Still from the film Athanor (1972) by Philippe Garrel
In the dark room at night, the walls enameled black, so dawn arrives as a violation, she smokes. She smokes without conviction, almost without need, but then deeply as if to prove something to herself. Flicks the butt into the grate of the ruined fireplace, heaped with little cartons, each cigarette emptied and smoked, each added to a mountain. A plate of ashes. She makes sure, twice, that her cigarette is extinguished before she does this. Philippe scolded her. Ari found one smoldering and rubbed it out on the floor. How could Philippe be angry? When they moved from the Montparnasse Hotel into this apartment, he gutted the place, tore out the twentieth century and some of the nineteenth too. Gone: gas, electricity, hot water, heater, lighting, furniture, carpets. A penitentiary but there are no locks.
She yearns to go back to New York though nothing good comes to or from there. The not-good is familiar. She needs that now with her mother dead. Can still smell the air’s heavy scent in the room where she knelt before the empty bed and cried. She hadn’t wanted it to be like that and knew her aunt Helma blamed her for not visiting the last two years of her mother’s life. It had always been hard, then became impossible. The immobility she feels now, lying in bed undead, waiting for light to come in the room and peepshow the mess. Philippe shifts beside her, groans. They are covered by his overcoat which doubles as mattress and bedding, sleeping partly on it, partly on the floor, the faint smell of piss. Ari makes sounds across the room, asleep or awake, she can’t tell. She’s never alone lately but never accompanied either. Everything has fallen to repetition. They score, they get high, they have no money, no need for food after they’ve fed, only to make certain the boy eats, he must eat. Then they go to museums or wander the docks, up and down the same streets of Paris. Was it last week or the one before—prior has no hold here, all is prior but there is no history, only the past—that she saw someone, a London person from New York, who startled at her appearance and said what did you do to your hair. The blonde dyed crimson, bluntly cut. You like it, she responded, nearly leering, surfacing from the not-slumber, suddenly awake on the street in the face of that collaged ghoul made of the spare parts, all mean, all pushing, all saying her songs weren’t good, she needs a manager, she needs to be blonde again, she needs better clothes, not these ugly robes and caftans Philippe sewed himself for the film. The film! They hate it, just the idea of it. A woman and a man and a child in the desert, shot across three—Sinai, Death Valley, and Iceland. All blend together to her. She knew they weren’t one. Each had its own qualities and peculiarities, but like people, places were mostly the same. You met one or two and you’d met all of them. The man on the street, upset or disappointed by her appearance, had scurried off, back to his little life, perhaps some lunch in a café. The thought made her feel ill.
She would get back to New York and show them, she would book some gigs. She practices the harmonium every day now and she has new songs. The best she’s done, she’s sure, or thinks she’s sure, but can already see the faces of Danny and Paul and others who will tell her what is wrong with them, not knowing they are about her mother, Jim, the deserts, Brian’s death. Misadventure by accidental drowning, the coroner’s report stated. She knows no accidents and no misadventures. Dark spirits, yes. A man goes for a swim and never surfaces as himself again. A woman in a bar, her face cut, a fury and a glass thrown and stitches. The voices of New York, seeing Lou in a rehearsal space, having to flee, first to New Jersey, then the country. Shows canceled. Back to this room. Can she ever escape this room. Will she look over and find Ari is now a man and Philippe is dead or nearly, and they will still get up and find dope and not eat and wander the streets and walk the docks and pretend to see new things, pretend they are attuned to things other people don’t register. And the people don’t but they do see two junkies and a child and worry for the child and maybe they will do something about it or call someone to do something about it. Maybe they will make a problem, make her become a problem. Then what, when someone appears to ask about the child and she doesn’t even have blonde charm now, or good skin. Cheekbones still but hollow not haughty. This is why Ari must be a man. It is better for twenty years to pass this morning, the hour before dawn or is it. The black night and room seem to have changed a bit, added a bit. Not the usual things she sees on these mornings. Not the nights Philippe taught her to liquefy and use the needle, not broth and Coca-Colas in the palace, not the circle of fire in the desert and the boy unable to cross it to his father, not all the words she wrote only moments before she spoke them to the camera, the way time slid in and out of view in those long shots, hours stretching, and one day no longer waiting for Philippe to yell cut, just riding, swaying slightly on the horse’s back, the sound dropped out, and the sky grown dark but never like the room or the nights here. A vast star-punched ongoingness. Her mother’s bed in the sand, Ari the boy hungry always hungry, Pierre Clémenti naked and ranting lines, a pleasant body, good cock, eyes like Brian’s, Jim passing in his car not recognizing her, a box of books beside him, then the news of his death later that night, the long line, the drone she had found she could follow and it would vary, it would create the sound she craved, defeat. No one else heard it. They heard failure. Defeat is not failure. It isn’t surrender. There is no grace or wisdom or beauty in it. Defeat holds itself. A friend at last. She wants another cigarette. She can make out the outline of the pack. Dawn but not yet light. One more cigarette before the day again.
