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.
2.
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iiiiiillllllllllllllllllllllmmmmmm
mmmmmmmmmmmmnnnnnnn
nnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnno
ooooooooooooooooooooooooo
ooooooooooopppppppppppqqq
rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrsssssssssssss
ssssssssssssssssssstttttttttttttttuuu
uuuuuuuuvvvvvvvz,,,,,,,,,,,,...’’’’’’’
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?
4.
lexicon = [ ‘abbasso’, ‘adiro’, ‘alma’, ‘al’, ‘ammiro’, ‘ancorché’, ‘antica’, ‘assido’, ‘a’, ‘caduta’, ‘che’, ‘chi’, ‘confine’, ‘costume’, ‘crine’, ‘danno’, ‘danno’, ‘da’, ‘deh’, ‘dell’’, ‘del’, ‘de’’, ‘di’, ‘e’, ‘è’, ‘falli’, ‘fasto’, ‘fine’, ‘fugga’, ‘il’, ‘imbianchi’, ‘inganno’, ‘in’, ‘lasso’, ‘la’, ‘maestà’, ‘meco’, ‘mente’, ‘mio’, ‘miro’, ‘misero’, ‘mi’, ‘morire’, ‘muovo’, ‘m’’, ‘ne’, ‘non’, ‘oggetto’, ‘passo’, ‘pensar’, ‘pensoso’, ‘pentirsi’, ‘per’, ‘preda’, ‘preso’, ‘pria’, ‘pur’, ‘quei’, ‘questo’, ‘qui’, ‘rado’, ‘ravvegga’, ‘roma’, ‘sasso’, ‘sazio’, ‘schiva’, ‘senso’, ‘si’, ‘sospiro’, ‘stupor’, ‘sul’, ‘s’’, ‘tal’, ‘terra’, ‘trabocca’, ‘uman’, ‘vaneggiar’, ‘vanità’, ‘vil’ ]
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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.
Eric T Racher lives in Riga, Latvia. His poetry, essays and fiction
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
From Good & Safe, published by World Poetry Books, 2025.
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.
Interrogator needed
must fail to understand
the simplest things
in a vault of goo —
Platitudes generated
by electricity
falling into a source
it troubles us to consider
even once,
whispering to solvent after solvent —
is this the visual
you redirect your password from,
are there other kinds
of sympathy you act
out about?
Do you inventory
your playing cards
routinely.
What I’m telling you
is none of your business
and business is good.
*
The book of
how’s that going to work:
Like aliens,
their flitting pincers
storming across the stacks.
Supervision for the loneliest,
and architecture
made of composure and
lidocaine.
There is this long waiting period
before it makes sense to talk.
It’s fine that you want
a reservoir of tenderness,
but you should know
it comes with conditions
your character
tends to oppose.
*
A chaos familiar enough
I experience it as valuable,
clinging sideways
into its reason
and misread the story
the way anyone would
from underneath the letters.
Giving down its lesson,
the fear electrifies
a plateau for breathing
the sour lonely soup,
a glittering cassette
blowing in the brisk
aftermath.
Sympathy we dissolve
is nevertheless available
later for unknown newcomers
with even a dime —
in this system
wanting both
is rubble roulette, sweetie.
You have to be that slippery
and no more.
Come on, already,
it’s unbearable how you
refuse
this dialogue without borders,
these dependable changes
while the world considers
what it really wants,
the drift of feeling
in a crisis —
After the earthquake
the ceiling leaks,
the layered presence
parted like a bead curtain …
Not, more light:
Lighter.
Lighter.
Jordan Davis is a former Poetry Editor of The Nation. His most recent collection
is Yeah, No (MadHat, 2023). Bluesky @jordandavis.bsky.social
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
The Buried Museums
Holy Grail, hollowed bone, half buried in the dirt. Above the
Brow God is moving his furniture, wardrobes of thunderclouds,
heavy driving migraines into your skull
Within these hills there are buried museums. Gleaners,
looters, archaeologists scrape the dust, sift for clues. When
the rain comes flashfloods will turn this dirt to mud,
exposing doll’s prams, tin bathtubs, a mangled accordion wheezing
Boy on a stolen moped dragging it uphill towards the church
cowboy swagger
I sit by the shrine of plastic flowers rolling a joint with
shaking fingers. A cracked Now That’s What I Call Music CD
hangs from a tree, a fetish token for the homeless woman
winter-death, grief-moon
Dig into the dirt with the heel of my boot remembering the Dog
King. Somewhere down there in an old tin can are his tethering
ropes, latch keys, can-opener, flick knife cassettes of mad
muttering, dog-howl
In buried museums beneath these hills, your memories, earth-
weighted mad saint’s bone relics, nightmare archive.
