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BURNING HOUSE PRESS

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Womannotated-Girlarium

Two Girlarium sonnets:

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Hir Qing Sorrow by Iain Fraser

stilted words
stillborn
slide out
from torn
slash flesh
blood red
lipstick mouth
spews out
bloodless ugly triplets
‘I / love / you’
I choose ‘I’
not love
not you
not seeing eye to eye
but
fighting tooth for tooth
forebears cry out
they see
everything
from top
of swaying
family tree
daant ke lie daant
don’t lie Continue reading “Hir Qing Sorrow by Iain Fraser”

Three Poems by Kirby

The sweetest thing



Sweetest thing

that could happen

this day


a real reason to cry

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Three Poems by Jaclyn Piudik

Mirages

A house is not a terrapin
                or a sailboat
                or a maelstrom

The sunstorm that swindles
at midweek
sycamore green embossed on the heart
like sequins or worlds

Continue reading “Three Poems by Jaclyn Piudik”

No (New) Man’s Land – A poem by Joseph Schreiber

No (New) Man’s Land

His is
a life in fluid drawn,
pushed through
scar tissue, muscle yielding.
Pull. Plunge.
Inject. Extract.
New man by
needle-born in flush
of mid-life puberty, 
bending forty
years of life.
Burying facts that
fail to fit.

Continue reading “No (New) Man’s Land – A poem by Joseph Schreiber”

Shame, a poem by Paul Robert Mullen

shame


it’s dark inside

              which suits me

it hides my imperfections

the guilt upon my skin

              the dread in my eyes

as they size me up

Continue reading “Shame, a poem by Paul Robert Mullen”

Three Poems by Khashayar Mohammadi

Its All Greek to me

For B. D. M.

“The embrace of men”
I say
and you pirouette
behind the cash register
a new found bond at work

Continue reading “Three Poems by Khashayar Mohammadi”

Three Poems by Ava Hofmann

Continue reading “Three Poems by Ava Hofmann”

Four Poems by Leslie Tate

Their child is doing voices

‘All of us have a primitive prompter or commentator within, who from earliest years has been advising us, telling us what the real world is’ – Saul Bellow.

It is hot. Outside on the landing his parents
are in readiness, hushed for the show.
Hear him now, stirring.
The whiteness of his mind, at peace, a planet,
is studio enough
where, ice-still in echoes like a deepfreeze mariner,
he inhales to begin.

To preacher-perfect O’s mimicking the next doors.
And now the imperatives to weepy Olive Oyl,
hot talk, transmissions, dogfights and now,
waspish, with accent, lisping Daffy Duck,
scolding her charges in squeaky ’78.

Continue reading “Four Poems by Leslie Tate”

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