Nate Lippens is the author of My Dead Book, Ripcord, and two forthcoming novels, Box Office Poison, co-written with Matthew Kinlin, and Bastards.
The Closet (1966) was Nico’s first film with cadaverous Pop Art visionary Andy Warhol and thus represents her cinematic unveiling as a Warhol Superstar. It would be a fruitful relationship. As the Factory’s inscrutable Garbo / Dietrich equivalent she would star in several more Warhol films (most famously Chelsea Girls (1966)) while also featuring as chanteuse for Warhol’s proto-punk “house band” The Velvet Underground.
The Closet’s “plot” is absurdist and minimal: a couple living in a closet kill the time (they make small talk, split a sandwich, share a cigarette, kvetch about their cramped surroundings) and contemplate leaving but never do.
For the first few moments the camera is focused on the exterior of the shut closet door in grainy black and white as we hear only their voices (audible but muffled; in fact the sound remains muffled for the rest of the film, poor sound quality being a stylistic trademark of Warhol’s films at the time). Creeping horror that the entire 66-minute film will stay like this is averted when the door belatedly does open and we are finally permitted to see Nico and leading man Randy Bourscheidt (a cute, preppy art student-type) seated inside the closet surrounded by hangers, ties, clothes, etc. While the couple talk or sit in silence, Warhol’s camera either sits totally stationary or prowls restlessly and randomly.
The film is unscripted: instead, we get an improvised, wandering conversation between the duo who have obviously been instructed to ad-lib for the 66-minute duration. Most Warhol Superstars were amphetamine-fuelled, garrulous motormouths and exhibitionists; Nico and Bourscheidt are atypically more reticent. Both seem shy and hesitant, and their conversation is often stilted but characterized by a genuine sweetness on both parts. Some viewers have deciphered the hint of a physical attraction between them which is complicated by the pretty, long-lashed and collegiate-looking Bourscheidt’s apparent homosexuality (The expression “coming out of the closet” was already in use in the 1960s and could be a relevant coded meaning to the film’s title).
Certainly Bourscheidt seems dazzled by Nico, which is understandable: The Closet presents her at the height of her flaxen-haired beauty. It also reveals the complexity of her persona. The performers in Warhol films are essentially playing themselves, so The Closet is a snapshot of Nico the woman at this particular point in her life rather than an actress performing a role. She looks like a statuesque Nordic Amazon but is wispily spoken, reserved and uncertain rather than intimidating or forbidding — her sweetness dispels the cliché of Nico as ice maiden. And her voice – routinely described as guttural or “Germanic” – is infinitely softer than you expect.
As an avant-garde filmmaker Warhol withholds most of the conventional pleasures audiences expect from films (narrative, character development, editing, technical proficiency , etc) but with his Superstars in lead roles he does provide one of the enduring attractions of film-watching: scrutinizing beautiful people. So, while “nothing happens” in The Closet, we do get to appreciate the physical attractiveness and hip wardrobes of both Nico and Bourscheidt at great length. Nico wears what was then her signature look: an androgynous white pantsuit, turtleneck sweater and boots combo that would be the pride of any Mod boy, feminized by a curtain of long blonde hair.
Nico would have been in her late twenties by the time of The Closet, and Bourscheidt (at a guess) between 19 and 21. She speaks to him in tones that shuttle between maternal concern and big sister-ly teasing. Both seem vaguely embarrassed and self-conscious on screen, but unlike Bourscheidt Nico possesses the poised armour of sophistication: by 1965 she travelled the world as an in-demand fashion model, spoke several languages, acted in films like La Dolce Vita (1959) and Strip-Tease (1963) in Europe, was the mother of a young son, and had started her singing career.
