And like that,
you made
a home
inside my
ventricles.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

My piss smells
of Sugar Puffs
when I’m stressed.
Or dehydrated.
I don’t drink water
when I’m stressed.
Or miserable.
I’ve been drinking
a lot of water
lately.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

If I was a cartoon the first thing I’d do
is run through a wall and leave a hole
the shape of my body behind.
I’d draw a semicircle on a skirting board
and shuffle through like a mouse.
I’d boink myself on the head with a giant anvil
off a cliff. I’d run in that way
where you furiously spin your legs on the spot
before shooting off with a squeak of trainers
and puff of smoke behind you.
I’d melt underneath a doorway.
I’d ask for the channel to be changed
and have some time alone.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

I swapped my blood for lava.
I swapped my eyes for charcoal.
I swapped my fingers for matches
and ran them across sandpaper.
I swapped my heart for a bonfire.
I swapped my anus for chilli peppers.
I swapped my sweat for kettle water.
I swapped my tongue for something.
I swapped my toes for candle wax.
I swapped my arms for something.
I swapped my hair for something
and my teeth for something else.
I swapped.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

I met a sunrise today;
she had a Sainsbury’s name badge on.
She shone behind the checkout
with a warmth reserved for family reunions.
She was a conveyor belt of charm.
She complimented my Doritos.
She asked me if I was really OK
after I told her I was OK thanks.
She cheered when she saw my Nectar Card.
She said she hadn’t seen my wife for a while
and that she must be far along by now.
I’ve never wanted to take care of myself
as much as I did when she told me to.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

Before reading a book
I flick to the back and read
the thank yous, the acknowledgements.
Before the inevitable journey
of death and struggle and grief
and pain and break ups and death
I enjoy sitting with the strangers
who helped the author through it.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

If I was a garden pea
I like to think I’d be the one who,
after falling off the plate,
would roll across the floorboards
and explore the dusty corners
underneath sofas and chest of drawers
and chat with disused tissues, lost socks
and find out what all the bugs have been up to.
But we’re never going to find that out
because I am never going to be a garden pea,
so I shall just sit here
and avoid being eaten.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

Today I was a chicken
volunteering for the oven.
I am now a spicy blush.
I am neither a yellow nor a green pepper.
I am the devil’s anus, crispy rose petals,
the tip of Thunderbird 1.
I am the bottom part of a Fab ice lolly –
one that’s been doused in petrol and set on fire
and dragged through the street by its hair
to be booed by the elders
for bringing shame upon the village.
I am a lava orgasm.
I am a pig’s ear, a Labrador’s penis.
I am a red light telling me to stop
being stupid.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

My beard hairs
spread across the pillow
like pigeon feathers
across a motorway windscreen;
the bedsheet a slow lane
screaming for a hard shoulder.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

If my skin was made of shirt
I wonder if I’d iron it.
I wonder if I’d take it off
after a day of work
or just fall asleep in it
and spray extra deodorant
over the particularly sweaty bits
the next morning.
I know I wouldn’t fix
broken buttons or frayed seams
and just let gravy live on it.
If my skin was made of shirt
I hope it would find its way to someone
who needed it when I was dead.

© Carl Burkitt 2020