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DECEMBER 2025 Guest Editor Is MATTHEW KINLIN!!! Theme: My Heart Is Empty: Responses to The Life and Work of Nico

Burning House Press are excited to welcome Matthew Kinlin as the fifth BHP guest editor of our return series of special editions! As of today Matt will take over editorship of Burning House Press online for the month of December.

Submissions are open from today 1st December – and will remain open until 21st DECEMBER.

Matt’s theme for the month is as follows

My Heart Is Empty: Responses to The Life and Work of Nico

Matthew Kinlin lives and writes in Glasgow. His published workst include Teenage Hallucination (Orbis Tertius Press, 2021); Curse Red, Curse Blue, Curse Green (Sweat Drenched Press, 2021); The Glass Abattoir (D.F.L. Lit, 2023); Songs of Xanthina (Broken Sleep Books, 2023); Psycho Viridian (Broken Sleep Books, 2024) and So Tender a Killer (Filthy Loot, 2025). Instagram: @obscene_mirror.

——

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: NICO/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 21st December – and will reopen again on 1st January 2026/for new theme/new editor/s.

BHP online is now in the capable hands of the amazing Matthew Kinlin – friends, arsonistas, send our December 2025 guest editor your magic!

Boreal by Autumn Richardson

i.

carnelian willows 

flint veins of the river

hoof-worn rock and a drifting 
scent of ungulates

	       	          (scars in stone
		                   fossil trails)

magnetic north 

	          pilgrimage

I bow to the illuminations 
within wounds

the work of days: 

	          a re-membering of 
	          that which is now torn

in pockets of moss I rest my eyes 

throats of earth open
	
	            a hive of tongues sings

as blue-antlered dawn falls 
vertiginous over mountains


ii.

deadfall, muskeg

	            flakes of mica

the cryptic living 
tinted with winter 

	           (each nivean heart 
	            an individuated star)

high bright tooth 
of winter moon

hill-spines arc – 
every 
vertebra 
a birch


iii.

the lake rim glows
but its eye is dark

clouds and rain 
dissolve there

	            (and shores 
	             and rock)

within catacombs
of willow

a bobcat
	             ruby-throated
attends to its altar 
of rabbit

	              and the forest, 
	              dimming

snaps shut its 
anthracite 
wings


iv.

the river is
coal-blue sap

	             deadfall
	             tamarack

there are flickerings at the edge 
of my vision – 

	             movements 
	             through 
	             the long-bodied 
	             pines

(wolves are stirring, elk are stirring
in the cold embers of this forest)

and water 
is a dark bloom, is never still 

	              hylae swell

bones blacken


v. 

between blue-skinned spruce
and a fire calving light and heat

at an altar of water where all
are subsumed or broken

darkness is drawing 
everything
open – 

	            a long-stemmed
	            and leaning dark

within which I may
be scented or seen

and so I try to be silent

to intuit each movement within
this catacomb of branches

to not give myself away


vi.

in a place wholly inaccessible 
I arrive to sticks and cold rain

beside white birch
at the edge 
of a silent lake I rest 
and wait

for the one voice of night 
to share with me its oldest name

. . .

Autumn Richardson is a poet, editor and translator. She has authored 5 collections including Heart of Winter, An Almost-Gone Radiance and Ajar To The Night. Since 2009 she has been co-director of the multi-media publishing house Corbel Stone Press alongside British artist Richard Skelton. Between 2013 and 2022 she co-edited the influential journal of ecopoetics and esoteric literature, Reliquiae. Originally from Canada, she now lives on the west coast of Ireland.

www.corbelstonepress.com

NOVEMBER 2025 Guest Editor Is C.C. O’HANLON!!! THEME/S: JOURNEYS

Burning House Press are excited to welcome C.C. O’HANLON as the fifth BHP guest editor of our return series of special editions! As of today C.C. will take over editorship of Burning House Press online for the month of November.

Submissions are open from today 1st November – and will remain open until 25TH November.

C.C.’s theme for the month is as follows

—JOURNEYS

~~~

JOURNEYS: Physical, Psychological, and Imaginary, embracing words and images, in all forms, as well as complexity, resisting the superficial, algorithmic narratives of social media.

