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BURNING HOUSE PRESS

Not For Profit/For Prophecy

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The Queer Sapphic Double Vision of Michael Field by Gabrielle Everall

The Queer Sapphic Double Vision of Michael Field.
by Gabrielle Everall

In the following I will give a reading of the embodiment theory of Merleau-Ponty to articulate the lesbian body in the work of the Victorian poet Michael Field. The aim is to show how such a reading of the female body allows lesbian possession in the double vision of the authorship of Michael Field. Continue reading “The Queer Sapphic Double Vision of Michael Field by Gabrielle Everall”

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”

mother, the objects by Elizabeth Kolenda

Screenshot_20191213-182853__01(1) Continue reading “mother, the objects by Elizabeth Kolenda”

“Attached:” by ⑆ka⑉t⑇

IMG_3155
Art by Moriah M. Mylod

 

An Overview (Log A.0003)

The greens, the greys, the ocean waves—together cross.

Enveloped within infrastructure, like an orb with swirling insides: the waters settle in the center as trees surround them. Three oceans connect through a narrow river; these oceans huddle close. The architecture: high-rise. Sky-high, arching over the oceans, shielding them. The buildings reach out to one another through pathways (connected, like the oceans)—and these know no time. Similar to skip travel, almost. Each piece in this machine of a home fits and functions as planned, always.

The fresh breeze, the silvers, the tides—these are what make up home, and yet, home would be incomplete without its inhabitants. This Realm has always been known for its residents’ hyperosmia: heightened olfactory senses. Other neighboring Realms are known for other things. Hyperosmia plays a vital role in the circulation of energy.

All this Realm’s energy is generated from its very own oceans. There are the tides: natural, relatively predictable, but insufficient and intermittent (the oceans cherish their quiet time, too). There is the concentration of salt: with hyperosmia, energy management poses no challenge. In other words, apart from the tides, the oceans must have an exact percentage of salt for the energy to be distributed evenly in the Realm. An exact percentage, a very specific scent. Each piece in this machine of a home fits and functions as planned, always.

Amidst distinct realms, here lies Elesphal.

*******

The Oliques and Their Ancestral History (Log A.0028)

    Elesphal was once led by the Scentress for ages and ages as tales go. Essentially, she was the founder; the scholars of the Realms speak of her oneness with nature and how she foresaw the need for Elesphal to live upon such providence.

    The Scentress began, along with a few others of her time, to construct the Elesphal of now, from its architecture to its energies. She is the sole reason for the inhabitants’ hyperosmia; from her the idea of mastering the sense came about and hence, her name.

    However, since her passing, the Olique family—the Scentress’ descendants—had taken over. The Oliques maintain order in and ensure the needs of Elesphal. All have equal roles: mother Morea takes the general governance over the Realm, father Lesthe takes interactions with the other Realms, older brother Iressen takes infrastructure management, sister Midence takes energy monitoring, and younger brother Alsgne takes nature development.

    Even in the seamless machine of Elesphal there exists widespread rumors of the Scentress. As indicated in the records, she has transformed into an ancestral ghost, roaming around Elesphal, soul stuck for reasons unknown. As much as all inhabitants sand the Olique family would like to further study this and assist in sending the Scentress to fulfill herself into a higher, more peaceful being, everyone fears what she might do to them or their Realm. She later on became detached from the residents after achieving hyperosmia herself, tales tell.

*******

 

The Scentress Herself (Log C.0147)

    The oceans are off, Midence mutters.

    All seems well to me, sister, Iressen assures her.

    I agree with brother. It might just be your nose, sister, Alsgne has a light laugh.

    Midence ignores her little brother, looks away. Had all really meant well, her nose should not be twitching as it is now, should it? Midence tries asking around, but to no avail; the rest of the inhabitants seem fine. Not even her mother and father side with her.

    Midence sets her eyes on the oceans once more; she tears away from the waters almost immediately, the scent too powerful for her to even look

    If the oceans are unwell, might this lead to overconsumption, and possibly ruin Elesphal? The worry rings in Midence’s heart. She leaves her brothers and rushes to the records hall, in hopes that the scholars might shed light onto this disruption. As quick as she can, she goes through any and every log in her immediate sight—she fears no time can be wasted.

    Midence, nearly drowned in all the books, discovers an eccentric dent in the brick walls. When she touches the dent, a slip of paper falls into her hands and it reads:

If someone were to call for me aloud, or if these very lines were to be found out,

I assure you—have no doubt:

Visiting one, you have my blessings. And now, to you, I shall call out.

    Midence resumes her research to look for more answers. She finds that those lines are a message from the Scentress herself. Further research tells Midence that the Scentress, at certain circumstances, chooses to appear to whoever calls for her or discovers that particular message. The scholars inferred that the Scentress appears to the chosen in either episodes of erratic voices and visions or through her unique aura projected onto ordinary objects in the Realm.

Never had Midence feared knowledge until this moment. The Scentress might—oh, the thought alone is awful, Midence winces—play around with her, haunt her, torment her. There is no way to rewind, and Midence is well-aware of that fact. She continues on, averting the ocean crisis while convincing her kindred of the Scentress’ words.

