Articles Available Online

https://soundcloudcom/user-856373367/david-hawkins-field-recording/s-oqrsd2iveh1   FIELD RECORDING   When you record the air, its soundings go boneward    A small, ear-sized mushroom collapses upwards into    a state of pure colour and to draw it with sounds    then becoming words is an amiable task A ladybird    lands on your sleeve: it smells brightly,    orange-tipped emulsion, chewing noise until listening pauses: aural history is an opening skull, huge weathered stones left by ancestors    are a broken eminence Could we be its fontanelle?    As a slender membrane sinks like a trampoline    through the filleted sky, so the ear grows into the ground    at the speed of slow echo We want to exist    like humpback whales, let our song gather itself    around the whole world and return the same notes    yet somehow changed by the timbres of distance,    but that sheer blue crow feinting on its updraft    is a new distraction picked from a bucket    of luminous seeds and fungi Before you pack the gear away    please mention the grass growing and the gentle blush    teeming in your cheeks, the near swoop of an eyebrow   https://soundcloudcom/user-856373367/david-hawkins-roadkill-redacted/s-LXwjkvo1TKM   ROADKILL REDACTED   It’s true that I’m the slightly bloated carcase of a young roe deer sprangled on the edge of the central reservation Like something in amber, my legs are a tangled glyph, my face flayed by insects, as traffic iterates and reiterates its sane and modal realism A million flies have drunk from my fraying tear ducts Neutral voids, my eyes; where small nightmares well up and print themselves on tarmac in an abacus of