There is a moment in the film version of Gavin Maxwell’s Ring of Bright Water when the main character, Graham, gets off the MacBraynes’ bus and for the first time looks across the Firth of Lorne towards Mull in the distance.
Ben Buie, Sgùrr Dearg, Dùn da Ghaoithe are all there in front of him, each a distant grace note to something that isn’t there anymore. Of course the movie takes vast liberties with both the book and indeed the story of Gavin Maxwell himself but somehow for me, with that scene, it all gets forgotten.
And so I watch the grass as it gets moved by the wind
and the sound of it
And I think of us there in Fishnish all those years later
The sweetness of that sound on Aird a’Mhorain.
Traigh Iar
and I think of those landscapes now that we’re not there,
the spaces where we used to be.
Your presence as it shifts into abstraction
and distant thought now
the space between you and me and the lines that I draw.
. . .
Born in Belfast, Northern Ireland, Brian McHenry is an artist and illustrator whose work has appeared in various publications — including The New Yorker — and featured on record covers, books, and even the odd beer can. He currently lives on the north-east coast of Ireland with his two children. His recent combines elements of portraiture, symbolism, and abstraction to explore the physical and emotional landscape of remembering.
Midway through the event, a woman seated in the front row of the audience asked the panel of four authors, all of whom had made an appearance for the purpose of promoting their recently published travelogues, if they could explain in simple terms how their notion of travel differed from what most ordinary folk called holidays. Nothing is more difficult than to be simple, but the elitist charge implicit in her question, one that was somehow rendered more pointed by her affected pleasantness, laid another layer of complexity. The moment demanded deflection by way of a pithy response — l’espirit de l’escalier might have suggested a poignant quote from Ibn Battuta or something whimsical from Rabelais. Instead the panel, with a tad too much haste, dug themselves into a defensive trench, and in the process shovelled dirt on what they ill-advisedly and repeatedly referred to as common tourism. And they wouldn’t stop digging.
Conversations erupted throughout the room but eventually settled into silence, and no indication was given that the audience would assist her in pushing the panel off its platform, if indeed that was her intention. That being said, it most likely nudged it a little; peering through the newly created cracks in the edifice, the panel’s itinerant forays and desultory wanderings would have appeared to some people as lofty peregrinations wrapped in pompous superiority…or thoughts to that effect. Their somewhat clumsy efforts to enumerate the differences between what they get up to and what everyone else does would not have helped in that determination. On the other hand, some would have interpreted her question as self-aggrandising, one motivated by conceit, point-scoring and the desire for audience adulation. Either way, the nourishing conversations that were until that moment shared between the panel of authors and what felt like a roomful of friends, now a breathing mass of strangers, failed to revive.
Possessing an air of originality, mystery and spirited adventure, the mention of travel arouses more curiosity than that of the humble holiday, and there can be little doubt that by describing oneself as a travel writer rather than a holiday writer one gathers greater cachet. Yet it often seems that, at core, there is no difference between them. Indeed, the travel writers sharing the podium might easily have described their journeys as holidays. After all, three were promoting books about relatively short stays in what many would deem holiday destinations, including a fortnight in Paris, three weeks in a wine-growing region of France, and a month in Tuscany. Only one took a longer and more varied route, that resulting from an unplanned year of backpacking.
Putting it this way perhaps challenges their street cred, yet many philosophers, among them Seneca and Thoreau, were greatly inspired by the odd holiday, during which they created notable works of reflection on nature, on the human condition, and on life’s meaning or purpose. The same is true of literature. Agatha Christie developed the idea for a well-known detective mystery whilst on a leisure cruise down the Nile. Virginia Woolf wrote To the Lighthouse whilst on vacation on the Isle of Skye, and Elizabeth von Arnim’s The Enchanted April was inspired by a month-long holiday to the Italian Riviera. The list goes on. In the end what matters most are the stories, and to this one might add a degree of self-discovery.
. . .
Old Cathy used to come into our house to wash her money. Though she scrubbed the stairs of every last one of them, and had done so for years, ours was the only flat in a long street of tall black-sooted tenements where she could come and go as she pleased. She even had a key. Some people would rinse out and refill her bucket, but she would have to remain at the doorstep, door closed. To be fair, Old Cathy wasn’t one for conversation, and in fact blanked most people, but that wasn’t the only reason people covered their doors. For much of her life she lived between the mental asylum, as it was then known, and the street, and when that information got around the neighbourhood by the usual whispering campaign people kept a watchful eye. During the time our family knew Old Cathy she had secured permanent residency in a Salvation Army hostel not far from where we lived: a small room with an iron-framed bed, a chair, a cabinet, and a cross on an otherwise bare white wall. Visitors were not allowed, but we visited anyway, my sister and me, and whilst some residents occasionally looked at us with suspicion, neither the warden nor anyone else ever refused entry.