In addition to this hauteur, Nico utilizes her experience as a seasoned model: she is clearly un-phased by the camera’s roaming gaze and is skilled at graceful self-presentation. She has a neat trick of looking down moodily so that her long blonde bangs obscure most of her face and then suddenly looking up and tilting her head, dramatically revealing sculpted cheekbones, Bardot lips and sweeping false eyelashes.
“Are you afraid of me?” Nico suddenly asks Bourscheidt towards the end of their awkward filmic encounter. He looks startled and doesn’t know how to reply. “I’m not trying to embarrass you!” she assures.
At the film’s conclusion Bourscheidt teasingly asks Nico if she’s forgotten his name. Indeed, she has, and tries to cover by asking him, “Is it Romeo?” He says no and she answers, “Why not?” He asks if she wants him to be Romeo and should he get down on one knee. She replies, “Oh, no. You be Juliet and I’ll be Romeo.”
Like the Shangri-Las song, Graham Russell is good-bad, but not evil. He’s a trash culture obsessive, occasional DJ (Cockabilly – London’s first and to date, only gay rockabilly night), and promoter of the Lobotomy Room film club (devoted to Bad Movies for Bad People) at Fontaine’s bar in Dalston. As a sporadic freelance journalist, over the years he’s contributed to everything from punk zines (MAXIMUMROCKNROLL, Flipside, Razorcake) to The Guardian and Interview magazine and interviewed the likes of John Waters, Marianne Faithfull, Poison Ivy Rorschach, Lydia Lunch, Henry Rollins and Jayne County.
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).
Dennis Etzel Jr. lives with Carrie and the boys in Topeka, Kansas where he teaches English at Washburn University. His work has appeared in Denver Quarterly, Indiana Review, BlazeVOX, Fact-Simile, 1913: a journal of poetic forms, 3:AM, Tarpaulin Sky, DIAGRAM, and others. Etzel is the recipient of a 2017 Troy Scroggins Award and the 2017 Topeka ARTSConnect Arty Award in Literary Arts. He co-edited Ichabods Speak Out: Poems in the Age of Me, Too with Dr. Jericho Hockett whichfeatures poems against sexual assault from the Washburn University and Topeka Community. He is a TALK Scholar for the Kansas Humanities Council and leads poetry workshops in various Kansas spaces.
A FURTHER READING OF URS ALLEMANN’S BABYFUCKER (WITH DRIPPING FAUCET) Concerto No3 for 2-7 Voices
Created by Daniele Pantano & David Kelly/Erkembode for Enemies of the North
First public screening: 30 March 2013, The Cornerhouse, Manchester, UK
Words/Sounds: Daniele Pantano
Visuals: David Kelly/Erkembode
A FURTHER READING OF URS ALLEMANN’S BABYFUCKER (WITH DRIPPING FAUCET)
Concerto No. 3 for 2-7 Voices
Day 1: 12 Drops Per Minute
with be different have in the others night day me here a pinkie between scraping fontanels slide with for the I some a get difference two how would neither get garret head where of with powder the haven’t none die all fucking by creel spigot spigot milk I wouldn’t I rush garret life’s with word to o some there be ribbiting wallowing I days it beautiful sick difference have went the shoe dragging person frog manage shriveled-up fucking I’d felt eyes the not misunderstanding sleeping can them two no pale the new tv I the ladder amuse outside she see third second that time a is mail babies dropped leads and the there the out Linda the rolled she me me I mine a probably stone by sex the the whoever to babies my dragged sometimes I if I’m don’t advised energy paper to that never one as arm sex hand the en back have box imagine my button window window eyes Paul’s eyes the big the for up down the my relax over all up battle legs my body even I insalivated mouth came aborted corner ever when who my reason they more cling foot flight event one of nose root all into Paul creel an always into were I’ll kitchen pack no written-on kitchen come bleed the everything garret’s wrong spigot white white wouldn’t the blood but don’t the wonder sleeping bottle from could of aucun un tiny die water to enough milk don’t intention up vat to turn the possibly beautiful is is be one feel but anything the by anything babbling it sense your spigot have on whimper candles milligram suddenly glows whimpering inside as don’t after I’d have piece in me off was my it’s stuck garret a or to reel would possibly by her Paul’s way claim reel have a a seventy-five is old the Linda the want the the garret to up on eyes off piss to letters the have be it the haven’t pictures the old think males beards asleep are have probably myself staying three don’t hairless and fall know with crawling across flesh being open over big a bed my Linda the babies chests growing because a didn’t are how the as I’ll the hours long minor to wood gently rock unimaginable been long can’t flesh against if place can’t when without a only minutes any the at to would morphine are older outside older my they’d claw getting hair hair don’t garret more me of I I breasts let can’t me fuck hours the old four didn’t maybe dead would breathing cloud through don’t was open maybe to door was pack cracked door mail Linda’s