“We do this [write] because the world we live in is a house on fire and the people we love are burning in it” – Sandra Cisneros

Let us say that the house is on fire and you can only take one thing with you. So you take the fire. Burning House Press is the fire you take with you. On the night of the great fire Burning House Press escaped the crackhouse and crawled into the arthouse. Burning House Press never forgot. Burning House Press speaks from the side of its mouth, all aorta aria, loudhailer lung-song. Burning House Press is the steel spine in the feral ones. Burning House Press has one leg up one leg down on its tracksuit bottoms. Burning House Press cradles a butterfly in one hand and holds a butterfly-knife in the other. Burning House Press is the scallywag intelligentsia, the council estate oracle. Burning House Press is the Blakean grain of sand that Satan cannot find. Burning House Press portrays a crow’s cadence, is courageous enough to be mystic in these days of the septic tepid optic. Burning House Press is both concrete and quotidian and conflagration vision. Burning House Press is too verbose for the stage too vandal for the page. Burning House Press is born bookworm and baudville hooligan, voodoo and vindication. Burning House Press crawled for a thousand years on hands and knees over broken glass and molten-tarmac, just to tell you a poem. Burning House Press remembers the path to the water-well, as well as the way to the ward, and we sing them both.

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