My sister always firmly insisted that if anyone were to question us I should stay silent and let her do the talking. When neighbours or anyone else asked questions she generally cut in to finish my sentences in ways I could never anticipate. Three years my senior but in reality much older, I guess my sister would have been around eleven or twelve when we visited Old Cathy. She doted on us, and was always steady and sunny, but I doubt if many people saw that side. She just kept her head down as she scrubbed the stairs, her metal bucket echoing in the close as it clanked down each step, then reached back up to draw intricate floral patterns with white chalk on the margins of every step. This was a common custom in our neighbourhood, an area that outsiders called slums, but unlike Old Cathy most women just chalked a quick zig-zag or squiggle. Either way they only lasted a day at best.
A woman notorious for malicious gossip once stopped us to ask if our dad knew that our mother allowed a pauper lunatic to wander in and out of our house when he was at work (he worked almost all the time). We of course knew who she meant, but as instructed I buttoned up. I would have liked to have said that we loved Old Cathy, who was one of the kindest people on Earth, and that not only did she visit us, we visited her; but as my sister later reminded me she would most likely have called the police and had her thrown out of her residence and into the street. Adults were a different breed, and I dreaded the thought of mingling with them. Even at the early stages of adulthood most people showed signs of becoming distinctly unpleasant. I think Old Cathy felt the same way.
This was a time when mothers who took to their bed for days or weeks or maybe even months were generally considered to be indolent rather than depressed, a time when postpartum depression was for the most part unknown, and a time when having a stillbirth — regardless of the sadness, guilt and anxiety that were at heart a cry for help — was hushed up as a shameful failure. Mrs Bogus, a pathologically nosey upstairs neighbour of ours — listening at the letterbox, she fell into our hall one time when my dad opened the door on his way to work — stopped me and my sister on the stair to ask if my mother was still lying in her bed. She called her a lazy article, jolting her miserable mongrel on a choke chain before briskly walking on. No one ever explained to me the meaning of article, but I got the gist. Just ignore her, my sister said, and don’t repeat what she said to anyone. I didn’t have to: everyone seemed to know that my mum had sunk under the covers and let the house go to hell. It even got around the school.
For the best part my sister looked after things at home, organising clothes, tidying up, making meals, but after a while things began to slip there too, and the mess just piled up. We made a space on the sofa between heaps of clothes and coat hangers and ate cereal from the box. On one occasion we heard our mum mumble to herself that she wanted to cut her throat, and I was told never to repeat that either, not to anyone, not even to dad — especially dad! She didn’t mean it, my sister insisted, but I couldn’t quite dismiss the possibility. For all their promises to the contrary, adults were notoriously unpredictable. My friend’s sister killed herself over a stupid fiancé, the mother of a boy at my school was murdered by his dad — just one punch, they said, whilst she was doing the ironing — someone sunk an axe into someone’s front door, another put a petrol bomb through a letterbox, men filled with rage and hearts of hate fought to the death outside pubs, and psychopathic razor gangs roamed the streets and alleyways. No adult could be trusted entirely.
We came home from school one day to find all the mirrors in the house had been smashed — why mirrors? — and immediately I wondered if my mum had taken a shard of glass to her throat. I envisaged it. My sister made me wait in the hall until she checked out the bedroom. Mum was sobbing under the blankets, but otherwise okay. Old Cathy was there, calm and calming, picking up the pieces. She would have known worse, and most likely understood the situation better than anyone. For several weeks no stairs were washed as Old Cathy stepped in as our femme de ménage, arriving before we went to school, and leaving in the evening. Between those hours she did the shopping, made breakfast and prepared dinner, looked after my mum, washed clothes, tidied the house, and even found time to play board games with us — she was a master at draughts. In time, when my mother got back into harness, Old Cathy got back down on her kneeling mat to scrub and chalk the tenement stair, the distinctive sound of her metal bucket once more echoing in the close as it clanked on each step. Thereafter she would rinse out her bucket, brushes and money in our small scullery whilst the kettle boiled before settling down to sit with my mum, gazing into the embers in silence.
. . .
For some people, travel writers are escape artists sharing their secrets on how to break loose from sameness. Others live to wander, to find stillness in motion, and perhaps by chance to find missing parts of the story that made them who they are. It was whilst perched on a doorstep under a hot sun in Tamil Nadu that Old Cathy, for the first time since childhood, wandered into my thoughts. I was watching a woman take great care to create a kolam at the entrance to her home, a decorative chalk circle with floral designs that is said to bring good luck and prosperity to the occupants. The drawings are walked on, scuffed and washed out every day, and whilst illustrations and meanings vary, each in their own way presage the transience of our existence and the impermanence of all things. The process was hypnotic. With eyes squeezed shut I remembered Old Cathy with head bowed drawing similar floral patterns with her piece of chalk on the steps to our door, and for a moment that door opened. The long journey to India had led me back to the start, and perhaps, after all, that was the point.
. . .
