Walls have so much power.
Without them we’d realise the ridiculousness
of the fact, once a day, on average, most people
have a shit mere inches away
from a colleague / stranger / boss / potential friend.
When I’m in a hotel I smile at how many people
are definitely having sex above, below and next to me.
And then I don’t sleep thinking about the likelihood
of being adjacent to a murder.
If walls could talk, I don’t think they would,
like a toddler who’s seen so much
they don’t know where to start.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

I have blobs on my skin that have no pigment,
mainly on my hands and a few dots
up my arms and legs.
My limbs are like a painter’s palette,
if the painter only painted
rented accommodation in magnolia,
or the occasional ivory when feeling fancy.
There’s one paper white patch
around my right eye slowly growing bigger.
I’m half a panda from Opposite Land.
A negative pirate.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

My belt is cow leather, as is my wallet.
I got them before becoming a vegetarian.
Throwing them away feels like
binning a ham sandwich made by a forgetful Nan.
I’ve never worn fox fur scarves,
leopard patterned trousers or snake skin shoes.
I struggle enough wearing my own skin.
If someone peeled off my top layer,
I’d make a pretty good waterproof dressing gown
for an average sized person looking
for a bloody hug.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

I enjoy washing the dishes.
I pretend the tablespoons are battleships
and that I’m giving my hands a bubble bath.
I don’t, but I might next time.
I pretend the plates are my babies
and I’m cleaning a weekend adventure off them.
I don’t, but I might next time.
I like that it forces me to be on my own for a while.
I like that it slows me down, makes me feel useful.
I look out at the bus stop opposite my flat while I scrub
and wonder if the combination of a waist-high
windowsill and a first floor kitchen
makes it look like I’m masturbating to passersby.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

There’s a spiral in my fingerprint that I get lost in.
It’s like something from a Geography textbook.
The middle is thin and intricate
then expands into controlled chaos.
When I think about everywhere I’ve left it
I get a little overwhelmed:
car door handles, ice lolly sticks, eggshells,
the side of my temples, Christmas crackers,
funeral order of services, dog poo bags.
It sits near the tip of my left hand’s ring finger.
That one gets all the stories.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

When asked what animal I would be
I tend to opt for a giraffe.
I’m pretty tall, thin-limbed and knobbly-kneed.
I have patchy skin, sticky-out ears,
small tufts of hair and I like leaves.
Poking my massive tongue out is fun too.
There have been days I’ve felt more like a pig,
or a butterfly that can taste everything it walks on.
Sometimes I’m a shrimp with its heart in its head.
It’d be nice to hibernate for 17 years like a cicadas.
I once felt like a cute little mouse.
But deep down I know
I’m going to be startled to death like a chicken.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

Imagine if your reflection was independent,
just hanging out behind the mirror,
swooning, taking chances, eating coconuts,
making different mistakes, upsetting different people,
living the life you were too scared to live.
Would you try and kiss it? I probably would.
It’s embarrassing to say, but I’d love to really
know what kind of a kisser I am.
My reflection looks like a selfish lover
and far less nervous than I feel.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

On the packed platform at Vauxhall train station
everyone was looking at me. Absolutely everyone.
My perturbed pupils surveyed the scene I was the star of.
The metal teeth in front of my penis were zipped up,
I was shoulder free of bird bum Tipp-Ex, my moustache
was by no means milked up and not a single bean juice blob
sat on my grey hoodie. Nothing.
But still the anoraked man frowned at my face,
the latte-handed lady tutted at my hair,
the front page Metro celebs judged my tummy.
I turned and rushed away from underneath
the departures board, terribly insecure.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

If the extra 24 hours of a leap year
got spread out across the month of February,
I wonder how we would use them each day.
Maybe we’d look at the shape of clouds a little longer,
take that slight lie in we always want on a week day.
Perhaps we wouldn’t tut when the bus was a minute late
or we’d take daily steps to repair relationships.
We could start that hobby, read that book,
bake that cake, try speaking kindly to ourselves.
If I had an extra hour every day I would probably
read through my Gmail’s ‘Social’ and ‘Promotion’ tabs.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

We have over 60,000 thoughts a day. Peaches.
Did I leave the gas on? What’s she looking at?
What’s he looking at? I don’t have a gas oven.
Apples. Shit shoes. Graeme had nice cheeks.
Sausages. I want a Mars Bar. When did it last snow?
Parkour! Bananarama. My back hurts.
Jim’s forks feel right in my hands. Bacon.
Look left. Look right. Pigeon eggs? Dust is skin.
Last night a DJ saved my life. Cherry yogurt.
I wonder if Scott liked the dumplings. Mini discs.
My name is almost car. Toy Story. Pigs.
Will my baby be able to roll its tongue?
Mmmm Danone.

© Carl Burkitt 2020