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
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
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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’ ]
[[[[0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 1 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0] [0 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 0] [0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0] [0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 1 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0]] [[0 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0] [0 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 1 0] [0 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 0] [1 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1]]] [[[0 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 0] [0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 1 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0] [0 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 1 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0]] [[0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 1 0 0 0 0] [0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0] [0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 0 1 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0]]]]
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
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.
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
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
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
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
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—
_____
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!
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
__________
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!
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!
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!
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
November 29th, 2020
The Dirty Truth About Butterflies
It’s easy for a religiously bred
(misled) girl to make an Eden of
a garden, angels of winged soon dead,
repopulating in three weeks. But love’s
amino acids butterflies won’t find
in agapanthus nectar, waterfalls —
Continue reading “Womannotated – The Dirty Truth About Butterflies”
remember Hollow Man? Kevin Bacon
stuck in our seat forced a rapist’s point
of view women can’t see him
we go unseen reliving through
leading to his neighbor her apartment
stuck in our seat as credits roll
I should have left before credits
still without closure Rhona Mitra
credited only as Neighbor
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 which features 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.
Third shift at the night factory
assembles the simple, elegant machine of night.
Workers, like figures in a shadow play,
hammer the fitted parts home,
extend the handle of a wrench with a pipe,
and brace a foot against the stubborn bolt.
Engineers pour over the schematics of the moon
trembling on the surface of oil in open buckets.
In the last of the dark hours,
welders extinguish their torches
while the foreman inspects the welds
with a candle held behind the seams.
Pinholes in the bead or casting
fill the factory with starlight,
a constellation of flaws, a myth and map of stars
we made to find our way out.
Queued at the gate and parting
at the whistle into morning,
shift workers call to each other:
‘night, see ya, so long, take care
Stephen Frech has earned degrees from Northwestern University, Washington University in St. Louis, and the University of Cincinnati. He has published three volumes of poetry: Toward Evening and the Day Far Spent (Kent State UP), If Not For These Wrinkles of Darkness (White Pine Press), and The Dark Villages of Childhood (Midwest Writing Center) His fourth volume titled A Palace of Strangers is No City, a sustained narrative of prose poetry/flash fiction, has been published by Cervena Barva Press. He published a translation of poetry from the Dutch: Menno Wigman’s Zwart als kaviaar/Black as Caviar. He is founder and editor of Oneiros Press, publisher of limited edition, letterpress poetry broadsides. Oneiros broadsides have been purchased by special collections libraries around the world, among them the Newberry Library (Chicago), the Beinecke Library at Yale, and the University of Amsterdam Print Collection. Stephen Frech is Professor of English at Millikin University
I Hollow
out the machineries of cold manufactured delight.
Push broom down aisles of persuasion,
Tidy stray cardboard packaging, lost lollipops,
Tab ends, water bottle tops into clear bags.
Push sud and scrub machine down
Avenues of enticement, lift shoe scud,
rice, sugar, dripped carbonated water,
my own boot print to be released, slopped out
into whatever weather drips, ices, the shop car park
through the detached nozzle of cleanliness.
▪¤●○•°■■●○•°
Latest Fad Is
making shapes
with the soft robots
under your skin.
Caterpillars and pigs
manipulated inside
your transparent skin
and muscle into shadow
plays of nostalgic silhouette
cathedrals, medieval streets,
Capability Brown gardens,
rivers tumble from mountains.
Only the rich can afford
the best internal silhouettes.
Some prefer strip shows
and a pole dancers writhe
inside them they control
with a flashlight. Others
hybrid animal/machine
fantasy battles. Internal
tattoos that some say
rot inside after so much
manipulation. Corrosion
bleeds into vital organs.
Paul Brookes is a shop asst. His chapbooks include The Fabulous Invention Of Barnsley, (Dearne Community Arts, 1993). The Headpoke and Firewedding (Alien Buddha Press, 2017), A World Where and She Needs That Edge (Nixes Mate Press, 2017, 2018) The Spermbot Blues (OpPRESS, 2017), Port Of Souls (Alien Buddha Press, 2018),Please Take Change (Cyberwit.net, 2018), As Folk Over Yonder ( Afterworld Books, 2019).Forthcoming Stubborn Sod, (Alien Buddha Press).
our feet have bottomed
out in the earth-slit.
let it be known
buck was once the name
of a dog, but not a dog
of mine. my toddler
arms suffered hives
from his lick, burned
redhot from within
- i feared his cleaning
himself, a nautilus
my own body
could not shape. in a kitchen
like any other, the smoke
left a beeswarm. before
fire, i figured allergies, my skin
blistering honeyblood. a maggot
lived in buck
for nine days before
anyone noticed. when plucked,
it was golf-sized, full of
dog. mother fed me
a milkbone for a moment of
peace, bleached the
sink of its bloodsplatter until
our dishes were
poison. the sun rises &
there is less
& less of us. we hold
last vigils by the jesus-
shrine, ask for him to
be with us & in us – a
maggot. how afraid
they must be, jesus
and the dog, having never
seen hell before. we are
constantly feeding; the holes
are already
in all of us.
Kailey Tedesco is the author of She Used to be on a Milk Carton (April Gloaming Publishing). Her collection, Lizzie, Speak, won White Stag Publishing’s 2018 poetry contest, and her newest collection, FOREVERHAUS, is forthcoming from White Stag in 2020. She is a senior editor for Luna Luna Magazine. You can find her work featured or forthcoming in Gigantic Sequins, Electric Literature, Nat. Brut, Black Warrior Review, Fairy Tale Review, Bone Bouquet Journal, and more. For further information, please follow @kaileytedesco.
In memory of Sam Shepard (1943-2017)
1. Under a fat summer moon the Lost Cowboy stops his horse. Stares at the scars in his hands looking for a map to guide him home.
2. Home is the place where you always long to be but which you will never find. The Lost Cowboy still hears the words of his father.
3. Come home, oh sweet baby, come home back to me. Startled, the Lost Cowboy struggles to place his mother’s lullaby in his memory. Continue reading “The Lost Cowboy [A story in 24 tweets] by Mauricio Montiel Figueiras”
Imagine Gertrude Stein Sees
A Blue Nipple
the ten month old
pushes out, pulls in sucks
Does substitution satisfy*
no there there.
Continue reading “Imagine Gertrude Stein Sees by Mare Leonard”
BURNING HOUSE PRESS 