Each "book" in Wilkinson's collection is like a shelf of a curio presenting bits and pieces on the verge of the nonsensical. There's a childlike quality to the tone - almost like children from antiquity whispering in the dark about codified secrets, not revealing the entire story.
There's also a strangely unfinished, dreamlike quality to the imagery that arises from phrases like "The wind too will eat the scars from your face." Whose face? What kind of scars? How did they get the scars?
I find that the poetry did not (nor do I think that it was meant to) elaborate on any issues or current events or make any grandiose statements.
That, to me, is wonderfully refreshing.
Beautifully and hauntingly imaginative, not everyone can appreciate poetry like this. It's not supposed to make sense necessarily. There's something more (like surrealist paintings). There's a world depicted, but that world is not governed by the laws we adopt and live by.
eBook The Book of Whispering in the Projection Booth