Listen to the world’s best poetry read out loud.

Well it’s not a shark as such, more the nebbish simile

Woody Allen used in Annie Hall, the one about how

Marshall McLuhan has to keep moving forward to

massage the message. Anyway the dorsal fin is frantically

stirring the pot fretting that the lobsters, squash and carrots

haven’t been chopped finely enough according to the proto-

hipster aesthetic because, would you credit it,

him with the teeth is afraid to bleed.

‘Potluck Kinfolk style’ she’d said, and he’d flapped a happy yes

not knowing what two out of those three words meant, but hey!

what did it matter? He’d seen enough Masterchefs to know you

just had to do a journey, a chocolate fondant and some Alpine

microherbs, then your life changed. Imagine the shock

when he discovered that an induction hob could be as dangerous

as a pedestal, and she wasn’t going to undo her apron for any

old Jawsy-Come-Lately brandishing Elizabeth David’s come hither

Mediterranean words. ‘Calm’ she commanded, as she swept him

onto the table, and bade him wait upon her homemade pastrami.

He looked over and tried to drool attractively. You’ve never seen

a mammal wish so fervently to tell Linnaeus to stuff himself,

become a slice of rye bread, gherkins, English mustard on the side.