He felt trapped
in an odd-shaped prison
too awkward to escape.
Squashed against the sides he
pushed with his hands and feet
but nothing budged.
Except his bones.
They began moving backwards,
tightening against his skin
which remained still,
awkward to escape.

© Carl Burkitt 2017

Comparing apples to oranges

Ethan grabbed an apple and an orange
and decided to finally compare the two.

He looked at the apple. Round.

He looked at the orange. Round.

He stroked the apple. Skin.

He stroked the orange. Skin.

He smelt the apple. Sweet.

He smelt the orange. Sweet.

He crushed the apple. Mummy.

He crushed the orange. Daddy.

© Carl Burkitt 2017

Brixton Market

The traders traded funny looks
As the butcher butchered hanging his hooks.

The baker baked in the summer sun
As the barman barred folks from having fun.

The preacher preached to the already converted
As the musician mused with genres subverted.

The cyclist recycled her carrier bags
As the locals located hidden price tags.

The diners dined out on secondhand tales
As the grocer grossed out with grubby nails.

The florist floored folks with an array of colours
As the market marked its territory with a gorgeous odour.

© Carl Burkitt 2017