Giddy Touch - Michelle Palmer

I walk through grey hayfields the clouds flitter and mutter

into long silent sentences made up not understood my

unhappy truths were many but what have I learned by the

gloating playing harp they still weep on and play.

havoc like when I was a teenager on a happy high they lie deep in the

grey ebbing scenes of time and propriote at my thawing sigh

the same catching remedy they hide behind the dirty head

quarters and sniff your life out as if you were a bad choice

like the heavy thawing night they breeze past trying to latch

on to some small life the past experiences they find your

odour hidden on my deep seduced mouth the pores of my

senses hide these impossible conquests’ the face brutally

cold and grey with nocturnal fetchers.

stretching far deep away from the cushions which control my

tormented cry they hide the continual contact away from my past mislead

communication resulting in a muted complaint exploding

over a life time of regret the turmoil flutters through the hast

din at night dizzily recurring through a threatened dream you

crushed my realm of existence and pattered through my

prehistoric failings they flew the bare imagination of ruined

images and bad dealings phase through my past life’s learnt

patterns are not repeated they claw through the blind.


boarders of love retort and mulling on my upper cool lip the

sore sting of sour grey natural numbers which play on my

memory radar in my mind they camouflage my new start

and snip my portion of happiness was in your wisp it cools

and glows on your upper lip and bit like a bee on my thawed

chilled weeping wrist the voice controlled my pace of heavy

mind set was on. your centre calling my sweet all heavy


headed teasing the blind in your admired love a companion

to me you drove a deal for a raw union around a sharp cruel

word you used the sound of red eights claw through my

mind set and blood pools of roses laying still in my mind

worshipping the mill that wore you away was a past temporary

meal to a platonic end cupping my lip with excitement

was your prickling touch.



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