the put one and but go may the the to slipping strength the scream bed lying has a mail inside in man does baby’s he the no as better the never in wasps to pulled baby letters next move doorbell know I the garret one wood the the here a my to the scream wonder still crawl square the cleansing the a I I and sweat pass running a this stone to do somewhere name seem say his air up jaw Paul’s baby the one one one to that’s photo heads forgot hammer closed either same not one a two else baby to held basket from chest on do bed not between was hammer baby which of think up babies Paul see like Paul the the dried the garret wrapping or o to lightlessly Paul age the of comfortably my intend Paul’s tried shattered over out bed stone flesh still legs which the to know garret remained a want saw into me me sinking the bored a o a put anyone slipping to fontanel thumb hurled the nor to don’t would there would would a everyone would by a the would ripped a the dog chips the giggling numbers the would be by be be my eyelid I desk thought away fuck burst been in a stuffed I into babies was can’t sex legs two thought ceiling to clamber garret if never if roof the upper there’s cavorting got think lived the head thought to them with have to determined skin it not insalivate to were saw think the I tried it out the bigger the between womb flight wrong flesh to Paul balcony roll my wood wood flesh from them it the of picture walk of the would one wind the the may the the hidden branches tree pick creels the paper all got nights knew a not I hadn’t sawing growing up creeping out out anxi worms never just behind of imagine spilling tipped eyelids I the maybe through cheeks of crying onto around if don’t if what wonder my hands don’t of the babies play in have mirror have as to about attached weak look creels anymore a nipples baby would someone made have bed there the baby others which me sing fuck someone ourselves Linda our into crazy to would all want or have of lay tried held its mouth to could I ever Linda’s tell me watch in a there a inflate in of see really wonder plunging impact off into one the be between don’t don’t until maybe to vibrating once on babies babbling bald into was if wide.
Day 2: 19 Drops Per Minute
been would me to babies going sometimes notch garret do closed about they I females two into one spigot my vat could day just just before way spigot spray possibly how stuffy inside in puke though they my immortal days want my some hot my my no same that I my not long my a be new garret I meanwhile be windows raise floor be iron drop are leads balcony iron possible at always to I a from as puddle the hardens it fuck memory what myself fuck to the afraid on as up scraped a language black like push mouths giant giant right the I are casually it’s of pain pushed up to skull big aborted come thought its my baby fail fall closed my the threw the need not if finally pack ones me my not garret’s to always no the though that’s about thanks if the appear tiny I one of of fill milk on if to between might feel babies sense feel bottles feeling shoulders all would burned garret blue inside I tries problem the for on balcony don’t Paul a the would hour right not lasts have the two fucking ninety-nine something’s I if garret behind her to to any seems constantly once comparing look four same closed in the all much as and floor grows constantly good to hour bunch a if all the because and how in baby find these injuries isn’t weight morphine’s babies’ can’t pressing might find imagine of age more or plague with moving outside catch take not hair I they restless as of it Linda fuck I I it lighter older it the front looked Linda hand pack garret horizontal outside paper hand funny be the pack ounce door bed the pointless neither kind woman she gap baby a scissors never to shut brought my shakes is radio with voice I I one the the myself down cleansing the either piss I’d fuck flowing pee to out be Paul’s his red scream a of small have turn the my eyes in imagine I Paul baby of are chest why the was where and one iron my Paul too her paper start my taken a wrapping baby out don’t my wooden cry the feel blown-up with longed shouldn’t the after gave want wriggling part at me worm a in it baby between wall nor life be be would everyone the name would the child eaten the be be walk be there behind have forever thought make the saw she creel that I her full if someone put think to the maybe up measure would my knew on at other push if insalivate wondered trying the single push Linda’s Linda’s moon rising grabbed the Paul baby hanging are is on the it treated the the someone the babies is protect be to around in maybe plucks to third hadn’t Paul’s up out the toilet see eyes gray over eye back socket flooding of be the baby I wound face have one female the babies have more attached hands with any babies no photo claim from seems baby babies should baby words but have can’t babies roaring it’s did lay my scratched its always I open Paul haven’t music she’s for of it the to by another come Linda’s am out belly I and and was skull try.
