Touch (March)

Touch on. Weather maps, impulsive snaps, mindbending apps. I hold the universe in my palm. Electrical onions, eternal origins, everyone’s opinions. But who am I? Conversations in a cloud. There’s one in every crowd. Images of flowers, touching. Streets stream with downloaded heads. But if touch is lost, what then? The world closed down, overnight. The bad dream where I forget all my lines at rehearsal. A million redundant oblongs. Streets of upright heads. How proud the trees of March. My screensaver of the Fitzroy Gardens, vanished. Out of touch and out of my mind. Somewhat touched in the head.

Touch (April)

Nerve ends read our universe. Oxford philosophers write whole books, but favoured themes don’t touch on the finer sensations of April rain. Skin keeps cataloguing hard and soft. They delight more in deception than truth. Books feel like paper, but what about blindfold? Stanford scientists have a firm grasp of surface: metal grain, flush of fittings. Their imprint’s felt all over computers. Vienna psychologists stress effect. Is touch crystallizing, impatient? While Sorbonne poets leave us sensing, this could last a lifetime. They compare fire to planetary flowers, ice to the end of knowledge. Their charming deceptions are often spoken of.