Tuesday 18 June 2013

Life

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

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