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BURNING HOUSE PRESS

Not For Profit/For Prophecy

Australia Burns by Tony Messenger & Kayla Milaudi

CONTENT WARNING: Poem explores the destruction of nature, homes, life and animals during the bushfire crisis in Australia, still currently happening.

Australia Burns

AustraliaBurns_IMAGE01

 

The day I was Ꙩ\born/Ꙩ a terrible →sadness← descended upon the \earth/⃝.

Their ⌂homes⌂ are now piles of dust, coughing smoke and ⸙\smoldering/⸙. I can hear the ●dead● mounds whimpering softly over the ⌐agony⌐ of their ₼scorched₼ memories.

Silicone and Ꝝ\metal/Ꝝ melt at my touch and ≈\water/≈, my enemy, is as ineffective as paracetamol is for cancer.

In other lives I was a ◊cleanser◊, cleaner, ჻\creator/჻. Now I am known as ●pain●.
Continue reading “Australia Burns by Tony Messenger & Kayla Milaudi”

Vision by Monty Oxymoron

Vision

I do not know what IT is.
IT has no form, no colour; IT makes no sound.
But IT comes every night after dark.
I can only call it THING, and it is
My THING, as mine as is my birth… and my death.
IT expands and pulses as my heart-beat expands, in speed and intensity.
If IT engulfs me it will be all over for me,
As I know me… Continue reading “Vision by Monty Oxymoron”

(dis/re)membered 7 – what starts as a toothache by James Knight

What Starts as a Toothache
‘(dis/re)membered 7 – what starts as a toothache’ by James Knight

Continue reading “(dis/re)membered 7 – what starts as a toothache by James Knight”

Prism by Brian Walters

Prism

Satin bower birds, eyeing their options,
Want to peck the colour from the sky,
Preen their plumage with it, and arrange it
In their bowers to attract the perfect mate.

Pebbles, in myriad polished forms and hues,
Esteem the things that grow, and debate
Which green might best be hidden in their hearts. Continue reading “Prism by Brian Walters”

2 Excerpts from SyncWorld by Jordan Trethewey & Jenn Zed

 

the_girl_who_draws_gynoids2 (1)
‘The Girl Who Draws Gynoids’ by Jordan Trethewey & Jenn Zed (Excerpt from ‘SyncWorld’)

Continue reading “2 Excerpts from SyncWorld by Jordan Trethewey & Jenn Zed”

2 Poems by Paul Brookes

I Can’t Make Neither

a head nor tail out of this beast
who shrugs and our ship yaws.

It’s pelt moves up and down beaches
as it shuffles along continents.

I can only see as its curled its face
and tail in sleep and we pitch

over its dreaming, every twitch
a ripple or wave as it hunts,
Continue reading “2 Poems by Paul Brookes”

Cat’s Kaleidoscope by Lizzy Turner

 

Cat's Kaleidoscope I
‘Cat’s Kaleidoscope I’ by Lizzie Turner

Continue reading “Cat’s Kaleidoscope by Lizzy Turner”

JANUARY 2020 Guest Editor Is REVERSE BUTCHER!!! THEME: VISION

Burning House Press are excited to welcome REVERSE BUTCHER as our JANUARY 2020 guest editor! As of today RvB will take over editorship of Burning House Press online for the full month of JANUARY.

Submissions are open from today – 1st January and will remain open until 24TH JANUARY.

RvB‘S theme/s for the month are as follows

VISION

Continue reading “JANUARY 2020 Guest Editor Is REVERSE BUTCHER!!! THEME: VISION”

LABYRINTH EDITION DECEMBER 2019 GUEST EDITED/CURATED BY DHIYANAH HASSAN

LABYRINTH EDITION DECEMBER 2019 GUEST EDITED/CURATED BY DHIYANAH HASSAN

Continue reading “LABYRINTH EDITION DECEMBER 2019 GUEST EDITED/CURATED BY DHIYANAH HASSAN”

The Red Thread by Stephanie Parent

My Ariadne can see the future.

(My Ariadne. This is my version of the story.)

She spins her red thread, and it twists into shapes before her eyes, hearts and nooses. It tells her that Theseus turns out to be an asshole.