    I’ve never heard of this before, Iressen says.

    The scholars might have made mistakes, too, sister, Alsgne taps his finger on his chin.

    And in those moments of skepticism, obscurities arise: glitches, bright sparks appear before Midence’s eyes. At first only she was directed by the Scentress, then the latter began making contact with Iressen and Alsgne as well. Obscurities—yet clearly of the Scentress’ mark—and other times the most ordinary objects in the oddest of ways: tree branches intertwining, reaching out to them, intertwining, and repeat, and more. The three siblings share the same fright in the beginning. Her motives incomprehensible beyond compare, they believe the Scentress made her presence a curse for having found her message, a supposed secret.

    Midence continues with the oceans. Moment after moment of the Scentress’ calls upon the three, at long last, she appears fully to the siblings.

    “Visiting one—and her company—you have my blessings.”

    She is…at best would be to say: light, albeit a dim one.

    A silent nod, a greeting from her to the three. The Scentress proceeds to explain the behavior of their oceans:

    “Our marine energy has been fluctuating—too strong or too weak for the established scent—due to the lack of light. Have you ever considered the light?”

The three shake their heads in sync.

“Elesphal, truly, and I discovered this only upon my passing, is a world of light. Elesphal…comes from light sphere, you see? For our Realm to continue with its marine energy at normal levels, we must intersect it with our innate light capacity. Both energies must work alongside each other, yet this light energy has been neglected for so, so long. And that is one of my deepest regrets as the Scentress—not having utilized our truth.”

The three siblings look at the Scentress in awe, still trying to process her words.

“This architecture is my fault. Too completely enveloped, trapped, shunning ourselves of our open sphere and the oceans that yearn to sparkle.” The Scentress looks upward, then down in dismay. “Midence, and Iressen, Alsgne: you have always been doing well—the Oliques truly never fail. And so I must ask of your assistance to set this all anew.”

“Elesphal has,” she tries to disguise her brokenness with soft sobs, “it has become a machine, all too rigid. We directed our focus to the oceans…if we do not solve this, I foresee the oceans may lose their power and Elesphal will, in turn, fall.”

“Here, visiting ones,” the Scentress says and this time, faint and friendly glitches surround them. “What we must do is make use of both light and waters. With the warmth of direct sunlight, we will utilize the temperature of the surface of the waters. In other words, visiting ones—”

“Now, not only the scent matters, but the heat from the light as well,” Midence interrupts.

“Indeed, indeed,” the Scentress smiles.

Elesphal, with the guidance of the Oliques, turns anew: the architecture opens up, allowing light to spread onto the oceans. The energies return to the usual, but with a faint—warm—change.

Elesphal lives with the ocean and the light, now a true home to its inhabitants, to the Scentress, to itself.

 

    *******   

 

The Scentress to the Olique Children (Hidden Log)

    Every exhale is an act of devouring space and time.

Now, it is one hundred percent clear. Absolutely.

Visiting ones, here I must send my deepest thanks, and bid my farewell. I shall rise.

The ancestral spirit of the Scentress disperses and brightens, light above Elesphal. She is finally fulfilled into a higher being.

The Scentress is dearly missed by the inhabitants of Elesphal. Scholars say she makes appearances from time to time, to those who call out to her, or to those whom she wishes to call out to.

 

 

 

 

⑆ka⑉t⑇ is a BFA Creative Writing student very much into unreality. She tries to channel unreality through her works and her fashion. She can be found as typeflux on Tumblr, Twitter, and Instagram.

womannotated – Dollhouse Architect

 

Dollhouse Architect

Blueprinted girl rolled out wide to inspect

already torn, no one protects —  and why

should this one be tasked to care or respect,

question a purpose plans specify Continue reading “womannotated – Dollhouse Architect”

Womannotated – Calpurnia

Calpurnia

After Morticia Addams describing Wednesday’s
role model (“Wednesday’s great-aunt Calpurnia.
She was burned as a witch in 1706. They said she danced
naked in the town square and enslaved a minster ..
but don’t worry. We’ve told Wednesday: college first.”)

Young girls require a patron saint — aunt’s
abysmal ashes antiquate entwined,
Massachusetts grave, with God’s servant
whom she enslaved. Impious mind
in clerical cravat a town square dance
(performed in only raven plaits) bewitched Continue reading “Womannotated – Calpurnia”

Womannotated – An Ancestral Love of Boyish Bees (Flutter: Southern Gothic Fever Dream)

An Ancestral Love of Boyish Bees

He recognizes painted eyes like green
irises mythologized over a decade and
a half ago — the speckled girl, sixteen,
he used to know — acquainted, where you stand
in her place, in your hand replica, bisque,
familiar face, unblemished cheeks, unbloomed
by his demonic lips. Lunar eclipse Continue reading “Womannotated – An Ancestral Love of Boyish Bees (Flutter: Southern Gothic Fever Dream)”