In addition to teaching psychology in universities, adult education and colleges across the UK, Paul Tritschler has managed organisations within the fields of brain injury, sensory impairment, mental health and community activism. He has written for a variety of magazines, including Aeon, Psychology Review, Bella Caledonia, Counterpunch and Open Democracy.
¿Y el fuego que no se ve? ¿Cómo registrarlo? ¿Y la llama que invisible cerca al cuerpo? ¿Y la hoguera incolora que arde en el cerebro? ¿Cómo dibujarlas, cómo explicarlas? El incendio ciego encerrado en cada gota de sangre, ¿con qué tinta, con qué pigmento se traslada al papel? ¿Cómo hacer visible el alcohol que quema su anillo fantasma en la retina? ¿Y el fuego innombrable que calcina la lengua? ¿Y el alambre ardiente y afilado de la circunferencia que te atraviesa el alma? ¿Cómo decirlos, cómo llamarlos?
And what of the unseen fire? How to record it? And the invisible flame about the body? And the colorless bonfire roaring in your brain? How to draw them, explain them? The blind blaze enclosed in each drop of blood, with which ink, with which pigment can it be put to paper? How to make visible the alcohol that burns its phantom ring on the retina? And the unnameable fire that scorches the tongue? The blistering, razor wire that encircles the soul? How to name them, how to call them?
. . .
El nombre es una espiral, un erizo que da la vuelta a la sombra. Adivinas luz al torcer el muro. Casi la tocas, pero no la alcanzas a ver. Arena blanca. Sigues. Recorres un segmento del círculo con una jaula de pájaros vacía en tus manos: la puertita choca su metal al abrirse y cerrarse a tu paso. El mar deja en libertad uno de sus vientos para que se pierda en el laberinto. Lo encontrarás llevando el rumor de campanas distantes y de piedras tristes y metales que brillan lejos. El palacio del caracol es su esqueleto. El palacio del estratega es su memoria. Hay un mar vivo en el centro. Al humedecerse, el cráneo del remolino canta su canción. Es lo que llega a tu oído.
The name is a spiral, a sea urchin turning round the shadow. You glimpse light when curving along the wall. You can almost touch it, but you can’t quite see it. White sand. You continue. You pace the segment of the circle with an empty birdcage in your hands: the tiny door clanks its metal open and shut with your footfalls. The sea sets free one of its winds to lose it inside the labyrinth. You’ll find it carrying the rumor of distant chimes and sad stones and metals that shine from afar. The seashell palace is its skeleton. The strategist’s palace is his memory. There’s a living sea at its center. When wet, the whirlpool’s skull sings its song. That’s what you hear.
. . .
A lo largo de la Odisea, hay una frase que deja un leve rastro en la historia de los días y las noches de Odiseo entre las islas: la luz del regreso. Telémaco la pronuncia por primera vez cuando le confiesa a la diosa Atenas, la ojizarca, el temor a que su padre hubiera perdido ese fulgor. Odiseo la emplea cuando trata de explicar a Calipso su deseo de volver a Ítaca. Hay esperanza en esta imagen, pero se trata de una esperanza humedecida de tristeza. La tristeza de la imposibilidad del retorno, la de la callada certidumbre de que la Ítaca de la cual partimos no la encontraremos ya. La Odisea, como todos sabemos, es la apuesta para recuperar la luz del origen, la primera que vieron nuestros ojos y por la que vale la pena morir para verla brillar una vez más. Todos tenemos una Ítaca que reverbera en el filo de nuestro horizonte. Así, el poema entero –es decir, la vida- se concentra en esa imagen, como la luz de la isla en el vaso que dibuja su reflejo en el muro.
Throughout the Odyssey, there’s a phrase that leaves the faintest of traces on the history of the days and nights of Odysseus among the islands: the light of the return. Telemachus first pronounces it when confessing to the goddess Athena, the bright-eyed one, his fear that his father may have lost that glow. Odysseus uses it when trying to explain to Calypso his desire to return to Ithaca. There’s hopefulness in that image, but it’s hope dampened by sadness. The sadness of the impossibility of return, that of the quiet certainty that the Ithaca we left won’t ever be found again. The Odyssey, as we know, is the attempt to recover the original light, the first our eyes ever saw and for which it would be worth dying to see shining once more. We all have an Ithaca reverberating on the edge of our horizon. Thus, the entire poem—that is to say, life—is concentrated in that image, like the light of the island in a glass that etches its reflection on the wall.
. . .
Born in Chihuahua, Mexico, Gaspar Orozco has published 8 books of poetry, three of them translated in English by Mark Weiss. He has translated poetry from English, French and classic Chinese to Spanish. He was a member of an obscure punk band, Revolucion X; the Spanish label Metadona Records will release an album of their lost recordings in December 2025. He currently works as a diplomat.
