The germ of existence,
the span of breath,
the joyride of being,
the counterpoint of death,
the whirligig of consciousness,
the drive of animation,
the inkblot swell of
sentience,
the blast of creation.
I'm afraid of the compound
of sun-sleep,
especially in the blanketed
public green
when all skin-stretched
silhouettes are absent.
I get the juddering spine-wrench.
I do not want to see
a twice-born form,
this is what gives me
the sharp skin prickles,
I would much prefer some
flame scorched yeast
and Huw Edwards' nightly
knowledge.
I revel in the breath
of false causation,
I am the spinning third
rock's nadir,
I will not pass under
erect tree stairways,
but fill my pocket with a fur orbed scut.
I will not shy from Duncan's Ultimatum,
un clock bound, un map bound.
Name your pin pierced
long and latitudinal patch.
A resilient cord-fall,
merely paints me with apathy's gloss.
The germ of existence,
the span of breath,
the joyride of being,
the counterpoint of death,
the whirligig of consciousness,
the drive of animation,
the inkblot swell of
sentience,
the blast of creation.
So when the auteur yells cut,
I look around the Extra-filled set
and know that I can grasp my sport-fuelled days.
Sometimes living out those sleep-screened films
is much more complicated than the script,
when what you want is
the Superman circumnavigation
in a glorious, soaring,
polymer globe.
John Canfield
