My world is getting smaller,
but everyone’s in my front room.
My nephew’s on the dining table
bouncing on a trampoline.
My niece is planting cucumbers
hovering above a keyboard.
I saw an executive on the bed,
a director on the toilet, an officer by the toaster.
House parties want me to dance down a lens.
I’ve got my therapist in my ear
as I sit on my own sofa.
The faces that made me are squashed together
lying across my palm.
My world is getting smaller
and the entire universe is trying to climb in.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

Every Week Should Be Yacht Week.
Never have words on a poster,
written in the language I speak,
felt more alien to me.
What about Jogging Bottoms Week,
Feet Up On The Sofa Week
or Salt and Vinegar Pringles Week?
How about Giving It A Go Week,
Screaming Into The Void Week
or A Packet of Mini Twisters Week,
Why can’t every week be
the week before we got that phone call?

© Carl Burkitt 2020

Most mornings I scream myself awake.
It’s a full on guttural yell as my limbs remember
they have blood in them.
It’s the kind of noise a corpse would make
if you jammed jumper cables in its ribs.
I feel like roadkill when the sun comes up.
I’m chewing gum on the arse of your jeans.
I’m like the part of a pancake holding on
to a bit of peeled away non-stick magic
on my mattress frying pan.
I like looking back on how my day went at night,
it means I did it again.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

The shelves on my bookcases are bowing.
Not because they’re overstuffed with literature
but because they’re doorless wardrobes
with extra shelves screwed in.
Most days I feel like a cheap version
of the real thing struggling to do its job.
I’m a floorboard with a nail sticking out,
a washing machine with no door.
I’m a room temperature freezer, a deflated football.
I can be a fluffless rug, a toothless tiger.
I sometimes don’t drink water when I’m thirsty
because I’m in one of the rooms with no taps.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

The young boy stood
on the back of the moving pram
pointing his telescope arm diagonally to the sky
like a lookout pirate spotting danger.
He was Short John Silver of the seven-year-old seas.
His dad steered through the choppy tarmac
with black bag shipwrecks for eyes
and a heart of hidden treasure.
I was across the road, anchored to my desk.

© Carl Burkitt 2020