I’m having a beer with her.
I’ve got a fragrant pale ale,
she’s nailing stout after stout.
She won’t stop talking about her grandchildren
In the wrong light I confuse her
for Gordon Ramsey but she only swears
when I mention Pat Butcher.
© Carl Burkitt 2021
Great question, sir. Follow me.
Here you go: where Shakespeare ends
poetry begins. That goes for our shelves
and for my views on Shakespeare.
Good day to you. And off he bounces,
his knees clicking like the top of a critics’s pen.
The tassels on his fluorescent yellow and green
face mask dance like they want me to follow.
He fires a finger gun at a colleague
organising the self help section
who raises a thumb that has seen better days.
© Carl Burkitt 2021
There are two red onions
next to a grapefruit
in a fruit bowl
in the living room.
I am the banana
in the background,
unsure how to rest.
© Carl Burkitt 2021
You are strapped in,
facing the wrong way.
You can’t speak the language.
You don’t know where you’re going.
We’ve done all we can for you.
The hardest part must be knowing
one day you will be able
to get out and do what you like,
but not tonight.
Tonight, you must submit
to the white noise of cars
overtaking us,
breaking the speed limit.
© Carl Burkitt 2021
As kids we would sit and guess
who was coming down the stairs
by the creaks of the floorboards.
It became second nature.
We’d know if we needed to hide
what we were doing
or if we could get away with it.
When I walk into my son’s room
in the morning his face is the partner
of the inventor of the door,
blown away by the reveal.
© Carl Burkitt 2021
He is the bloke who uses different tongs
to flip the vegetarian burgers from the meat,
the woman who lets strangers
have some of the eggs from her chickens,
the charity shop that lets you stay
a few minutes after closing
so you can triple check the size of those trainers,
the lampposts in the dark corners,
the
the passerby offering directions,
the leaves that fall
and keep coming back.
© Carl Burkitt 2021
You curl your toes
like you’re holding on
to the world.
© Carl Burkitt 2021
Written using sentences found by searching
for ‘tenner’ in my WhatsApp search bar
I can’t tell you how tense I am.
The tension is pointless.
I tend to cry once a day.
© Carl Burkitt 2021
Gordon Ramsay is in a helicopter
talking about how fucking gigantic
he heard the mangoes are below him.
Watching him run
out of the door, crouching
way more than he needs to
beneath the spinning propellers
reminds me to look after myself.
© Carl Burkitt 2021
The trees
and cows
and skiers
and cabins
and chefs
and minutes
and days
and thoughts
and this
and that
and them
and oh
my goodness.
© Carl Burkitt 2021