Dancing on the Silk Razor was born out of a discussion I had with my friend Dan Wechsler. We were contemplating various writing work we’d done when younger, and he mentioned there was a first line for a story he’d always wanted to pursue but had never quite been able to. I asked what it was and he replied, “Somebody had been stealing Harold Solomon’s ideas.” I liked it immediately; it had the kind of lead in I relish, and although it wasn’t my normal way of working, I asked if he’d object if I tried running with it. He said to go for it. And like often happens with the right catalyst, a written story poured straight onto the page.
Although the writing took a prose form, from the start I had the notion of it also being a film. So, with extremely limited funds but some phenomenal, longstanding collaborators who were game, we shot the whole thing in four days on 35mm with about a 1.5. to 1 shooting ratio running around New York City. It was a great challenge and a great time.
The narration is really the main performance, and we wanted to find someone for it who could really elevate the film. We felt Wallace Shawn would be perfect, and as a writer might particularly appreciate the role. We sent him the piece and he liked it and agreed to do voice-over. But this was still the COVID era and regrettably I came down with a case right before the recording session. I directed via Zoom but it was excruciating not to be there in person. Fortunately, Wally completely got the tone and humor and, with the kind of thorough preparation every director hopes for, nailed it on the first take.
I’ve taken to calling this a multiform work, as I feel it can be equally a written piece and a film. And I’ve since been working on a series of new pieces in the same vein, with iterations that co-exist across mediums. All, however, begin in primary form as the written word.
. . .
Written, Directed and Edited by: D.W. Young Narrator: Wallace Shawn Harold Solomon: Dan Wechsler Producers:Judith Mizrachy, Dan Wechsler, D.W. Young Cinematographer: Arlene Muller Composer: David Ullmann
. . .
D.W. Young is a New York City-based filmmaker and writer. His two most recent feature films are the documentaries Uncropped (2024), about Village Voice photographer James Hamilton and the heyday of alternative print journalism, and The Booksellers (2020).
Burning House Press are excited to welcome C.C. O’HANLON as the fifth BHP guest editor of our return series of special editions! As of today C.C. will take over editorship of Burning House Press online for the month of November.
Submissions are open from today 1st November – and will remain open until 25TH November.
C.C.’s theme for the month is as follows
—JOURNEYS
~~~
JOURNEYS: Physical, Psychological, and Imaginary, embracing words and images, in all forms, as well as complexity, resisting the superficial, algorithmic narratives of social media.
~~~
Photo by Given Rozell.
~~~
A self-described ‘vagabond, diarist, and wreck’, C.C. O’Hanlon’s fragmentary memoirs have been published in various anthologies, including Best Australian Essays 2005 and Best Australian Stories 2004 (both published by Black Inc, Australia), A Revealed Life: Australian Writers And Their Journeys In Memoir (ABC Books, Australia), The Odysseum: Strange Journeys That Obliterated Convention (John Murray, U.K.), Zahir: Desire & Eclipse (Zeno Press, U.K.), and Dark Ocean (Dark Mountain Project, U.K.). A founding features editor of Harper’ Bazaar Australia in the late ’80s, his mainstream journalism and images have appeared in The New York Times, The Sydney Morning Herald, Variety, Travel & Leisure, the Australian editions of Vogue and Harper’s Bazaar and scores of other newspapers and magazines.
He now lives a nomadic life with his American wife of 38 years aboard a small, sea-worn old sailboat named Wrack in the southern Mediterranean. They have three adult children.
_______
Submission Guidelines
All submissions should be sent as attachments to guesteditorbhp@gmail.com
Please state the theme and form of your submission in the subject of the email. For example: JOURNEYS/POETRY
Poetry and Fiction
For poetry submissions, submit no more than three of your best poems. Short stories should be limited to 1,500 words or (preferably) less. We encourage flash fiction submissions, no more than three at a time. Send these in as a .doc or .docx file, along with a short third-person bio, and (optional) photograph of yourself.
Art Submit hi-res images of your works (drawings, paintings, illustrations, collages, photography, etc) with descriptions of the work (Title, Year, Medium, etc) in the body of the email. Files should be in .JPEG unless they are GIFs or videos, and should not exceed 2MB in size for each work. File names should correspond with the work titles. Video submissions can be uploaded onto Youtube or Vimeo for feature on our website. Send these submissions along with a short third-person bio, and (optional) photograph of yourself.
Virtual Reality/ 3D Artworks
For VR Submissions, please submit no more than three (3) individual artworks. For Tilt Brush works, please upload your artwork to Google Poly (https://poly.google.com/), and mark it as ‘public’ (‘remixable’ is at your own preference). A VR/3D artwork can also be submitted as a video export navigating through the artwork. If you prefer this method, please upload your finished video file to YouTube or Vimeo and provide a URL. With either format, please provide a 150 word artist’s statement.
Non-fiction Non-fiction submissions (essays, reviews, commentary, interviews, etc) should be no more than 1, 500 words and sent as a .doc or .docx file along with your third-person bio/and optional photograph.
