Script for an imaginary short

(Rain, dark, town: zoom to easelled-blackboard outside 19th century municipal building. The rain has made the chalk run: 'Slam Dunk: New Poets Perform' is still legible, just. Tracking shot into the hall, for that’s what it is. Pan crowd, zoom critics’ aisle seats.
There are three in attendance. Two middle-aged men and a 30-ish woman.. The hall itself is half-full; a few Goths, some young adults, teachers maybe and yes, the odd residentially-challenged figure sheltering from the rain.)

Male Critic 1 :
Have you heard?
It's 'Something New'
I don’t believe it,
what about you?

Male Critic 2:
Why so secret?
No one knows
no Hay-on Wye,
or Edinburgh shows

Male Critic 1:
Who is this guy?
Does anyone know?

Female Critic:
I heard he’s from Poland
or from Kazakhstan
rumours of language new to man.

(Slow zoom to centre stage still in darkness: a single spot snaps on. A scruffy man is lit: Straw blond hair, clownish make up: a harlequin like rugby shirt hangs on him like a dress. He appears to be wearing just one leg of two pairs of highly contrasting coloured opaque tights. And Wellington boots. What could be straw pokes out of the tops. His mouth remains closed. Camera moves to tight close-up. His mouth is a hair-thin, straight line under the make-up. Zoom out to show lone figure in spotlight. He remains motionless, silent.)

Voice over:
Sticks like stones
comprise my bones
your words will never hurt me

the clothes I wear
with a motley tear
will help you not to judge me

the critical crows
will turn their nose
however good my verse be

standing silent
your minds go strident
as you try to understand me….

(5 second camera-linger on the figure on stage. He is still motionless, silent. Cut to crowd. Puzzled looks. Knowing looks between the critics. Cut to the scarecrow figure. He gives a formal and deep bow. Cut to the critics.)

Male Critic 1:
Brilliant, what we’ve seen.
Stuff like this there’s never been.

Male Critic 2:
Yes, wow, the new rage,
I think we’ve found poetry’s Cage.

Female Critic:
Quick! Stand, applaud and clap.
Let him see we know it’s not crap.

(Critics stand, ovate, crowd follow suit, some a little reluctantly.Cut to figure: tight close-up on 'poet's' face, smile slowly spreads… zoom out to full figure in the spotlight. Seemingly from nowhere he pulls out a large scroll, he unfurls it, words out to the crowd. It reads:

‘Poetry’s New Clothes’.