John Wilkinson


Every single one of the rest had been violated. We pressed ourselves against hide, we pressed ourselves onto a yak wool throw. I saw my ice capsule
 float in the drained blue way above and there was nothing for it. …

Posted in 56.0: EXPLODE | Tagged

The Island of Love

Vague human masks pipe out a sweet coverture. The isle is swarmed over by their bird proxies pillaging while seeming to bestow the crystal wink, all such imitation takes its aspect from nature. Chisels shape a loaf of rockwool, chipping …

Posted in 48.0: CONSTRAINT | Tagged

Circular Quay

for (but not to) Gig Ryan You heard me. Don’t pretend you didn’t. This town’s foliage corkscrews down from trees that sound a bit off. Gentles in a neat layer writhe like a pullover over what at a distance looks …

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