Jeff Young is a Liverpool based writer for radio, theatre
& screen. His memoir ‘Ghost Town’ was shortlisted for the Costa
Prize and his second memoir, ‘Wild Twin’, tells of his years
hitching around Europe & living in Amsterdam squats.
Poet, performer, visual artist & broadcaster, collaborator
with artists & musicians, he is currently writing ‘Lucid Dreamer’,
an alternative history of Liverpool counterculture.
Bluesky http://@wildtwin.bsky.social
I
Millet’s spring mind soared red and skittish as an over-angled kite; in summer it entered the usual back-stall, and by August it had dived low enough for him to have another go at his wrists. This year he made an especial hash of it; fumbling with the false-economy razorblades until he ended up cutting his palms as much as anything else.
Afterwards the ambulance dumped him in the aisle of the A&E, where he lay on the hindmost of a metal spine of gurneys down the building’s centreline. Up on the ceiling, a loose panel exposed a pecking wedge of darkness. He turned on his side; the wall’s blank surface, gouged and spilling brown and fibrous shreds, was in worse nick than his skin.
After the stitching they left him in a side room, alone but for the slurping, whistling breaths of someone on the other side of a curtain. Wires snaked around its pleats to a bleeping machine in his own half of the room. His eyes tracked the glowing plots on the monitor; six months after his firing from Aventrix he still couldn’t stop himself subjecting the signals to confused analysis: window functions, discrete transforms, then breakdown into smaller sub-transforms. Radix two, four, sixteen … When the dragonfly lights on the screen began to sting his eyes he gave up his calculations and pulled the bedsheet over his head. Seeking distraction from the thin fabric’s vinegar-and-dead-skin scent, he tried to think its crumpled underside into the hills and valleys of that Stevenson poem. The Pleasant Land of Counter … Counter …
“… pain?”
The syllable repeated, a chain of islands in a sea of blurred speech, and he realized the nurse had arrived, with a prompt to rate his suffering out of ten. He thought the gurney was creaking, some part of the rails extending on either side of him.
“N over two,” he mumbled, and it seemed to do.
II
In the morning they had him shower the intact parts of his body. Two quivering shoots of something like watercress poked from the cubicle drain. He hoped they were real; he couldn’t bear the idea of hallucinating such lumpen symbolism. Then he was ferried to a psychiatric hospital on the county border, where his mind banked gently into the institutional mist. He spent much of the next few days contemplating more bedlinen, the troughs and peaks of mountain ranges hugged in soft shadow relief.
He wasn’t so keen on the topography of his outspread hands. In recent months they’d thinned out, the newly slackened skin across their backs trumpeting the onset of real ageing. When he turned them over, the mess of his healing palms troubled him. The scabs didn’t quite match the cuts he remembered making, though his memory was a joke. They kept him well-drugged. Quetiapine, lorazepam. Sometimes in the depths of the night a sister came to shine the round white beam of a pen torch on his eyelids. If they fluttered open, hands offered a pellet of zopiclone, the shadows of uniformed arms beating slowly on the walls. Sometimes, as sleep took hold, his throat felt like there was much more than one pill in it, a smooth, hard, comforting clutch.
III
They began to let him out. First just the grounds, the café and shop, in low outbuildings that reminded him of the old airfield Portakabins. He sat nursing weak coffee, watching the wings of the main building extend into milky light, until one day he and some others were put on a minibus and taken to the nearby riverside park.
On the drive one of their escorts enthused about the new fitness parcours along the banks, with special bodybuilding rigs, Ninja wheels, a machine for chest presses.
“Most of that junk’s already out of order,” his roommate Whitlock confided as they got off the bus. “The screws fail, and they’re a special kind. The council can’t be bothered to replace them.”
