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BURNING HOUSE PRESS

Not For Profit/For Prophecy

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joanpopejoan

The Song of Sex, by Arthur David Spota

The part of me that speaks, the part that obeys
Two chambers evolved from the annulled flashes of the Fall of Man
The soul divided
Swallowed by Hades and released from Pandora’s box,
A bicameral chasm in whose stream I am in want of understanding,
   in whose dream life and death reflect the infinite.

In the song of sex desire implodes, decimated by numbers representing
   Eros in his transmutation:

The number 2, Himeros and his sirens poised above lovers exquisitely
   born from the rhythm of an infallible truth   

and 7, a point of light revealing impressions of the Thanatos apparition:

The Temporal Spirit

The Other

The Conflicted Duad

The days flow like Mayan vibration without the grace of pleasure
    or the wisdom of prophecy.
The essence of my thought feasts on the demeanor of death
My lineage traipsing a fold in transmission, and without pause,
   actualizing conception.
Riddled by the vileness of cadenced blood, Karma takes to the air
    but never speaks of the wind or whispers
    to the scattered hallowed lands. 

Its ascension, an appropriation of desire unraveling in the object desire:
A temple of opium flesh that has returned from a past life less spent
    coloring the veils of the daughters of a lost Horus elemental.
They come by night from the thighs of spirit;
from the line of dream melded to the shadowless woman’s breast;
from occult spells draped across deflowered contracted continents. Continue reading “The Song of Sex, by Arthur David Spota”

The Dark Age of Aquarius, by Rachel Haywire

New era rising

New species forming

Death on the streets

Life underground

Mass quarantine

Virus spreading

Misinformation as plague

Plague as tragedy

Tragedy as farce another farce another farce but this is real

This is real the people say

Hyperreal

Global warfare

Lock up your opinions

Redefine your ego but pretend it’s not there

It’s the Dark Age of Aquarius Continue reading “The Dark Age of Aquarius, by Rachel Haywire”

On Forgetting the Frustrations of Cages, by Willow Zef

Continue reading “On Forgetting the Frustrations of Cages, by Willow Zef”

Ode to Violence, by Antonius Wilhelm

The light came from nowhere and went nowhere,

Glorious white washed away every color

Annihilating the monotonous blue from the sky

Momentary blindness,

Then darkness spread its wings

And shrouded the world in night

 

Past and future

And the universe behind my eyes,

All which once was dark

Shall be penetrated by unfiltered light,

The Chariot arrives

Pulled by the horizon, Continue reading “Ode to Violence, by Antonius Wilhelm”

Burnt Flowers Fallen: Sex, Death and Postmodern Re-Sanctification of the Feminine in Ana Mendieta’s Silueta Series (1973–1980), by Giovanni Pennacchietti

In the contemporary art world, it is apparent that art suffers from a perpetual crisis of meaning. Since the collapse of great cultural signifiers, the role of the artist is no longer seen as being at the forefront of revealing truth or informing culture. Rather, artists are the ones rummaging among the ruins, picking at and scavenging dead cultural signifiers, or kicking them aside to pursue a course of pure unencumbered self-exploration, only one that is stultified and cemented-in by reified identity-categories; but to what end or final terminal point does art itself reach when the symbols shatter? It is a certain attribute of the postmodern age that art, from its creation, display and execution, is anything at all which can be seen through the aesthetic lens. If art is everything then (like Arthur Danto suggestion) it is simultaneous nothing. So where does this leave the questions that drive headlong into the heart of existence itself, such as the nature of death, love, sexuality and metaphysics? 

In spite of the denials and scoffing of the dower, cynical and chic nihilist art world, that metaphysical element of existence itself is the linchpin from which we can even think about the two primarily lurid fascinations contemporary art is fixated on, that being sexuality and death. So why is metaphysics, the ecstasies and haecceities of religion, the terrible and precarious beauty of belief in the wake of the absolute so glaringly absent in contemporary art?  Perhaps the spiritual never left the art world, but was forced to take on numerous, inverted and even covert forms. it is also apparent that the nature of the Feminine itself is also another subject of obsession in the work of art, which brings us to our main topic of exploration, the once forgotten (but recently revived) works of Ana Mendieta; Cuban born performance, sculpture and instillation artist who worked in Iowa and then New York (till her tragic, untimely and notorious end allegedly at the hands of her artist husband Carl Andre), Mendieta embodied the postmodern artist at once in search of not only identity and expressions of the feminine, but the ritualistic and mystical. Hence Through a review of her famed Silueta or “silhouette” series, we shall discover a deep aesthetic meditation on not only sex and death, but a revival of the spiritual in postmodern art. We shall also cautiously venture away from the insipid and ubiquitous interpretation of her work through the lens of contemporary identity politics, and instead focus squarely on the spiritual elements of her oeuvre. Continue reading “Burnt Flowers Fallen: Sex, Death and Postmodern Re-Sanctification of the Feminine in Ana Mendieta’s Silueta Series (1973–1980), by Giovanni Pennacchietti”