Submissions are open until 25th November – and will reopen again on 1st DECEMBER 2025/for new theme/new editor/s.
BHP online is now in the capable hands of the amazing C.C. – friends, arsonistas, send our NOVEMBER 2025 guest editor your magic!
With subtleties broken, / discourses returned / much heavier / A fresh train of disquietudes / sighed often /Sparks of temper; / the puzzle and the plague / But, in full view, / all things in the world / answer consequently: / fallen, rescued / The deepest impression, / a fine truth to any purpose — / that odd legacy / of occasion
Teresa Mestizo is a Chicagoan Xicana currently based in a small mountainous town in Mexico where she writes, teaches, translates & makes art. These poems are part of her recent erasure series using Laurence Sterne’s The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, Gentleman (1759-1767). More of her work can be found at teresamestizo.com
can the most mundane can it (not) shine in my eye?
a rock gets lost but ppl forget
then nothing much done today
sometimes sleep but sometimes not. washed away
an interesting turn of phrase
someone walks into a bar but someone someone tries to convince me of something but i’m conversing with a desk lamp
the problem w the world today:
the problem w the world today
Austin Miles is from southeast Ohio. He is the author of the chapbook Perfect Garbage Forever (Bottlecap Press) and has poems published in Touch the Donkey, Reap Thrill, Don’t Submit!, and elsewhere.
5. Dusk completes its sundowning as crowds of people begin to congregate. Dark tourism is streamed on the brick walls of the town square. From the sewers: the fatberg sits in silent judgment: Popcorn lungs blooming in the young. Distant bleeps and glitches. A Faraday box stuffed with emotions. New fiberoptics beneath the cobblestones. “10G bae bee! 10G!!” The pale green glow of a billion minds humming beneath these streets. “Shot up some estrogen and grabbed the mic. Never felt so free.” GhostBots™ linger on the edge of the crowds asking if we need resurrecting. We lie supplicate at the open pit. Body heat rises up. Visible by the light of our screens. Easter eggs in a snuff film. *cherry vape clouds* Generational grief pegged to a wildly fluctuating index. <current artery blockage at 65%> The attract screen welcomes us to join the deceased. We line the open mass grave with our phablets. We place them gently along the edge. Our banking details auto-scrolling. Endless digits glowing in the night.
6. Piles of burning mattresses. Labyrinthine tent cities tunnel deep in the night. Dynamos of madness. Blister packs of fear litter the sidewalk. People slicking their hair back looking to make a name for themselves. Mag-lev handcuffs are issued to citizens of good standing. Making arrests has become de rigueur. “Don’t get left behind – make yours today!” They say, ecoterrorism is back on the menu – whether we like it or not. Try decreasing memory footprint to speed things up. *panicked breathing, faces flush with relief* “It’s ok. It’s ok, guys! It’s all behind login.” Blood boys wandering aimlessly. Leashed to IVs. They skirt the vortex at the center of the town square. They gather in the murk. Peel like shadows off the brick walls. Supplicant and meek they are loaded into trucks. :the fatberg sweats in the dark: Bonfires burning large and bright on every street corner. Feverish dancing, arms flailing. Engagement rates are up! Distant bleeps and glitches. Drones pinging in the night. This is a place where no one wins. “Welcome to the unsubscribe center. You made it!”
7. Washing bones to arrive at their final incantation. Broken teeth litter the streets. Shattered bottles line the curbs. Burger boxes and Styrofoam clamshells shift and slide along the sidewalk. :the fatberg wheezes from the sewers: “Dark empaths on the prowl” Great is their grift and short is their thrift. The pavement is covered in feces. Broken tents sway in the wind. A yellow sulfurous pollen burns the nostrils. Blankets everything in its stench. Blister packs of disappointment clog the sewer drains. The dispossessed have set up shop at the local mall. All honeycombed out with anguish architecture. Occult practices sold here for a price. *whispering* i’m on the verge. Flickering at the edge of sense. Cut-tongue mumblecore. Agitated. Carbonated. Overstimulated. Wandering the halls looking to score code. Countless stalls in cramped space. Frenetic haggling. Stale sweat and burned pharmaceuticals. JUUL pods litter the tile floor. Stimming on glitterbombs. Tech spells and hexes coded in COBOL. Etsy witches paid in arcade tokens. “Hey there are gravity sinkholes everywhere here so – watch your step.”
Donna Enticknap works with alternative photographic processes to create portraits of place and self, exploring ideas of connection to time and landscape, and the fallibility of human memory. Bluesky: @auuop.bsky.social Website: https://www.donnaenticknap.com/
Brick Professional Building enislanded by offramps.
Asphalt Curbs Pushed onto the Mulch by the plow service spell something broken in the lot of the brick professional building.
Black Plastic Rat Traps every twenty paces under dead brown junipers ring the brick professional building.