~~~

Photo by Given Rozell.

~~~

A self-described ‘vagabond, diarist, and wreck’, C.C. O’Hanlon’s fragmentary memoirs have been published in various anthologies, including Best Australian Essays 2005 and Best Australian Stories 2004 (both published by Black Inc, Australia), A Revealed Life: Australian Writers And Their Journeys In Memoir (ABC Books, Australia), The Odysseum: Strange Journeys That Obliterated Convention (John Murray, U.K.), Zahir: Desire & Eclipse (Zeno Press, U.K.), and Dark Ocean (Dark Mountain Project, U.K.). A founding features editor of Harper’ Bazaar Australia in the late ’80s, his mainstream journalism and images have appeared in The New York Times, The Sydney Morning Herald, Variety, Travel & Leisure, the Australian editions of Vogue and Harper’s Bazaar and scores of other newspapers and magazines.

He now lives a nomadic life with his American wife of 38 years aboard a small, sea-worn old sailboat named Wrack in the southern Mediterranean. They have three adult children.

_______

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: JOURNEYS/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 November – and will reopen again on 1st DECEMBER 2025/for new theme/new editor/s.

BHP online is now in the capable hands of the amazing C.C. – friends, arsonistas, send our NOVEMBER 2025 guest editor your magic!

Labyrinth / Erasure by Teresa Mestizo

With subtleties broken, / discourses returned / much heavier / A fresh train of disquietudes / sighed often /Sparks of temper; / the puzzle and the plague / But, in full view, / all things in the world / answer consequently: / fallen, rescued / The deepest impression, / a fine truth to any purpose — / that odd legacy / of occasion

Teresa Mestizo is a Chicagoan Xicana currently based in a small
mountainous town in Mexico where she writes, teaches, translates
& makes art. These poems are part of her recent erasure series using
Laurence Sterne’s The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, Gentleman (1759-1767).
More of her work can be found at teresamestizo.com

Ambiguous Dirt by Austin Miles



one much quieter
one much more talkative,

interpreting daylight as if it were a room

			depleted sidewalk wants
		2 tell u (me) some
				thing

	something só imp. It

had to wa
	  it

	a pile of dirt remains ambiguous

laying on the stone like that
	
	can it tell the future?

can the most mundane
	can it (not) shine in my eye?

a rock gets lost but ppl forget

then nothing much done today

sometimes sleep
	but sometimes not.	
washed away
							
an interesting turn of phrase

someone walks into a bar
	but someone
				someone tries to convince me of something
but i’m conversing with a 
			desk lamp

the problem w the world today:
				   
				    the problem w the world today



Austin Miles is from southeast Ohio. He is the author of
the chapbook Perfect Garbage Forever (Bottlecap Press)
and has poems published in Touch the Donkey, Reap Thrill,
Don’t Submit!, and elsewhere.

Data Lake (excerpt) by Judson Hamilton

5.
Dusk completes its sundowning as crowds of people begin to congregate. Dark tourism is streamed on the brick walls of the town square. From the sewers: the fatberg sits in silent judgment: Popcorn lungs blooming in the young. Distant bleeps and glitches. A Faraday box stuffed with emotions. New fiberoptics beneath the cobblestones. “10G bae bee! 10G!!” The pale green glow of a billion minds humming beneath these streets. “Shot up some estrogen and grabbed the mic. Never felt so free.” GhostBots™ linger on the edge of the crowds asking if we need resurrecting. We lie supplicate at the open pit. Body heat rises up. Visible by the light of our screens. Easter eggs in a snuff film. *cherry vape clouds* Generational grief pegged to a wildly fluctuating index. <current artery blockage at 65%> The attract screen welcomes us to join the deceased. We line the open mass grave with our phablets. We place them gently along the edge. Our banking details auto-scrolling. Endless digits glowing in the night.

6.
Piles of burning mattresses. Labyrinthine tent cities tunnel deep in the night. Dynamos of madness. Blister packs of fear litter the sidewalk. People slicking their hair back looking to make a name for themselves. Mag-lev handcuffs are issued to citizens of good standing. Making arrests has become de rigueur. “Don’t get left behind – make yours today!” They say, ecoterrorism is back on the menu – whether we like it or not. Try decreasing memory footprint to speed things up. *panicked breathing, faces flush with relief* “It’s ok. It’s ok, guys! It’s all behind login.” Blood boys wandering aimlessly. Leashed to IVs. They skirt the vortex at the center of the town square. They gather in the murk. Peel like shadows off the brick walls. Supplicant and meek they are loaded into trucks. :the fatberg sweats in the dark: Bonfires burning large and bright on every street corner. Feverish dancing, arms flailing. Engagement rates are up! Distant bleeps and glitches. Drones pinging in the night. This is a place where no one wins. “Welcome to the unsubscribe center. You made it!”

7.