Womannotated – No More Names

August 30th, 2019

No More Names

If you would follow, after dark, him and

his friends into the park — a boy who likes

to call you names, then make lewd demands,

midnight games. Mother said, “He’s so polite,”

his slick blonde hair, and Dad’s old spice, shirt tucked Continue reading “Womannotated – No More Names”

“Ageing is Amazing” an Incantation by Kate O’Connor

Appreciate your marks of age
Light a candle for every new blemish mark or scar
Like a ring on a tree trunk it is a sign of defiance shown on your glorious trunk 

Celebrate each mistake you make by wearing your favourite colour head to toe for the entire day
Know that you won’t do it again, or if you do you will be reassured that you won’t shatter next time you will still be you

Continue reading ““Ageing is Amazing” an Incantation by Kate O’Connor”

A poem and an essay by Diane Exavier

(Image: Collage by Diane Exavier)
Continue reading “A poem and an essay by Diane Exavier”

An essay by Marcos Gonsalez

text me back …

Continue reading “An essay by Marcos Gonsalez”

An apology by Zoé Samudzi


“Man & Nature I” (2018)
This met me upon entering the dispensation in Harare where my aunt purchases chicken parts for the butcher shop. Everyone in the shop was amused at my fascination with this goat (ox?) head on the counter; I was reminded how very little I know about where my American meat comes from.
Continue reading “An apology by Zoé Samudzi”

On Blood by Kaylie Padgett

On Blood

The blood I scrub from the inside of my underwear is not the same as the blood I wipe from my mouth, not the same blood my mother lost when laboring over my birth, not what spilled from my grandmother’s head when her stepfather split it open for scrubbing a floor wrong. Not the same, but close.

Continue reading “On Blood by Kaylie Padgett”

ReVerse Butcher: This is not a violin, it is a doorway

CollagedSpurViolin01_ReVerseButcher

This is not a violin, it is a doorway. I know this, because I read a lot. My notes and references are usually very detailed breadcrumb paths. But, as Brion Gysin said, the mice can get into the larder of language (and I add to his point, memory). And, well… I have no control over legions of mice.

“This is is not a violin, it is a doorway.”

Continue reading “ReVerse Butcher: This is not a violin, it is a doorway”

Christina Tudor-Sideri: PASSING THROUGH THE HOME OF THE DYING

Screen Shot 2018-12-28 at 1.00.18 PM

Tachypsychia. The word we use for defining the neurological condition which alters our perception of time. Time lengthening, time moving slower, time contracting. A blurred vision of time as response to a traumatic event. Time as a collection of unrelated passages. Time as red lines on the temptation to exist. Time as well-captured intentions, the same throughout all journeys. Every inked reflection, a paradise lost. Continue reading “Christina Tudor-Sideri: PASSING THROUGH THE HOME OF THE DYING”

Astra Papachristodoulou: The methodology of Astropolis

As guest-editor this month, I was fortunate to have published a small selection of stunning, future-facing poems from Astropolis (Haverthorn Press, 2018) by Astra Papachristodoulou earlier this month. I also asked Astra if she would write a small piece on Astropolis, which she has kindly done.

The methodology of Astropolis  Continue reading “Astra Papachristodoulou: The methodology of Astropolis”

The Green, Green Grass of Ceredigion by Laurence Mitchell

The final nine miles into Aberystwyth were a soothing amble through dappled green light – the disused railway track partially shaded by the overhanging branches of limes and oaks, the gravelly river close enough to be an audible murmur through the trees. Continue reading “The Green, Green Grass of Ceredigion by Laurence Mitchell”

Grief is a private island by Julia Lee Barclay-Morton

Grief is a private island. You can only wave to people from it. Even people who have lived on that island, who may understand where you are, can only wave back. And yet the island is invisible so unless someone knows you are on it, they talk to you as if life is normal, and sometimes you don’t have the energy to explain or try to that you can’t understand a damn word they are saying because of all the water and wind between you and them.

A very few can whisper from some place different and make you feel temporarily less lonely because they have had a similar enough experience and an ability to empathize in a certain way, but in the end, it’s you and your island. And there’s no shorting the loneliness and sheer pain of grief.

Continue reading “Grief is a private island by Julia Lee Barclay-Morton”

Spanish Moss by Eric Edwards

Despite the distance we crash into each other repeatedly.

We spend a lot of our time typing messages. Talking over poor quality internet calls, across time zones that leave me exhausted, both of us wanting. A yearning that brings us closer but at a cost. Long nights of feeling alone while being together.

We hit and smash and spin out of control; never enough days and nights to find the balance that is there, tantalizingly out of reach, never out of sight. The wheels run straight for a while, but veer. We make it to the swamp. Though not the cemetery or the convent. Not this time. What we want is to run away into the woods. Continue reading “Spanish Moss by Eric Edwards”

Some Body by Florence Lenaers

Some years ago I wrote a draft on my left arm. An inarticulate tale. Scarry. A slasher script. Part-listless, part-restless. Preverbal. The script looked—and still looks—like tally marks. The kind of marks used to count ever since upper-paleolithic days. Tally marks to count days, for example. The days of a sentence.

Have you ever thought of your body as a prison cell? [Y/N] Continue reading “Some Body by Florence Lenaers”

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