Box for Patient Samples bolted to the masonry outside the back basement door of the brick professional building.
Five People in Cars Eating by Phonelight two of them wearing scrubs each of them alone behind the brick professional building.
Oft-Gnawed Fisher Price People collect pathogens in the children’s corner of the brick professional building.
* Inholding
Where feral bloodroot blooms prettily, where knotweed and bittersweet are bad ideas that have won the meadow where there are wells and springs and cairns and cellars there is a heavy chain and hook hanging from a maple too old to tap where her late husband butchered their cow.
Corwin Ericson is the author of Swell, a novel, and the collection Checked Out OK. His work has appeared in Volt, Jubilat, Harpers, and elsewhere.
(Image: Ralph Eugene Meatyard. “Untitled,” 1963. Courtesy of Fraenkel Gallery)
Damian Ward’s work explores the subtle interplay between nature, memory, & the enduring presence of the past. Through a monochromatic lens, he seeks to distill the landscape to its essential forms. Bluesky @damianward.bsky.social www.damianwardphotography.co.uk
A Tense to Describe a Duck That Isn’t There After Asger Jorn’s The Disquieting Duckling
Duck would have been erupting. Duck would have erupted. Duck continuous erupt in the would / have been. Future duck the perfect erupts. The never duck eruption. present simple farmer haybales fowl in the is and ises in the ed of rural whitewash each breath a flesh of brushstrokes. a tense to describe the temporal stretch of canvas. Dapples of birch leavings to stack in impasto. An erupt
to duck a basal ganglia.
* A-Political Self-immolators
We fizzy & piffy lakeside straight shooter boys shoot stray cats from the Baroque balcony boys we’re landslide boys eat crab boys big bullet bully boys hooligan melodies & tenebrous eyes boys sparkle sparkle little pig we ride rapid boys wide boys locked safe boys sink to the depths the Davy Jones boys real boy’s boys’ boys locker room boys’ talk boys neck foam boys nick phones boys rock -a-bye baby boys the blue-eyed boys bish bash bosh job’s a good’un boys we’re those landgrab boys swamp stab boys drain the blood dig the liver boys pile-driver boys we’re deep-sea diver boys black-lung coal miner boys real DH Lawrence boys big tough boys with big tough toys oioioi boys make some fucking noise boys we’re poison boys burn the fields salt the earth shatter seas stone skim boys we’re the make room boys the me-first boys the boys with a fire in our fists we’re pollution boys we’re gruesome boys those lumpen laymen men of the earth serf boys we’re wind & rain boys fight through snow sludge through mud we breathe gas boys bottle rocket shrapnel boys we’re front-line boys Gulf War Syndrome born alone die alone eight pawn boys dethroned boys deflowered & defaced face the music boys on my mark we go over trench foot shell shock whizz-bang boys no man’s land landless boys no stake in society ASBO boys we’re high fire boys burn like mustard boys we burn water baptisms of gas explosions stop drop & roll up a fatty we’re rock n troll star boys steal your hearts & leave a scar life sentence no possibility of parole we’re born to die boys beautiful corpse cheap funeral Amazon coffin & BYOB boys search & destroy boys given no quarter hung drawn & quartered we’re those coup de grâce coup d'état boys raze the dead seize the day gone tomorrow boys we’re the lost boys the last boys last of our name last of our nature we’re ouroboros boys anonymous boys we see things say things you wouldn’t dream boys you wouldn’t feed us to your dog you wouldn’t touch us with his you’d off with our heads you wouldn’t be seen dead.
Dan Melling is a writer from the UK. He holds an MFA in Poetry from Virginia Tech and teaches creative writing at Liverpool John Moores University, where he is also pursuing a PhD. His work has appeared in The Rialto, X-R-A-Y, HAD and elsewhere. He co-edits Damnation literary journal.
How will I ever get out of this labyrinth? After defeating the bull-headed monster, not once but over and over again, I hung my sword up on the bullet-pitted wall, and tried to find my way back home.
The thread was broken, though, and now I wander in this fearful light and search for darkness.
Peter J. King was active on the London poetry scene in the 1970s. Since his return to poetry in 2013 after a long absence he’s published four collections (the latest being Contact Light, Alien Buddha Press, 2025), and appears widely in journals and anthologies. He also translates, mainly from modern Greek and German, writes short prose, and paints. Bluesky @rock-rex.bsky.social
Untitled. 2025. Mixed media on canvas (found paper, corrugated cardboard, house paint). 36 in. x 24 in.
Paul Boultbee received his undergraduate and graduate degrees from the University of Western Ontario and in 1975 took up a six-year long position at the College of the Bahamas. In January 1982 he arrived in Red Deer to work as a librarian at Red Deer College. In September 2000 he entered Red Deer College’s Visual Art program and graduated in May 2003 with a Visual Art Diploma. He received his Bachelor of Fine Arts degree from Thompson Rivers University in October 2022. Paul’s work has appeared in exhibitions in Alberta, Ontario, British Columbia, Oregon, Connecticut, and South Korea. He is also a stage and film actor, and, since April 2020, a retired academic librarian.