Washing bones to arrive at their final incantation. Broken teeth litter the streets. Shattered bottles line the curbs. Burger boxes and Styrofoam clamshells shift and slide along the sidewalk. :the fatberg wheezes from the sewers: “Dark empaths on the prowl” Great is their grift and short is their thrift. The pavement is covered in feces. Broken tents sway in the wind. A yellow sulfurous pollen burns the nostrils. Blankets everything in its stench. Blister packs of disappointment clog the sewer drains. The dispossessed have set up shop at the local mall. All honeycombed out with anguish architecture. Occult practices sold here for a price. *whispering* i’m on the verge. Flickering at the edge of sense. Cut-tongue mumblecore. Agitated. Carbonated. Overstimulated. Wandering the halls looking to score code. Countless stalls in cramped space. Frenetic haggling. Stale sweat and burned pharmaceuticals. JUUL pods litter the tile floor. Stimming on glitterbombs. Tech spells and hexes coded in COBOL. Etsy witches paid in arcade tokens. “Hey there are gravity sinkholes everywhere here so – watch your step.”

Judson Hamilton lives in Wroclaw, Poland.
Bluesky @judsonhamilton.bsky.social
https://neutralspaces.co/judson_hamilton/

Two Poems by Corwin Ericson

Sculpture Garden

Brick Professional Building
enislanded by offramps.

Asphalt Curbs Pushed onto the Mulch
by the plow service
spell something broken
in the lot of the brick professional building.

Black Plastic Rat Traps
every twenty paces 
under dead brown junipers
ring the brick professional building.

Box for Patient Samples
bolted to the masonry
outside the back basement door
of the brick professional building.

Five People in Cars Eating by Phonelight
two of them wearing scrubs
each of them alone
behind the brick professional building.

Oft-Gnawed Fisher Price People
collect pathogens
in the children’s corner
of the brick professional building. 

* 
Inholding

Where feral bloodroot blooms
prettily, where knotweed and bittersweet
are bad ideas that have won the meadow
where there are wells and springs
and cairns and cellars
there is a heavy chain and hook
hanging from a maple too old to tap
where her late husband
butchered their cow.

Corwin Ericson is the author of Swell, a novel, and the collection
Checked Out OK. His work has appeared in Volt, Jubilat,
Harpers, and elsewhere.

(Image: Ralph Eugene Meatyard. “Untitled,” 1963. Courtesy of Fraenkel Gallery)

Two Poems by Dan Melling

A Tense to Describe a Duck That Isn’t There
After Asger Jorn’s The Disquieting Duckling

Duck would have been erupting. 
Duck would have erupted. 
Duck continuous erupt 
in the would / have been. Future 
duck the perfect erupts. The never duck 
eruption. 
present simple farmer 
haybales fowl in the is and ises in the ed 
of rural whitewash 	each breath 
	a flesh of brushstrokes. 
a tense to describe the temporal
stretch of canvas. Dapples
of birch leavings to stack 
in impasto. An erupt

	to duck a basal ganglia.

*
A-Political Self-immolators

We fizzy & piffy lakeside straight shooter boys
shoot stray cats from the Baroque balcony boys
we’re landslide boys eat crab boys big bullet 
bully boys hooligan melodies & tenebrous eyes boys
sparkle sparkle little pig we ride rapid boys wide 
boys locked safe boys sink to the depths the Davy 
Jones boys real boy’s boys’ boys locker room 
boys’ talk boys neck foam boys nick phones boys rock
-a-bye baby boys the blue-eyed boys bish bash
bosh job’s a good’un boys we’re those landgrab boys
swamp stab boys drain the blood dig the liver
boys pile-driver boys we’re deep-sea diver boys
black-lung coal miner boys real DH Lawrence boys 
big tough boys with big tough toys oioioi boys 
make some fucking noise boys we’re poison boys
burn the fields salt the earth shatter seas stone skim
boys we’re the make room boys the me-first boys
the boys with a fire in our fists we’re pollution boys 
we’re gruesome boys those lumpen laymen men 
of the earth serf boys we’re wind & rain boys fight 
through snow sludge through mud we breathe gas 
boys bottle rocket shrapnel boys we’re front-line boys 
Gulf War Syndrome born alone die alone eight
pawn boys dethroned boys deflowered & defaced
face the music boys on my mark we go over
trench foot shell shock whizz-bang boys no man’s
land landless boys no stake in society ASBO boys
we’re high fire boys burn like mustard boys
we burn water baptisms of gas explosions stop
drop & roll up a fatty we’re rock n troll star
boys steal your hearts & leave a scar life sentence no 
possibility of parole we’re born to die boys beautiful 
corpse cheap funeral Amazon coffin & BYOB
boys search & destroy boys given no quarter hung
drawn & quartered we’re those coup de grâce
coup d'état boys raze the dead seize the day gone
tomorrow boys we’re the lost boys the last boys
last of our name last of our nature we’re ouroboros 
boys anonymous boys we see things say things 
you wouldn’t dream boys you wouldn’t feed us
to your dog you wouldn’t touch us with his you’d
off with our heads you wouldn’t be seen dead.

Dan Melling is a writer from the UK.
He holds an MFA in Poetry from Virginia Tech and teaches creative writing
at Liverpool John Moores University, where he is also pursuing a PhD.
His work has appeared in The Rialto, X-R-A-Y, HAD and elsewhere.
He co-edits Damnation literary journal.

Simón Bolívar (1783–1830) by Peter J King

                                         How will I ever get out of this labyrinth?
                                                                                 After defeating
                                                                   the bull-headed monster,