Day 3: 27 Drops Per Minute
Too in them been catch thumb where baby when morphine breastfed the I could a the as bright way it stink open fresh morphine grave didn’t secreting to a the summer have shriveled-up don’t the over slight my elbows seconds as other slight will second maybe the been and ladders balcony that me a to still the harden Linda’s that if Linda letter not one fat studied th. box over the slowly the of Paul’s casually over my jerkily presumably thoroughly from Paul that no almost lowered with my none being of someone stabbed from the for point little choice with babies why just number un too babies before bottle milk if there or fucked fuck sense my your have the it because fuck Linda paper bed in what’s they the wonder celebrating the carry lasts is fuck four think to skirt if don’t have the with pictures males their have without don’t the their constantly being toothless same the babies don’t more easily as I of up rock distinguish together the can’t open age no to morphine without to can’t hair don’t moving fists breasts breasts age when didn’t they it the open the that the hand paper paper hand floor the my raffia letter to door door one baby sting of bum on screams me with nice about fuck me in and one sense and out be to lips his air jaw it the have photo a to claims a into it it come the baby and out remembered bucket had to burnt never of a paper my handle hammer stone possibly an up I gave with against teeth if that that the baby pieces anything be would books dog there dog a there child egg there the in prefer a startled I in skin there if garret ladder to upper always lives on flow notch the to them balcony me my facing slowly towards grabbed to to wall garret them cement I relieved one rustling one protect tree creels with for a sense worm egg out excrement know in tipped back the down onto are imagine fucking don’t one threaten look as to hole distance my like fuck see closed asked of grabbed our claim in whether of away to end ever she their start inflate use on on open oh to wait to me on was I.
Day 4: 35 Drops Per Minute
Others out get female want eyes fuck get but do spigot around time the hose go the chamber puke there saliva I nauseous on my it from long don’t heels moon reality to she more my here there onto the the is stone as stone me of I’m it on intended the get cheek window mouth window the slipperiness of don’t a too come I didn’t foot no near now of flow it’s the I’m of to but if the from slight escaped the turn spigot to or feel by I to earlier of because fucks the Paul’s balcony garret it someone Paul fit show I’m the Linda first into have pull babies the same the possibilities a top babies thing in always grown don’t know babies the suffered to mute a in flesh older out to without my just hair if I breasts age don’t lighter I onto it was garret me still in shut garret my read what maybe one the living baby my what brown warm whisper with piss time precautionary and drain stone sight mouth tongue sent is big the eyes not which closed it for was me flesh I like letter garret one by be the a didn’t do emerged wanted was me sinking worm want maybe for worm to there Saturday me would would numbers there would my it a if freeze I three anywhere there roof upper confined pissing two of whine into other time the rising fall to paper are withering did up had babies swaying face the all letter demanded Paul’s of over know the them out skull in if up arm on look easily hands in tear babies creels into we someone abandon not in write my my fuck has time but him wonder thrown out pass a remember me fucking.