They quickly passed the old visitor centre, a silent cube of glass covered in crude paintings of leaf and feather that couldn’t hide the underlying curls of dustsheet. The trail head was marked by a pocked information sign. Lodged in one of its bulges, between a badly-drawn muskrat and a peeling heron, was a cluster of tiny pale green balls.
“They’ve got the map here,” said Whitlock.
“I can see that.”
“No, I mean the map butterfly. Araschnia levana, or prorsa, depending on the season. Invasive species, but I’d still like to spot the bleeder. Never set eyes on the black summer form.”
Millet murmured a vague answer to stem the flood of nature facts. The scabs on his palms were itching like hell, much worse than the ones on his arms.
IV
They walked on. After a while he ceased to notice the rise and fall of human voices. To his left was a dazzle of light on winding reed-lined water; foliage encroached on his right. Alder and beech, bramble hordes and white bells of bindweed, parted only by the green metal curves of the fitnessmachines. On each of their instruction diagrams, the silhouette figure looked less like a person.
Finally the path made a swan-neck double bend, and he found himself in front of the most preposterous contraption yet. The paint on this one had almost entirely flaked off, exposing a tall structure of rust-brown metal crisscrossed with streaks of faded cream. It was studded with appendages, and a maze of gears, flanges and blades, culminating in something like a giant upturned wishbone. The sight of the two symmetrical handles fanning out on either side of a discoid seat prompted a distant memory of gym adverts, and then he saw the instruction diagram, with its caption:
BUTTERFLY MACHINE
At the sight of the wonky grid pattern running across the underside of the depicted creature’s wings, the scabs on his palms raged until something in him hatched. When he sat down and grabbed the handles above his head, he felt the fire in his hands drain out into the cold metal. Warming it. Informing it. Loading the chart of his scars into its central navigation system. The antennae slewed and thrummed; great metal wings unfolded with a shivering clang and began to beat, then it bore him into the air.
V
Sounds rose up from the riverbank, individual screams convolved into a single wavering keen, but he couldn’t have looked down if he’d wanted to. When the machine broke through the clouds, it dropped its payload of eggs. As they whistled towards the earth he let go of the handles and the craft itself fell away from him. He hung for a second in the air, hands whipped aloft, before each palm burst apart, discretizing again and again into clouds of tiny flitting things; after a moment his mind followed suit, merry black thoughts whirling up to the sun.
Daisy Lyle is an engineering translator & dark fantasy writer based in Normandie, France. Bluesky http://@novembergrau.bsky.social
Burning House Press are excited to welcome Alexander Booth as the fourth BHP guest editor of our return series of special editions! As of today Alexander will take over editorship of Burning House Press online for the month of September.
Submissions are open from today 1st September – and will remain open until 25TH SEPTEMBER.
Alexander’s theme/s for the month are as follows
—LANDSCAPE
LABYRINTH—
_____
LANDSCAPE // LABYRINTH
*
When the painter’s friends, however, looked around for the painter, they saw that he was gone—that he was in the picture. There, he followed the little path that led to the door, paused before it quite still, turned, smiled, and disappeared through the narrow opening.
– Walter Benjamin, Berlin Childhood around 1900 (trans. Howard Eiland)
*
Each one of us, then, should speak of his roads, his crossroads, his roadside benches; each one of us should make a surveyor’s map of his lost fields and meadows.
Gaston Bachelard (trans. Maria Jolas)
*
“Though Minos blocks escape by land or water,”
Daedalus said, “surely the sky is open,
And that’s the way we’ll go. Minos’ dominion
Does not include the air.”
– Ovid, Metamorphosis (trans. Rolfe Humphries)
_____
Alexander Booth is a poet, translator, collage artist and printmaker who lives in Berlin. Recent translations include books by Friederike Mayröcker, Alexander Kluge, Gerhard Rühm, and a new translation of Ludwig Wittgenstein’s Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus. His collection of poems Triptych was published in 2021 and Kantor in 2023.
__________
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: LANDSCAPE/POETRY Or LABYRINTH/FICTION
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 SEPTEMBER – and will reopen again on 1st OCTOBER 2025/for new theme/new editor/s.