Fire, Water, Ghost, by Sarah Neilson

Shh, stop. Morality is about stopping yourself, I can’t hide behind a golden mask and say I’m from New Orleans, a hurricane could come tomorrow or your California could burn, we’re spectacularly doomed, kiss me, what’s the point of not

The whole planet is rupturing rapturously, glaciers are water and summer is snow, rain comes with no rhythm, wildfires go at random, a game we’re playing now, with nature showing us who will always win. Did lay out highways endlessly stretching like a vulva giving birth did it make us happy to be always giving birth to something new and something fast and something chrome and something fast did it make us happy to show the trees that this planet belonged to us? Yes, power made us happy, isn’t that what killed us, all this happy, so much happy that we couldn’t stop?

We could turn off the air conditioners, learn to love the water’s temperature and keep it clear. We could turn off the heaters, warm up close to one another. We could turn off everything, we could stop. Love is knowing when to stop.

I want to look at you but I like your eyes hot on my back. When I know you’re ready to beg me for relief, I turn.

“Did you miss me?” you ask, a crack in your voice.

“It doesn’t really work like that.”

“But we can still…” you start.

“Don’t guess any of it,” I tell you. “Don’t wonder, don’t imagine, just…”

“How much time do you have?” Continue reading “Fire, Water, Ghost, by Sarah Neilson”

The 36 Questions that Lead to Love, with No Apologies to The New York Times, by Marnie Ritchie

 

  1. How do you want to die?
  2. Would you like it to be by poison?
  3. Sudden or drawn-out?
  4. Underexposed in the night or overexposed in the sun?
  5. By someone you know or a stranger?
  6. As men around you chant “witch”?
  7. By using a neoliberal newspaper as kindling or…?
  8. Why am I asking you?
  9. Who has say in their own death?
  10. Isn’t that why we joke about cats eating our faces?
  11. Am I making sense?
  12. Do you think bees find their own buzzing calming?
  13. How would you feel about dying mid-flight like a bee?
  14. Will you be around to experience your death?
  15. Would you feel your tiny bee body hit the ground?
  16. What is your most terrible memory?
  17. Did I say something wrong?
  18. What does the snap of a dandelion stem sound like to you?
  19. Do you have a fetish?
  20. Are you sure you want to answer?
  21. Is this too soon?
  22. How do acorn trees mourn the offspring that don’t become trees?
  23. Do you like when people say allergies are an effect of “tree horniness”?
  24. Do you have a secret hunch about how you will die?
  25. Am I talking about death again?
  26. Where are the softest parts of your body?
  27. Do you find yourself touching them?
  28. Do you say anything to them late at night in the dark?
  29. Where do you feel safe?
  30. Has the feeling of tree bark ever recalled some other life?
  31. Have you welcomed love in, when it presented its terrifying silhouette to you?
  32. Have you ever told a lie so strong to yourself, you still think it’s true?
  33. Is this why Alain Badiou calls love a “truth procedure”?
  34. What?
  35. Why?
  36. Is this about coming to the truth or groping around for an end that never, strictly speaking, arrives?

Continue reading “The 36 Questions that Lead to Love, with No Apologies to The New York Times, by Marnie Ritchie”

photography by Brian Sheehan

LGRDMN_Domina-Mortem

Domina Mortem
Photography, 2018

Continue reading “photography by Brian Sheehan”

three poems by Belén Berlín

Other – Side – Ocean

The question mark descends on my shoulders
its sensual geometry unfolds like smoke,
it reveals when I don’t look at it
and simply listens,
it hunts me and then disappears.
It seems that I’m living the life of the Other
and I can’t get out of their dreams.
I play to break the spell
and I barely scratch my hands,
I’m left voiceless.
The dream repeats itself:
I wake up
inside the pupil that holds the ocean
and the spiral curls up again.
But I’m still living the life of the Other
and even though I put myself aside,
this Life is going faster than me,
passing sideways, my hair disheveled,
my dress coming undone
leaving me on the edge of the void.
I’m still living the life of the Other
and I can’t get out of their dreams
I learn to resist by obligation,
dressing up as a person to navigate the uncertainty
but the void just stares back at me
the spiral curls up a bit more
and this drop just won’t fall on my forehead.
I’m living the life of the Other
and I can’t get out of their dreams.

May 2019
Translated by the author and reviewed by Mad Pirvan, Alicia Macanás and James Hornsey


Continue reading “three poems by Belén Berlín”

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