Seven young men and seven maidens arrive on the island, and Theseus outshines them all. His eyes are the sky blue of someone who believes he cannot fail, who believes he has no darkness within him. Those eyes make Ariadne dream of flight.

Theseus wonders how such a creature as the minotaur, half-beast, half-man, could be allowed to exist. Ariadne doesn’t tell him the last of the halves: the monster is her half-brother. In the evening she dreams of blue eyes, but her hands twist and turn the red thread. At midnight she dreams of mazes like arteries and veins, running red and blue.

Ariadne gives Theseus a coiled ball of thread the size of a heart. She tells him the thread will guide him out of the labyrinth.

Continue reading “The Red Thread by Stephanie Parent”

Circle Series: Woman With Poem by ReVerse Butcher and Kylie Supski

rvBandKylieS

Drawing/illustrations made in Procreate, spatial VR remix poem made in Tilt Brush, and overall design/collage by ReVerse Butcher.
Original linear poem, and flower photography by Kylie Supski.

Continue reading “Circle Series: Woman With Poem by ReVerse Butcher and Kylie Supski”

Phobos Lab by Edwin Evans-Thirlwell

E1M1

Orbit if you follow, if you quit
the rail of Cassiopeia.

Point the toe if you flow
backward from the altar.

Be appointed dirt to an Easter scene,
breathe as low
as an overbearing ceiling.

E1M2

The ankles for the trees,
the kestrel square and trim,
as a kestrel is begotten
and bent inward from the rim.

E1M3

A microscope slide of masonry
plied with ocular fluid, Continue reading “Phobos Lab by Edwin Evans-Thirlwell”

Womannotated – I Was Blythe

I Was Blythe

I would do anything to not be cute,

fifteen, though it’s, without dispute, what I am,

Blythe doll eyes, wide face, small limbs a brute

could hold in place with fingertips.  Brown eyes Continue reading “Womannotated – I Was Blythe”

3 Poems by Kylie Ayn Yockey

HELL IS REAL

warns the interstate billboard
between pastures and pig slaughters

this landscape of disturbance
smells like home to my soul

the sun’s pollen heats
a body of cows
invisible behind dirt devils
mooing in another language

hell is a gas station
between nothing-towns
of glaring bony-leered eyes

the giant sky turns to me
with cornflower irises
through titanic turbine lashes
across unblinking horizon Continue reading “3 Poems by Kylie Ayn Yockey”

Strategies by Lisa Fazio

1. Calculate

I plan ahead
Preparing for the best outcome
and defense
I stay alert for the minotaurs
that live in my maze
Each day I puzzle and calculate
But in the woods
I wonder
Why do my decisions come so easily?
Trusting
I step off the trail
feeling my way around
Prickers
Thorn trees
Barbed wire fences
Picking up deer trails
I follow them without knowing where they’ll take me Continue reading “Strategies by Lisa Fazio”

Big Moves/Changes/ Feelings by Lauren Weik

When I first decided to move from Austin, TX to Los Angeles, I was leaving behind my friends, family, two jobs, and cat all in Texas to go finish school in a big, new city. I was freshly single after a relationship of two years, and I felt isolated, alone, but empowered to say the least.

The week before I moved from Austin, I said several goodbyes. To the job I worked for 3 years, to my students who I worked with in an after-school program. I moved everything out of my apartment and picked myself up after long sad nights.

During this transition period, talking about all the swift changes and new rules of the adult world proved difficult. I was only beginning to learn how to navigate my own mental health, and I went through my days carrying the weight of the breakup pain plus the grief of moving while others appeared to function and lead happy, perfect lives. I watched my 4 year old cousin turn 5, and we painted his hair pink. I went to Chicago by myself to visit an old friend. I packed up my belongings and dealt with the process of moving like a grown woman. Continue reading “Big Moves/Changes/ Feelings by Lauren Weik”

The Believer by Kristin Garth

She sleepwalks in your washi house in crin-
oline, emaciated mouse weeks you
forget to feed, a nibbler, toenails, skin,
until feet bleed free, soil sheets, bamboo
floor, trafficked hardly anymore except
somnabulistic scarlet toes who
map labyrinths, shake off bedclothes, accept
razored teeth in pale furrows.  Ankle chewed
until, unconscious, she seeks the ground.  Bandage,
next time you come around — rose macaroons
gunpowder tea — into a paper cage
fantasy, unbolted door, girl you freed,
six months ago, believes enough to bleed.

