[The above poem is a homage to John Cage’s experimental composition, 4′ 33″. Mine’s a bit better, though, as it’s four seconds longer (but only if read at the right pace). For best results, please approach this poem from the right hand side, in a mood of sullen indifference, whilst drinking a glass of Fentiman’s Ginger Beer.]
We cried blue murder at the time.
It was a crime against humanity,
Not an act of spontaneity
From the digits of a deity.
Still, the next week, each lunchtime,
We were all doing it.
Any aerial challenge became
An opportunity for divine intervention,
With an asphalt Ascension
Into a playground pantheon
Of class-war champions
Beckoning for anyone who could
Pull off a palm of providence
With confidence.
And although our clumsy
Sleights of hand were always exposed,
Like a bungled party trick,
It didn’t stop us from trying
To create artistry out of artifice.
Clive’s a brass-knocker examiner,
A doughty door-hammerer,
Selling Wikipedia Britannica
With suburban street stamina.
He goes from door to door.
His feet feel sore and raw.
He’s just turned forty-four,
More or less (for less is more).
He’s a doorstep smash-and-grabber
A gilt-edged gift of the gabber,
He got the moves, he got the glamour,
He got more jabber than MC hammer.
To Clive there can be nothing easier
Than selling self-authored pseudo-academia,
Fifty leather-bound laptops of Wikipedia,
With a month’s free access to Virgin Media.
This
Poem
Is
Thin,
Slim,
Svelte,
Has
No
Need
To
Tighten
Its
Belt.