1. Stone is tone sat, shone sibboleth, antic serve antique observe quiescence essence deliquescence whence as just majesty or jest, Rome. Adjust fallen sigh stupor brain aspic apical outward placid not much. Acid esteem unsated teeming, for that although also, can vain humane vanity admired humanity mired option self enraged and assuage, turn. Bound unto found object object prime self lowered mind loured petite. Alms of psalm, sole incarnadine, hoary before turn whore not then prey custom, give. Penitent pen it in prayer custom unsaid repent end to end, soul. Wretched ashen etched in deceit do, dawn stir fall rare jewel out impending whom, who; fault line twine twin fault win turn in time or afterthought fit flee.
3. Quim, ass, seed—open! So-so inquest, O, sass! O! Idyll antic car, O Maat! Err! A mere O. Llamaest, a cad. Hoot. (& he’s sus.) Peer, O! Ape wrestled a stupor. None, mofo. I’ll pass. O, none sat Z, O deepen czar-anchor. Kayla’s so. Lovin’ it. Ah! Delu, man. Fast! Tome mirror. Idyll me, O van, edging me. Cum! Ah, dear!—O! A purely-meant, a villagette, a bus—O! All maudy, prick, I miss ’im. Be! Ankh? Eel? Cree? Nay. Ski? Evil costume? Dick? Whey? Casey? Dan?—O! Imp-ray? Dolls? Sense? O, perp & tears. Seal? Fee? Nay. Me sir! O, key! Trouble Cain. Tallin gone, no? Ra? Dough? Eh? Kettle more eerie. Insult confit. Nay. See raw Vega, deaf alley—foo! Golden, no?
5. All pensive on this rock I sit and watch an empire gone to shit— cracked columns, bricks & broken blocks, like cat turds in a litterbox. My weary mind can only see the pomp of human vanity, and though I find it rather crass, I too’m a vain and pompous ass. I beg you, soul—it’s getting late— do not be like the profligate, whose life on worldly pleasure’s spent, deferring when he should repent, for when death’s door such blind men gain they rarely rue and flee the pain.
6. From: Satya Nadella Sent: Tuesday, July 03, 2024 5:33 AM To: Microsoft – All Employees; All MS Store Employees FTE Subject: Reflection on the Impermanence of Success
Team,
I find myself contemplating the fleeting nature of worldly pursuits. While we strive for success and recognition, it is important to remember that these achievements are ultimately transient. History is replete with examples of empires that have crumbled, leaving behind only remnants of their former glory.
The pursuit of material wealth and fleeting pleasures can often distract us from what truly matters. It is essential to cultivate a sense of perspective and to prioritize enduring values over ephemeral ones.
As we navigate the complexities of life, let us strive to live with purpose and meaning. May we find solace in the pursuit of knowledge, compassion, and the betterment of ourselves and our communities.
Sincerely, Satya
7. Escape the Flames: Your Roman Sanctuary Awaits
Imagine yourself, seated upon a stone terrace, overlooking the timeless beauty of Rome. The ancient city unfolds before you, a tapestry of history woven into the very fabric of the earth. Lost in thought, you witness the ruins of Rome, her fallen majesty, and linger in a stupor most profound. But this is no melancholic reverie. This is the beginning of your new life, a life free from the pomp of human vanity and the beguiling claims of the mundane.
Here, in our exclusive condominium, you can finally shun the ways of the man who only aims at worldly bliss. Repenting on death’s day is a fate you can avoid. Come, my soul, before your hair turns grey, and embrace a life of tranquility and sophistication.
Our meticulously restored residences offer a haven of peace and luxury, nestled amidst the heart of Rome’s vibrant history. Rare it is, when held in death’s fell sway, to see one's own mistake, and flee the flames. But here, you can escape the flames of worldly distractions and embrace the true treasures of life.
Don’t let your dreams run aground on base things. Come, discover your own Roman sanctuary. Contact us today to learn more about our exclusive condominium offerings.