 

Kristin Garth is a Pushcart, Best of the Net & Rhysling nominated sonnet stalker. Her sonnets have stalked journals like Glass, Yes, Five:2:One, Luna Luna, and more. She is the author of fourteen books of poetry including Pink Plastic House (Maverick Duck Press), Candy Cigarette Womanchild Noir (The Hedgehog Poetry Press), the forthcoming Flutter: Southern Gothic Fever Dream (TwistiT Press), The Meadow (APEP Publications) and Shut Your Eyes, Succubi (Maverick Duck). Follow her on Twitter @lolaandjolie and her website kristingarth.com

Covert art credit: Photo by Aimee Vogelsang on Unsplash

Remixes by Shloka Shankar

shloka-swallowed hope - an erasure diptych
swallowed hope: an erasure diptych

For all the good it did

It was me.                                                        Should I go on?
The dark doesn’t affect
your nose.                                                      Never wake up

………………………………………halfway
………………………………………down
………………………………………the
………………………………………stairs.

A fraction of an inch— Continue reading “Remixes by Shloka Shankar”

There Might Have Been Horses by Rebecca Loudon

Oh sad potato wrapped in plastic like Laura Palmer I might have been Caroline Calloway I might have swallowed a yellow sundress a lemon yellow orchid a story to tell by a bonfire at night in a forest in Montana

my tell is a magnetic lie
my tell is a rotting animal
my tell is a broken knuckle
my tell is a tent pitched at Flathead Lake

where I traveled backward into wilderness where fire and blackberries devoured my girl soul where soil and conifers met at the trout mouth edge and blue water and black deep did not restore my sister but we rose her anyway we opened her stone and chanted up her finished flesh and worshiped her little dress her lilac crown her apples her plush rabbit

I played my violin in the forest
I thought music could fix my disease
I thought music could raise the dead

when my face doesn’t unlock my phone I panic I have become Caroline Calloway my life mere electricity I have disappeared into caves among the stalactite’s green glisten the ocean never closer than my memory of Montana there might have been horses there might have been giant hares there might have been my father building a fire raising my sister from the ashes look he said look at her perfection Continue reading “There Might Have Been Horses by Rebecca Loudon”

Review ‘poems to be found in the desert’ by Tony Messenger

“The poem surpasses the other literary arts in every way: in its depth, potency, bitterness, beauty, as well as its ability to unsettle us.” Jón Kalman Stefánsson

Unsettlement is a recurring theme in Tony Messenger’s debut collection ‘poems to be found in the desert’. Colonial unsettlement, traversing an uncomfortable environment,
d i s l o c a t i o n and the blurred lines of imaginary \\\borders///. \\\Boundaries/// & limits that appear, settle and dissolve.

This conflicting duality works to unsettle the reader, forcing them to ???question??? their place in the vast Australian →landscape←, an environment where nothing seems as it appears.

The epigraph for the opening section of poems comes from Ely Williams “I find that out in the desert my words wander too because here thoughts and words are things unleashed.” A warning that the collection is peppered with thoughts and words unleashed, a cryptic murmuring, a maze of ideas that circle, repeat, fade and reform. It is easy to become lost in this text, thinking you’ve already experienced an image, but a refresh and a re-read show slight differences, an erosion, a morphing of concepts.

This is the desert where the obvious is not so obvious.

The collection opens with the poem “longifolius” (the scientific name for the spiky spinifex grass that is abundant in the central deserts). The poem can be viewed as a metaphor for Australia itself. The grass grows in a ◌circular◌ clump, and as it ages its shape becomes nest like, with the centre ►dying◄ off as the grass uses all the available nutrients in the soil, the newer stems sprouting on the outside forming ◌concentric◌ patterns. The inner “►dead zone◄” is a haven for ants, who feed on the ⸙seeds⸙, and reptiles and birds, who feed off the ants. Hence the ◌circular◌ shape of the poem. Something that may appear barren is in fact teeming with life. Look to the centre not as an ⸔inhospitable⸕ place, look for details, enquire with a local pair of eyes.

Continue reading “Review ‘poems to be found in the desert’ by Tony Messenger”

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