BHP online is now in the capable hands of the amazing Alexander Booth – friends, arsonistas, send our SEPTEMBER 2025 guest editor your magic!
Burning House Press are excited to welcome stephanie roberts as the third BHP guest editor of our return series of special editions! As of today stephanie will take over editorship of Burning House Press online for the month of AUGUST.
Submissions are open from today 1st August – and will remain open until 25TH AUGUST.
stephanie’s theme for the month is as follows
—BETTER THAN IT LOOKS—
________
stephanie roberts is the prize-winning, Canadian author of the poetry collection UNMET (Biblioasis Books, April 2025). The poet Lisa Russ Spaar, writing for the Adroit Review, said, “One emerges from the agile linguistic theatrics of this book [UNMET] feeling requited, met, seen, and inspired—a sensation that moves from writer to reader. From daring to darling.” Her debut collection rushes from the river disappointment (McGill-Queen’s University Press, May 2020) was an A.M. Klein Poetry Prize finalist. Widely featured in periodicals and anthologies in the U.S., Canada, and Europe such as Poetry Magazine, Atlanta Review, Event Magazine, New York Quarterly Books, Verse Daily, Crannóg (Ireland), and The Stockholm Review of Literature, she is the winner of The Sixty-Four: Best Poets of 2018 (Black Mountain Press). www.oceansandfire.com
stephanie roberts lives in Beauharnois Québec. The author of UNMET (Biblioasis Books, April 2025) and rushes from the river disappointment (MQUP, 2020) an A.M. Klein Poetry Prize finalist, she is a 2025 Canada Council for the Arts grant recipient and the winner of The Sixty-Four: Best Poets of 2018 (Black Mountain Press). www.oceansandfire.com
stephanie
__________
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: BETTER THAN IT LOOKS/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 AUGUST – and will reopen again on 1st SEPTEMBER 2025/for new theme/new editor/s.
BHP online is now in the capable hands of the amazing stephanie roberts– friends, arsonistas, send our AUGUST 2025 guest editor your magic!
Burning House Press are excited to welcome M. FORAJTER as the second BHP guest editor of our return series of special editions! As of today M. will take over editorship of Burning House Press online for the month of JULY.
Submissions are open from today – and will remain open until 25TH JULY.
M.’s theme for the month is as follows
—ART & ANNIHILATION: contemporary gothic writing in the Anthropocene—
ART & ANNIHILATION: contemporary gothic writing in the Anthropocene
“The energy of the poem penetrates and re-penetrates the rotting native land with ghosts, junk, corpses, skin, denigrating terms, and denigrated materials in order to engender a counternativity, an occult rebirth as ghostly reanimation. In this way the poet incestually forces his own rebirth, not as a liberated man but as a kind of infernal, spectral double, a production of the text: “And behold here I am!” -Joyelle McSweeney, The Necropastoral: Poetry, Media, Occults
BRAND NEW CHERRY FLAVOR! + microplastics + dandelion + flawed pearl + fruit punch + The Relic + baroque + “when does a meadow stop being a meadow” + jackalope + bowl of teeth + i am sad, so sad + a ceaseless keening + still skeptical + lilac + Lizzie Borden took an axe + Joan of Arc : : Gilles De Rais + “search at the dump concluded today with” + tiger pelts + je me lance + the biologist + dense + decadent + nonpotable + “ob-scene[…] their filthy beauty” + disposable + “the pastoral, like the occult, has always been a fraud” + heavy water + contamination readouts + bonsai tree + shotgun + “no conclusive evidence of substantial impact on wildlife” + wild boar + many wolves + pine + “life finds a way!” + slight asymmetric measurements + “don’t drink milk or eat tomatoes” + MELODY, GLOUCESTER + sunflower remediation + fortitude + end of the world + gross body + ecological anxiety + HUMANS, HUMANS, HUMANS.
Contemporary ecological concerns are often countered with talk about environmental justice. What does justice mean to a corpse? I’ve read too many books where hapless environmentalist do-gooders try to sell me the silver lining in mass extinction and planetary collapse. Some people are very excited about the possibilities in fungus. Some people are vegetarians. Some people make art. Autoerotic asphyxiation takes many forms.
