When I take the bins out I imagine George Clooney
separating his card from his plastics.
I like picturing Dame Judi Dench fishing a seed
out of her back teeth with her tongue
or Samuel L. Jackson putting trainer socks on.
Do you reckon Victoria Beckham has ever
pressed 1 to speak to an operator?
I often think about Beyoncé popping a spot,
Anthony Hopkins sharpening a pencil,
Drew Barrymore changing a duvet cover
and you being here long enough
to pay your own council tax.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

I’ve been thinking a lot about what super power
I’d go for. I’m leaning towards something like
the power to remember dietary requirements,
or doing backflips, or clicking my fingers
to make mint Viennetta’s appear from thin air,
or the power to not let little things make my skin
want to burst at the seams, or carpentry,
or the ability to cut my own hair, or remembering
which cloud types are which, or knitting,
or flying over my past and fixing relationship
errors that stiffen my joints at night,
or the power to go invisible exclusively
in those moments when you put your
hand out to shake someone else’s
but they don’t spot you.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

There’s a woman at work who sings in the day.
We’re not talking De dum, hum de dum,
Today it was BAAABY, IT’S GONNA BE OKAAAY!
as she washed up a fork.
It made me think of crockery and cutlery
I’ve misused over the years.
That knife I used as a screwdriver, the teaspoon
I tested my kneecap reflexes with,
the plate I smashed over my head to impress a friend,
the salad bowl I filled with a volcano
from gone off meat, that fork my drunk fingers
used to attack my self esteem through my skin
the night everything changed.
Baby, it’s gonna be okay.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

I died last night.
It was a thwack from a bus.
The day before it was slipping off a cliff.
The day before that I choked on a fish bone.
I die most nights. Not in nightmares,
but in between the dancing luminous eye worms
from blinking too tightly at the end of a long day
or in the quicksand of supermarket decisions.
I sometimes die when I’m over the moon,
or when a stranger says more than Hello.
I’ve never made it to the end of my funeral.

© Carl Burkitt 2020