peter jerrim

how evidence can mash, be mushed, hugged, handballed
and its message dangled close to hope
that a colour coded in a cooler for release much later
can cause that tingle down the spine
but on demand, just say the word, or better still
a raison d’être for a beiger world
how why wonder what the frantic
colour coded comfort station
orbitting reveals
Pythagorean exactitudes
I hear your harp your heart in multitudes

‘that way the doctor find me that way’
you could find me if you love
I am exactly what you ordered
my intent is pure you’re sure sure sure
I’m sure sure sure sure sure sure shore

and wheeling over the mess of all your eye
stations
print
examples
for future
generations
practically it’s nothing
to write home about
assuming backward flowing words could land
in chatlines songs in flumes spume
and wholesome widows moleskins feel

blindly over landscapes almost here
practically its nothing but nothing’s here for sure
I think there’s nothing that’s been heard, felt,

seen before