this flat for a year now.
How have I never used you?
I guess I don’t generally have waste
in this room, except, well, you know.

You seem to have quite a dusty head.
Is that a rusty hinge?
I should check in more.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

You make me feel
like I’m scrubbing my bits on a bus.
I’m a sweaty sausage on display at a deli,
a ‘break in case of emergency’.

When my brain does that morning day dream
thing of making me pretend I’m performing
the future eulogy of a loved one, I feel like
I’m drowning in a see through coffin.

Sometimes though, watching condensation
drip down you as I sit on the loo opposite
I can remember rainy motorway trips
and the taste of raspberry travel sweets.

© Carl Burkitt 2020