Send me decadent poetry peddling vegetal, venial filth; fiction that is more sensation than sense; writing with mutated romantic hearts; visual art both florid and tortured. Send me your most purple perfume reviews & pimple pops, your psycho killer love letters, your apocalypse day planner. Tell me what credit cards you ate for lunch yesterday; your most recent sperm count. I want a lush gothic novel written by a half-imploded billionaire at the bottom of the sea; I want Melancholia & Flannery O’Connor & Lara Glenum & Only Lovers Left Alive.
Good luck.
____________
M. Forajter is the author of Interrogating the Eye (Schism Neurotics, 2022), a poetry-essay on the poetics of looking/the gaze and the ecstasy of art making. Her work focuses on experimental poetics, the gothic, and the effects of the Anthropocene on non-human ecology. She really likes Nirvana, werewolves, and medieval art.
__________
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: ART & ANNIHILATION/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 JULY – and will reopen again on 1st AUGUST 2025/for new theme/new editor/s.
BHP online is now in the capable hands of the amazing M. FORAJTER– friends, arsonistas, send our JULY 2025 guest editor your magic!
He had taken the food and he had eaten it and the food had come into him and he had
eaten it and it had been in him and it was in him and he was eating it and the food was in
him and he was eating it and the food was eaten and it was in him and he was eating it
and the food was inside him and it was entering him and it churned and it was inside him
and he could not expel it and he was eating the food and the food was churning and it was
inside him and was churning and was inside him and he had eaten it and he was eating it
and it was inside him and it had come inside him was coming into him and was churning
it was turning over and it was inside him and he was nauseous and he was eating the food
and he had eaten the food and the food was inside him and it was turning over and he was
nauseous and he could not vomit and it was inside him turning the food was churning and
it was inside him he could not vomit and he was nauseous he was eating he had eaten it
was turning over and he had eaten the food it was inside him it churned it was churning
and he could not vomit he could not expel it the food was inside him he was eating the
food he could not expel it he was nauseous and he could not expel it and it was churning
the food was inside him and it had come inside him and it was turning he could not vomit
he could not expel it was inside him and he could not vomit the food was turning he was
eating the food it was churning it was turning over inside him he could not expel it he
was being changed it was inside him it was changing him he could not vomit he was
being changed he could not expel the change the vomit the food he was eating was inside
him it was becoming inside him and it was entering him and it was changing he was
being changed the food was inside him churning and he was eating the food and the food
was inside him and he could not expel it he was eating the food and could not vomit he
was nauseous and was eating the food and the food was inside him and it was nauseous
the food was turning over and he was changing he was nauseous he could not expel it he
could not vomit he was changing the food was entering him he was nauseous he saw at
the edge of his vision he was eating the food and the food was inside him it was turning
and he was nauseous he saw at the edge of his vision he could not expel it he had eaten it
he was nauseous he could not vomit he was eating the food and the food was inside him
at the edge of his vision he was nauseous he was changing and at the edge of his vision
he saw and he was eating he had eaten the food was coming into him inside him it was
turning it was changing him the food he had taken he saw at the edge of his vision a frail
horse standing with its hooves sinking into the dirt and its ribs standing through its flank
and symbols carved into them he was eating he had eaten could not vomit he was
nauseous he could not vomit he had taken the food he had eaten and he was eating it he
could not expel it it would not come up out of him the horse looked at him and he could
not look away he was changing he could not vomit he was eating the food he had eaten
the food the food was inside him and was turning he could not look away he was
changing he was nauseous he could not expel it he was changed.