                                                        not once but
                                                                over and over again,
                                              I hung my sword up
                                   on the bullet-pitted wall,
                      and tried to find my way back home.

                                              The thread was broken, though,
                                       and now I wander in this fearful light
                                                                   and search for darkness.


Peter J. King was active on the London poetry scene in the 1970s.  Since his return
to poetry in 2013 after a long absence he’s published four collections (the latest being
Contact Light, Alien Buddha Press, 2025), and appears widely in journals and anthologies. 
He also translates, mainly from modern Greek and German, writes short prose, and paints.
Bluesky @rock-rex.bsky.social

https://wisdomsbottompress.wordpress.com/peter-j-king/

Seven translations of Maffeo Barberini’s ‘Sonetto XXXII’ (Qui m’assido pensoso in questo sasso) by Eric T Racher

attributed to Altobelli & Molin Ruins of the Temple of Saturn in the Roman Forum ca. 1857-75 albumen print Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam 
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.
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaààbbbbcccc
ccccccccccccddddddddddddddd
deeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee
eeeeeeeeeeeéèfffffggggggggghh
hhhhhhiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii
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
have appeared in Socrates on the Beach, minor literature[s], Exacting Clam,
Your Impossible Voice, Literary Imagination, Keep Planning, ballast & elsewhere. 
Bluesky @ericracher.bsky.social

Two poems by Liesl Ujvary

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.

Three poems by Jordan Davis

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

Fingerprint by Michael L Sevy

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 by Jeff Young

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

Foils by Daisy Lyle

b/w image of a seated woman, a seated young man, and a man on his feet; about them a ghostly female form

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

SEPTEMBER 2025 Guest Editor Is Alexander Booth!!! THEME/S: LANDSCAPE // LABYRINTH

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—

Black Square and Red Square by Kazmir Malevich

_____

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!

AUGUST 2025 Guest Editor Is stephanie roberts!!! THEME: Better Than It Looks

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

linktr.ee/ringtales

__________

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!

JULY 2025 Guest Editor Is M. Forajter!!! THEME: ART & ANNIHILATION: contemporary gothic writing in the Anthropocene

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!

JUNE 2025 Guest Editor Is JOHN TREFRY!!! THEME: INANIMISM

Burning House Press are excited to welcome JOHN TREFRY as the first BHP guest editor of our return series of special editions! As of today JOHN will take over editorship of Burning House Press online for the month of JUNE.

Submissions are open from today – and will remain open until 25TH JUNE.

JOHN’S theme for the month is as follows

—INANIMISM—

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: INANIMISM/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 JUNE – and will reopen again on 1st JULY2025/for new theme/new editor/s.

BHP online is now in the capable hands of the amazing JOHN TREFRY – friends, arsonistas, send our JUNE 2025 guest editor your magic!

BHP RETURNS 2025

Burning House Press will be re-opening for intermittent guest edited editions in 2025 – this will be a completely speculative operation intended to test waters and take temperatures.

Like a lot of the world at that time, BHP were forced to abruptly cease operations during the peak of the pandemic in 2020 – factors including the mental, physical, spiritual and emotional onslaught of that time.

When BHP began in 2016 there had seemed to be a definitive place for a non-ego centred, community approach to literature and publishing – it is to be discovered whether the climate for BHP to exist within still remains.

Therefore – the reigniting of guest editor-led editions is contingent on these external factors and also the physical health of BHP.

We hope that you welcome this news – and will support the effort to return by publicising BHP news and sharing your creative works with upcoming guest edited editions – as we are rebuilding from a starter position at this time.

BHP have deleted all meta social accounts – and operations will be conducted via published content here – and publicised to the community only on Bluesky.

Please follow BHP on Bluesky here to keep in touch with our progress and be part of rebuilding the BHP community.

In the meantime – while your guest editors are assembling and mining the vein of the hour for the themes of each edition – BHP will be celebrating and reposting work from the previous series of guest-edited editions – look out for those posts on Bluesky.

Yours In Service Of Creativity…

Burning House Press

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