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       system recovery may prove impossible. jerry
           messed with the fucking wolves and
           now his teeth are in their
           salmon flesh.

       abort his arc, it’s dipped,
           just a messed-up bundle.
           draw pixels back and lower the resolution.   
           call maurice. he’ll hand us the
           ropes to the attic, everything
           touch & balsa judgment
                                                the lot, so coy &                                               
                                                so inadequately                                             
                                                terminal. catch that                                               
                                                if you can.


            there is no instruction for the
            bottle feed. and where is jerry?
            coming into balsa i expect
            out of the long crack down to
            pulsing and deepening. he rectified
            the fridge. he calls this harmony.
            it made us soar & soar / i was
            not made for jerry, and nor were you.
            watch the stacks again, international
            orders wheel & fall from heaven
            (thank you, it means well)


                                                tell me jerry’s tale again
                                                sit me in your throat
                                                take me on your knee
                                                & tell me true,
                                                & sing to me

            his skull was global
            like a globe. he tore into
            his own skull and ripped
            the radio out with his
            nails. that was his
            reception history, he
            called it / he tore it out
            the radio, he smiled to see.
            he smiled like balsa, funny & free


            chemtrails in the air webbing
            our falling sky so lightly
                    (how you never saw him there)
            where his limbs were towed
            in a mechanism it was
            something undercooked, meat in
            a holotype, fumes & relish

                                                or the first things

                        each misprision, the procedures are to
                        format it in serif and call,
                        come dally, clot paint on the wall

            nothing like the glass
            edge under his sheets
                       (fractals, balsa & the ferns heaving)
            it shorted, his myopia was left to buffer
            haughty demeanour once in song
            roast smell of grill & expectation
            something more standard

                                                each sufficient for
                                                our beautiful connections.

                        find me in the cloud
                        make me proud
                        deliver me


            rigid forms in
            balsa & laughter like a pose

            each disco sank, we stayed.
            he made them dance like
            he was radioactive.
            jerry fought the war against the stranger.
            he betrayed a self / corners of his mouth,
            didn’t know where to begin



            o take me weak away, the sounds are sweet! i can’t
            go on lying to you, on balsa wishes & bells
            from the railway
                                     help me now? do not leave me?
            these are jerry’s testament. he loved your transparency, your

                 i knew / you were his green thunder, his centre

                    what kind of brightness in jerry’s eyes?
                    did you see was he lustrous? was he failed?
                    write it down my little lens, call me
                    lovely describe his skin. he remains
                    our comrade, more than a
                    struggle it’s a videogame. yes each
                    window is skinned by smoke. yes
                    you cannot feel my fear, so i
                    hate you for that
                                             & now shuttle
                    between what’s slow
                    & full on tunnel speed


            but eventually he
            went international
            colour & form, made it
            big on centre-stage,
            heavy & gold in his shining self
            he was reducing himself down,
            down to balsa tacks
            feverish, gently blurred

            we found him leaking fluid
            like a bin, or a category,
            or a bin

            ampersand, said jerry

Cal REVELY-CALDER is a writer, and a contributing editor at the Cambridge Humanities Review. His work, critical and creative, has also appeared in The Guardian, Literary Review, 3:AM, minor literature[s] and Blackbox Manifold. He lives outside London.

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Partner to a press called Tenement, Hotel is a publications series for new approaches to fiction, non fiction & poetry & features work from established & emerging talent. Hotel provides the space for experimental reflection on literature’s status as art & cultural mediator. 

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