junk x (i)
pistol weep mask sky pond trap
humble circle x pinstripe rage laugh height
prophet po et c tea leaves v j t
teen Gram sci scram rhino r t spec
cram bet brew knock push
drum gin tin-tin junk hybrid rank
shift zip bull t s c un
bucket queen Wm. leg broke hole up
William v. bloke scrub face bleat pad
empty of bruise to collide thru depend with
contract against misuse urine crop abjection
villa top hat plate criminal nuke m p b n p d j code
ointment c a rain turf ember flag Eton & Scrib
sub silent taste small part baby sun sub edge tack
vase post L orca multi ash H art ash
add little little v t j j j v t x 88 j
meal rests wall wakes trail cat foam
lead term ology kip descent com partment rabbit
restriction dummy round peanut stuck
junk x river (ii)
Penn Station gin bath k id
spirit world drive thru
Taito toleration J ack Žiž ick
eye-contact gin attaché
lap dog pro ject
sick pup back
black and white French
lost laugh
cavity tent d r d wad
attachment vege table popper
memoir grain wrestler
failed ski toss scape
injury lone flame night
junk x 88 (iii)
wye thinks middle main face gin washes ouster summer commits 88/89
bliss ginny stink pain act account island hug hidden pot cactus atrophy
dilute network trojan tick 88 casement
char unto Stein Steiner stainless balcony wave
Mastroianni Nico letters Nebraska flood prophecy 1888
utopian frogger Olivetti Linea 98 Garrard turntable penetrate
expletive adumbrates tweed alien nomenclature Adriano
Florida sand hot belly pelican feeds boxers front tight
guava juice Pausanias condo kid (k)hit gold
cash god sleeps court sneakers new hour crack questions bent
enamel nails diploma masks seriatim maple 1928 causeway 8
head to hand crème de la crème shard throated crust commodity
ping pong Dunlop Perry men adult cold
Fußballplatz purity tree bark right phase zeal pays 8 dough port
Finnish gin quiescence presentation plate TV 1974/78/88 sub
summer mech little little gin bottle new intro derma
kite paper ketch sun note holds homo nucleus peck
dog jacket walk 8 truck pocket 8 tablet 8 extra function
coop sign vitamin Paso Doble patch 225 mg Du Fu lake fleck
gin rock meditation manoeuvre Berlin drifter nose never better
love luck lint roller finger volt croissant house offers 88 hour
B&L&L ack object unto object copy 8 hope hum
Please click pdf below to view
Join us for the first in our series of readings – each session will be aligned with each new guest edited edition and theme.
Saturday 28th June
5pm – 6.30pm BST UK TIME
via zoom (details below)
______
Housekeeping:
The BHP readings series is open to the many unforeseen possibilities arising from the convening of individuals in an online space – but we also have some stated intentions for the reading series:
The readings are an opportunity for those in attendance to engage with the guest-editor’s chosen monthly theme, and the work generated for the month’s edition.
It is an opportunity not only to hear the work read live – but also to engage with the pieces through conversation and communication.
The readings are open to all.
The readings are free to attend.
The group and hosts will manage the time on the day of each reading (90mins).
The readings are an opportunity to gather in an environment where listener is of equal weight to speaker (one sound ear is worth a million egotist readers).
We do not believe in the binary of ‘performer’ and ‘audience’ more in the belief in all in attendance as being in communication and conversation (and all as conduits of the word – poetry.)
Mutual respect for one another and the purpose of the gathering or we will have to say goodbye 👋
____
Meeting/Zoom details:
Miggy BHP is inviting you to a scheduled Zoom meeting.
Saturday 28th June
5pm – 6.30pm BST UK TIME
Topic: BHP READING SERIES INANIMISM EDITION
Join Zoom Meeting
https://us04web.zoom.us/j/2531522925?pwd=27SN5o80k48TmKNmkqlkV8il8WKuGX.1
Meeting ID: 253 152 2925
Passcode: Fmi8Dw
1.
Embrace this microlife of yours. Winter has finally lifted its embargo on verve and fun.
And the sun has freed us from our death circuits. Snapped like a motherboard over a
skinny knee. We’re out of our domiciled existence and mingling again. And what we
thought was just a phantom pregnancy has turned out to be all too real. Fragrances
long forgotten will burn the nostrils. A Jugendstil frau. A Jugendstil frau waves. A
Jugendstil frau waves her soft wand over this scene, and we are suddenly awash in
fragrance. “Historic rates of vaping” they are calling it, and it is just the first fiscal
quarter! “There is much to be learned from this data set. There is much to be gleaned
here.” One thing is for sure – domesticity is on the chopping block. Digital platforms
replete with echoes. A play performed to an empty house. Every step in the fade is
beautiful. The user testing is in. The personas taped to the wall flutter in the breeze.