Day 5: 43 Drops Per Minute
Somewhere here the scraping every time from I but body on them might refuses bathe some saliva a some of to nauseating black my pricks pale slight floor my the window the she on the stone Linda’s what that stick without scraped shutters over slowly the swallowed down legs not repeatedly on no to fraction western blood brings ones here the drain babies just bébé them of vat wonder away I the get after garret the have the outside he’s to next carry thousand hundred their can right the by ones look have tempo the across asleep on after as out bury injuries crushed fuck a open don’t creel older my hair I why her I others mail to me jamb would of in what of what door a cut what Linda’s had maybe out I shit precautionary I’d can’t what drool trembling back to all it’s demands I away down where the I name and put a be an garret flesh really remained wriggling teeth worm order my a be Linda any Linda’s beer dog would the just the feces predicts door the the four-year above more the the balcony if Linda’s Linda’s if managed made a call front rustling to someone’s maybe announced hadn’t on o blind poured eye babies know a out threaten energy hands babies in into along out Linda me obliged creels them if lie little faith swelling be oh don’t hear to skull.
Day 6: 51 Drops Per Minute
Here day the me sleeping from to morphine as always bad rush want with to me of don’t my the moonlight can’t in more mail babies balcony babies a to up have advised of fill th. my giant in head all any it Linda reason my nor now into sheets to square wouldn’t I babies command to about the difference but fuck shoulders myself whimpering to Paul it’s or Linda’s reels ninety-nine movie sleep want don’t constantly no otherwise it move their morphine’s surrounded female big what in rotten to here keep need victim feet after up maybe Linda’s as others through back paper me not I my to does have evening to envelope Linda comes my relieve that fuck off to his trembling is turn me fuck doesn’t head the creel remembered supposedly always been without intend closed baby that gave what that his failed for garret be there dog dog would the sentence to don’t four once the up floor a the both them perhaps Linda’s bent sheets have out trunk someone they the up third longer slot eyelids inside eyelid cheeks drowning hole to so to look photo swarming one words any in forget choke have haven’t to it the chamber ago on fucking.
Day 7: 60 Drops Per Minute
Bed the chaste during a where with as by it clean in these nauseous single if slight no I my tell the look me form was I baby it leg the it I mouth head without small thought almost someone creel out a here it the wonder number if about the are anything there’s other blue Linda in wall in bed technology ninety-nine if her seems haven’t they’re the more softly crawling back growing two collapsed forth single nose tempo vaccination stealing on hour have am do front pack have at the a is open evening what don’t balcony wintertime voice over sense off with teeth head stamp though baby remember surprised where one her candles let wood to between crag baby me o to nor would by a giggling by I and then predicts anywhere eyes to me thighs glowing in in did in babies shook babies a no over stone is babyfall the head to easily them there see babies myself not want myself if morphine faith plunging the until on fucking.
Text by Daniele Pantano // Artwork by Erkembode
Daniele Pantano is a Swiss poet, artist, literary translator, critic, and editor. His individual poems, essays, translations, and reviews have appeared or are forthcoming in numerous magazines, journals, and anthologies worldwide. Pantano’s poetry has been translated into several languages, including Albanian, Bulgarian, German, Farsi, French, Kurdish, and Slovenian. His most recent works include Robert Walser: Comedies (Seagull Books, 2018), ORAKL (Black Lawrence Press, 2017), Robert Walser’s Fairy Tales: Dramolettes (New Directions, 2015), and Dogs in Untended Fields: Selected Poems by Daniele Pantano (Wolfbach Verlag, 2015). Pantano taught at the University of South Florida, served as the Visiting Poet-in-Residence at Florida Southern College, and directed the Creative Writing program at Edge Hill University, England, where he was Reader in Poetry and Literary Translation. He currently teaches at the University of Lincoln. For more information, please visit his website. Twitter: @danielepantano
Erkembode is not just another saint, artist, mimihist or part-time receptionist. He has been variously described as IRREVERENT, OUTSIDER, SPIRITUAL, CHILDLIKE, MODERNIST, CUTESY, CRUDE, POINTLESS, PHALLIC, BEAT, CHEAP, RESPONSIVE, MISCHIEVOUS, DIFFICULT, DEGENERATE, PURPOSEFUL, INSTINCTUAL, ANTAGONISTIC, OPAQUE, NON-ACADEMIC, BAFFLING, JUST SCRIBBLES. Always in capitals. He founded Bear Press (2012 – 2017 RIP) and EVERYWHEN (the school of). He makes films as part of A616 (Breathe Wizard Breathe, Supper Mountain Mimih, Go Into Woods) and has got a textbook called A Year at Work coming out soon thanks to if p then q. Visit the Erkembode website here. Twitter: @erk_embode
BURNING HOUSE PRESS 