tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-110449672009-10-30T12:23:17.029-07:00Chris Hutchinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07800856081565373260hutchinson_chris@hotmail.comBlogger5125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11044967.post-60848060051528929642008-12-18T23:53:00.000-08:002009-08-24T00:12:39.375-07:00

Chris Hutchinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07800856081565373260hutchinson_chris@hotmail.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11044967.post-51580858094078082472008-05-23T04:14:00.000-07:002009-06-17T22:30:11.243-07:00

Day appears through a sieve of dust, through a maelstrom of institutional schemes and designs, as other people’s lives kaleidoscope, a whirlwind of butterflies, photogenic as a nation-state, perpetually childlike—Night appears throughtear-translucent glass, through insinuations of blue and the spiritless quality of ice, as other people’s lives glitter and slip, beads of mercury beneath your

Chris Hutchinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07800856081565373260hutchinson_chris@hotmail.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11044967.post-41423167870655840262008-05-23T04:12:00.000-07:002009-06-17T22:26:18.885-07:00

I’d rather reflect the sleep of twenty castle-shaped clouds—quiet as an unplanted garden,a belief saddening in the saddest of times,clutching the wine cup without letting a single telltale drop insinuate itself like a crystal of aluminium oxide slipping down the peacock’s effulgent throat. In my worst moments alone:eucalyptus diving in-to the green lake of itself, cricket at night cheeping

Chris Hutchinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07800856081565373260hutchinson_chris@hotmail.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11044967.post-27070264333081356282008-03-16T22:50:00.000-07:002009-06-17T22:27:54.117-07:00

Serving spoon or funhouse mirror—so enamoured with the tool you sometimes forget its function: gramophone or satellite dish, anything machined, moulded, made: whatever lasts, not the object but its task: what you see, not always exactly what you get: slide trombone or shotgun barrel, this place where uncertainty breeds potential, where appearances lay their traps: polyamorous as a flower,

Chris Hutchinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07800856081565373260hutchinson_chris@hotmail.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11044967.post-88434867895630054672008-03-16T22:48:00.000-07:002009-06-17T22:29:48.441-07:00

Hello sodium-lit street. Complicating rain. Bicycling wind. Gyratory wind-sexed rain. Hello reflective pools. Ripples flexed like bowstrings. Ancient cavalcades of mist escaping streets known only to those travellers the cold has led astray. Hello wolf-coloured smoke, guarding the entranceways, marking the unseen exits with your scent. I am the mazethat greets you, the cold that turns you by the

Chris Hutchinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07800856081565373260hutchinson_chris@hotmail.com0