Continue reading “James Mansfield: The destruction of a British museum”
Four photographs by Jefferson J.W. Wayne
These four photos were taken while Jefferson was working along the Houston, Texas ship channel and are apart of a collection he’s building to present along with prose under the title As Dawn Breaks Over the Cancer Factory. As an industrial firefighter and process operator he is privy to these sights every day. They are an attempt to showcase the current future of industry as it moves forward to its slow death in the world.
Karissa Lang’s series of manipulated photographs, “I Was Here,” presents snap-shots of hazy memories from her own childhood in which she is the absent protagonist. Lang replaces the index of her physical body with some of the classic obscuring aesthetics of the photographic medium, namely, over-exposure and darkness. The eerie glow emanating from her face represents an inward movement associated with time-travel, as pieces of memories are reconstructed with her true sense of identity missing at the core. In other areas, her body is blacked out into a type of flattened silhouette, another indication of the gap that separates these family records from her physical body and memory.
Cousins Continue reading “Altered Photography by Karissa Lang”
(Photographs by Paul Cunningham)
THE WORD IS REFLECTED
there are many storefronts in this mall
and there are many reflections
there is drama there is something reflected
there are mirror columns in this mall
they are for the people they are for the looking
but there are no people in this mall
there is some drama in this mall
there are mirror columns in this mall
but there are no people in this mall
there is a proscenium stage in this mall
a former DEB retail chain store
there is a proscenium stage in this mall
a former DEB retail chain store
there is some drama in this mall
chains and masks and drama in this mall
there is drama there is something reflected
there is something reflected in this mall
but there are no people in this mall
there is something reflected in this mall
chains and masks and drama in this mall
but there are no people in this mall
“There was an artist I worked with for a while who used Polaroids as drawing references. When she was done with them, she just chucked them in a black trash bag under the kitchen sink – where I found them. I urged her to think of them as sketches, to value them…”
For months before going to Alaska, I thought about how six hours of daylight would feel. In California, I’d lay in bed and imagine the darkness as a hand closing around my throat. Continue reading “A Believing Place by Nina Foushee”
This city, this big sprawling dream of a city, mighty and misunderstood Los Angeles, is often defined in terms of tired cliches and sweeping generalizations. Soul-less and a-historical L.A., they say. A city where nobody walks, they lie. A far-reaching enigma going on for miles and miles, they all nod and agree, baffled. Continue reading “L.A. Lust by Yanina Spizzirri”
“A frontier region… the resort of brigands and bandits”
– Sir Clifford Darby, from The Medieval Fenland
Two summers ago I walked coast to coast across England and Wales, from Great Yarmouth in Norfolk to Aberystwyth on the Welsh coast. The idea was to etch a furrow in the map along a route that traced familiar haunts and places of personal significance. My aim was to rekindle the memory of places I once knew in East Anglia and the Midlands; join up the dots, to connect all the places along the way with a line made by walking – a pagan pilgrimage, if you like, a personal songline. Continue reading “The Tyranny of the Horizon by Laurence Mitchell”
15:20 backlit wisps and railroad tracks in the sky. flashes of starlings’ wingtips. I look at the river too long, and now see it every time I blink. Continue reading “Writing A Winter Sunset by Oliver Cable”
Marrakesh, Old Town
Everyone seemed to have rotten, black, and missing front teeth. They were friendly and kept smiling and that’s how I saw they mostly had rotten, black and missing front teeth.
I couldn’t see a lot of the women’s teeth, only their eyes, and often not even. There were many women dressed from head to ankle, in long black fabrics, with layer upon layer covering skin, hands, hair, and some that covered the eyes, and with only a marginally thinner veil, so that everything was hidden, nothing to determine soul, being, nor Continue reading “Nothing Dries Sooner Than A Tear* by Joanna Pickering”
On the vast land of a hospital in Tokyo, there is a pond filled with plenty of water. Water springs up not only in the pond, but here and there. It is the source of a river. The underground water passes through the downtown of Tokyo and flows into Tokyo Bay. No one knows this is a water land and I’m dreaming of the ocean through the vapor. Continue reading “Waiting For The Ocean by hiromi suzuki”
Someone is whispering
Someone, somewhere is whispering,
blue thoughts to the sharpened night,
leaving words born of the bottle
to shrivel under sleep’s new weight.
Thin syllables drip from bitten lips
moist with gin and clumsy kisses,
and a tongue lolls, slug-like, slurring,
while only the sliced moon listens
to the promises and prayers the night
drags from that full, unguarded heart.
There! Someone is whispering
and your new, cold day has yet to start.
Continue reading “Photographs of Bristol & a Poem by Jason Jackson”
Tungsten
the light is
tungsten
tungsten
my incandescent affiliation
street lights emit orange
tungsten lights, bless
anoint the streets with orange haze, creates vignette
turns street in to theatre
under street light is under spotlight
glow from window illuminates intricate net-curtain-call
There is life inside, electricity
rows and rows of windows glow,
currents of electricity form circuit board called estate, village
street light snoot renders unsuspecting object still-life masterpiece
catchlight from car roof becomes moon-lit-fjord
until sun rise
garish day-time, floods night-time majesty
over-exposed
until sun set Continue reading “Night Photos of Newstead Village & a Poem by Sophie Pitchford”
author’s description
“Je l’élève sur mes pensées,
Et je vois éclore au milieu
De la fuite du cristal bleu,
Les feuilles des douleurs passées.”
― Maurice Maeterlinck “Verre Ardent” from ‘Serres Chaudes’, 1889“I hold the glass to my thoughts
and see in that crystal labyrinth
the petals of old pain bloom
as if they were not things of the past…”
― Maurice Maeterlinck ‘Serres Chaudes’, 1889 / “Burning-Glass” from ‘Hothouses’ translated by Richard Howard
Continue reading “Serres Chaudes, a series of visual poetry by hiromi suzuki”
BURNING HOUSE PRESS 