Scores of misogynists are lined up beneath the cherry trees for the culling. All boner
pills & bone broth are priced to move. Finely calibrated machines have marked you as a
power user. JUUL pods litter the streets at dusk. Streaming is dreaming. We’ve finally
found our groove and the elation is real. Sundowning as a guiding framework. Bulbous
faces swim up from the gloom animated and spooked. Familiarity is a breeding tactic.
Suddenly we are awash in fragrance, and it all starts coming back to us. The open pit is
steaming with body heat. We lay phablets with the browser history of loved ones along
the rim. GhostBots™ haunt this place. Adjudicate yourself. You gotta love this microlife
of yours. Every step in the fade is beautiful.
2.
Let’s gush positive for a change. Take charge of this charm offensive and start glad-
handing with the best of them. The ballroom is filled with ballooning egos and sharp
teeth. From the window a line is forming beneath the fuchsia of the cherry trees.
Fragrances long forgotten will burn the nostrils. Petabytes of grief. The personas flutter
in the breeze. Several elderly statesmen in attendance. Blood boys in tow. IV-leashed.
They make the rounds. They get around. Glad-handing with the best of them. “Your
extrajudicial extradition has been expediated.” Dark patterns are forming against your
will. Your luck ambassador waves gleefully from across the room. He’s here to soften
your mind. A state of continuous productivity is desirable. “What an extraordinary
rendition,” they marvel. Champagne towers golden. “You might like to know that you’re
exempt from your extrajudicial extradition.” “Pardon, me?!” Champagne towers golden.
watermelon vape clouds Hors d’oeuvres make the rounds. Canapés. From the open
windows instructive bull-horning can be heard. Starlings screech at sundown. The
culling begins and the fragrance burns the nostrils. “Gotta come up with a suitable
ingestion framework.”
3.
The furries are streaking again. The blvds are choked with dander. This is the choicest
of choice architecture. Mood disorders pegged to a wildly fluctuating index. They say,
honor killings are back on the menu – whether we like it or not. It pangs my pericardium
to hear this. The personas taped to the wall flutter in the breeze. The hard-pressed need
a win. Valid crash-outs will now be enshrined in the law. Glazin’ this soiree like a boss.
The air is agitated with influencers and bad actors. People slicking their hair back
looking to make a name for themselves. The air is cloudy, milky-white with lassitude
.Epic amounts of screen time. Streaming is dreaming. “Get your fursonas here! Fur-so-
NAs! Fur-so-NAs here!” Out here? Late at night? Exhausted citizens line up. Over by
the old castle wall. They take turns running, throwing themselves against the electric
fence. They do it over and over and over. in a circle now, clapping, chanting “Pop &
Lock! Pop & Lock!” Faces smashed up against the fence. Seared hexagons. My face is
falling. My face has fallen – I can’t get up. My face has fallen – I can’t look up.
Dig Yr Own Hole
Tomorrow’s False Memories
Dry Chaconne
the air was parched the earth in drought when you left me
thinking of Lorca the desire of the rain remembrance
of the earth the smooth earth when it rains has a scent
as you did when you came to me in splinters
a weight of longing a turning wheel straining the fibres
of your countenance blurred visions flecks of silvering light
the smallest gestures of your eyes arabesque, interlacing
rhythmic in the shimmering air shivers of electric blue
a tapestry of shadow layers of ice melting
the rain falling the desire of the rain a memory
of the earth in Lorca shards falling
splinters of rain the dry earth around me
our ritual gestures fragility of longing the suffering
of the rain in the chasms of your eyes an infinite waiting
for the simplest things infinite light infinite heat
a daze of deep yellow layers of ice melting
a tapestry of shadow the unsparing earth
the rain in Lorca the fibres of your eyes
all the fevers of the seas
as you wish
line bright with horizon
golden residues of day
α hours of the dwindling warmth
β warmth of the dwindling hours
γ dwindling warmth of the hours
dwindling sadness of the river
shoreline bright with stone
glistening time under starry moonlight
now quiet, all is becoming
Delta Oscillations
iterate
calm stream of aporetic present
oblivion of sleep
dreams grow more lively after dawn
close your peepers
reiterate
brief moments of gloss contentment
needs of obsidian
sleep will wash you with slow waves
night will keep us
BURNING HOUSE PRESS 