a stack of unread books smiling patiently,
pink lady apples dropping seeds
to sprout toffee apple trees,
double-glazed eyeballs,
dust that whispers Thanks for the ride,
ears that absorb pain
and do not know the word advice.
© Carl Burkitt 2021
Game 1: Think of the name of a new planet and take a minute or two to jot down a few descriptions of what the place looks like.
Game 2: You have been declared president! Write your manifesto for the new planet’s future.
for a mint flavoured pond,
37 degree palms
gently around my neck,
a red spatula to talk to,
silver beads leading
to a disc-shaped protector of fun,
twisty wrists
sending my beak below the tide,
skin untouched by unhelpful comments.
© Carl Burkitt 2021
Game 1: You are a rubber duck.
Game 2: You are a rubber duck that is no longer used.
Game 3: Write a poem about your old life.
a wardrobe of floral shirts,
a fake love of toffee vodka,
football boots held together with masking tape,
a Welsh telephone box filled with urine,
a moped driven into the sun,
a foggy three year trip to the seaside,
a dinner plate across the head,
floor nuts, a small joint of beef,
800 BMX rides up a hill with no peak,
a wooden beam and a spotless house,
phone calls, phone calls, phone calls,
the opening of a creaky hinge of a closed mind,
pop-up restaurants, softball bats,
a star falling through a river, time, ears,
a melting urge of tingling skin,
an inevitability wrapped in metal rings.
© Carl Burkitt 2021
Game 1: Think of someone you haven’t spoken to since school.
Game 2: Take 9 minutes to write a poem explaining everything you’ve been up to since you last saw each other and chuck in two or three memories from back in the day with them. Be sure to exaggerate with wild metaphors that only you two understand.
Take another look, it’s only me:
the one with Pringle tube legs,
former pepperoni nipples
and Renault building
sized sweat patches.
Listen closely and you’ll hear
Status Quo while I undress
and car horns beeping their way
around my magic roundabout eyes.
My kneecaps are the number 16 bus
and my dandruff drops
like that supply teacher
who stacked it while leaning
on a pile of German dictionaries.
© Carl Burkitt 2021
Game 1: Grab a scrap of paper and rename 5-10 of your body parts with names of animals you like and countries you’ve visited and food you love and household objects you own and celebrities you trust and music you dance to. (Do more if you like/can!)
Game 2: Include those descriptions in a 10 line (or more) poem in which you have to try and convince a loved one you are you.
The teenager melts out of me
to the sound of right clicks
and broken spreadsheet formulas.
There’s a thirsty cactus on my desk,
Post-It Notes with Don’t Forget
and a complimentary calendar from a company
called PRINT THINGS or INSTANT STUFF.
My trousers embrace the chaos.
Today, my son sneezed on some grass
without putting his hand to his mouth.
The snot stretched out
like a gap year of mistakes.
I waited a while before cleaning it up
to watch it experience the outside.
© Carl Burkitt 2021
Carl tells tales 