Damian Ward’s work explores the subtle interplay between nature, memory, & the enduring presence of the past. Through a monochromatic lens, he seeks to distill the landscape to its essential forms. Bluesky @damianward.bsky.social www.damianwardphotography.co.uk
translated from the german by Ann Cotten & Anna-Isabella Dinwoodie
* first true story (from “three true stories”)
the fence is a window and the window is a room and the room is a table and the table is a speck and the speck is a girl and the girl is a knife and the knife is a clock and the clock is a letter and the letter is a neighbor and the neighbor is a flowerbed and the flowerbed is a city and the city is a street and the street is a friend and the friend is a summer’s day and the summer’s day is a hill and the hill is a field and the field is a tower and the tower is a woman and the woman is a wave and the wave is glasses and the glasses are an evening and the evening is a tree and the tree is a mound and the mound is a key and the key is a coin and the coin is a sheet of ice and the sheet of ice is a hole and the hole is a bridge and the bridge is a pillar and the pillar is a look and the look is a colleague and the colleague is a stick and the stick is a mountain and the mountain is a journey and the journey is a cafe and the cafe is a camp and the camp is a wolfhound and the wolfhound is a grate and the grate is an abyss and the abyss is a toilet and the toilet is a school
* great authorizations
you may be expected to you may be able to you may be required to you may be allowed to
you may be expected to be expected to you may be able to be expected to you may be required to be expected to you may be allowed to be expected to
you may be expected to be able to you may be able to be able to you may be required to be able to you may be allowed to be able to
you may be expected to be required to you may be able to be required to you may be required to be required to you may be allowed to be required to
you may be expected to be allowed to you may be able to be allowed to you may be required to be allowed to you may be allowed to be allowed to
you may be expected to be expected to be expected to you may be able to be able to be expected to you may be required to be required to be expected to you may be allowed to be allowed to be expected to
you may be expected to be expected to be able to you may be able to be able to be able to you may be required to be required to be able to you may be allowed to be allowed to be able to
you may be expected to be expected to be required to you may be able to be able to be required to you may be required to be required to be required to you may be allowed to be allowed to be required to
you may be expected to be expected to be allowed to you may be able to be able to be allowed to you may be required to be required to be allowed to you may be allowed to be allowed to be allowed to
Liesl Ujvary (1939) is an Austrian writer in the concrete tradition. Her oeuvre includes experimental electronic music & video Good & Safe (Sicher & Gut), her debut, was originally published in 1977 / Ann Cotten is a writer & translator from Vienna, Austria. Translations from English to German include books by Isabel Waidner, Legacy Russell, Rosmarie Waldrop & others / Anna-Isabella Dinwoodie is a translator & writer who makes visual poetry & performance art. She lives in Berlin.
we had a dinette, the house was too small for a proper dining room, there was a painting on the wall, notable because artwork was minimal in the house, I was fascinated by this painting, it looked European to me in a vague way as at nine years of age I knew nothing of life outside the US, it was a river scene, a river surrounded by a forest, a mountainous forest, with a small house about a third of the way up on the mountain surrounded by evergreens, I think it would be called a chalet, there’s a European word, it pronounced funny, and on the river was a small boat with a man standing astern navigating with a long pole, the painting was always there on that dinette wall, I didn’t know its origins, how, where and why my parents bought it, after some time, after months of glances, I made an observation, the perspective was wrong, the chalet was too small to be real, or the boat with the man was too large, even taking into account that the boat with the man was closer to the viewer it felt like sizes were off, once noticed this was all I could think about when looking at the painting, this mismatch of proportions, if happening to walk through the dinette I glanced up at the wall, all I saw were the two mismatched objects and my mind became stuck in a comparison loop, judging dimensions and wondering, but then sometime later, more glances, I noticed something else was off, the paint was darkened to the right of the chalet, a chaletshadow, and the paint was darkened to the left of the boat, a boatshadow, right then left, as if the chalet was painted under morning sky and the boat was painted under afternoon sky, or as if there were two suns over Europe, and once noticed that was all I could think about when looking at the painting, this mismatch of illumination, my mind stuck in a newer superseding comparison loop, and then still, sometime later, yet more glances, I stood up on a chair and gazed at the painting, closer, my nose inches from the chalet, I examined each brushstroke though it was hard to tell a brush was used, the paint was glopped on thick as paste, perhaps a palette knife was the artist’s implement of choice, and this was fine, interesting, but there was one glop, a dark green section of forest just above and to the left of the chalet, where, my face almost touching the canvas, I discovered unmistakably a fingerprint embedded into the painting as if instead of a brush or knife the artist had smooshed this one glop with a finger, it looked purposeful, the brushes needed cleaning, the palette knife was dirty, but here was a finger, relatively clean and always available, the artist’s original tool, I could follow the loops, arches and whorls around and around within the print, no one else noticed this fingerprint, only I, my secret, as a child I was not afforded many, after months of glances and after some time, no other family member knew this existed, and that impression was all I could think about when looking at the painting from that discovery on, the chalet no longer existed, the boat with the man and his pole no longer existed, the mismatched perspective, the contrasting shadows, all forgotten, the painting was just a fingerprint, every glance at the painting caused wonder, a loop, my mind dominated by a single fingerprint, a fingerprint that belonged to an unknown artist, maybe European, working hours every day in his studio with his paints and his palette knife and his finger
Michael L Sevy is a writer & composer from Vermont. His work has been published in 3:AM Magazine & minor literature[s]. He was the leader of punk bands Cold Dogs in the Courtyard and Bonus Marchers. You can find him on bsky at @mlsevy.bsky.social
BURNING HOUSE PRESS 