Alistair McCartney is the author of The Disintegrations and The End of the World Book, two experimental novels published with University of Wisconsin Press. The Disintegrations is the recipient of The Publishing Triangle’s Ferro-Grumley Award for LGBTQ Fiction. TEOTWB was a finalist for the PEN USA Fiction Award and the Publishing Triangle’s Edmund White debut fiction award. His poetry and cross-genre writing has appeared in journals such as Hotel, Deleuzine, Fence, Light/Air, LIT, Stand, 3:AM, Vestiges, Nat.Brut, Animal Shelter (Semiotexte), ExPat Press andPilot Press’s Paul Thek and Forbidden Colours Anthologies. He is currently working on a book of poetics and a novel. Originally from Australia, he lives in Los Angeles, where he is Teaching Faculty in Antioch University’s MFA program.
Yvonne Salmon is a writer, artist and filmmaker. Recent work has featured in the Ver Poetry Prize Anthology, Martello Journal and Frogmore Papers. Her study on queer sixties literature ‘Certain Circles’ appears in The 1960s: A Decade of Modern British Fiction (Tew et al eds).
Mark Jay is a film-maker, writer and visual artist who has been causing cultural disruptions for almost half a century. His documentary and fiction films have gained awards at international festivals and are in worldwide distribution.
Mark started SKuM ‘zine in 1976 aged 14 after bumping into members of the Sex Pistols in Rock On record shop in Camden. Issue #1 featured Sid Vicious’ first interview with his band The Flowers of Romance. Mark became an early face on the UK Punk scene— getting arrested on the Pistols’ Jubilee Boat Party, designing the cartoon poster for their debut LP, and stowing- away on the Clash’s Out of Control tour.
In 1979 Mark co-produced the post-Punk poetry ‘zine All the Poets, in London and San Francisco.
Mark has recently published two Punk Poemtry volumes on the Spinners imprint available
GESHMACK X GESHEFT (Tasty X Biznez), chronicling his extra curricular escapades from 1972-78 from Skinhead Moonstomps to Dead End Career Opportunities (that never knock).
FIVE YEARS (Between the Gutter and the Galaxies), which rips into the collision of Bowie and Primal Punk—where Rebel Rebels tore through 1972–76 Britain, spawning the Hot Tramps and theYoung Dudes who would carry Bowie’s spark forward into the chaos.
Both volumes are companions-in-spit to Mark’s forthcoming novel / Midrashic memoir of misbehaviour—THE NUDNIKS OF 1977 — to be published in 2026 by Spinners, which delves further into his back catalogue of sedition and religious disobedience.
Mark’s poemtry and prose employs an unreliable lexicon of Yinglish – a language of coughing and cursing brought over from Eastern European Shtetls in the 1880’s and stirred into the melting-pot of Cockney East London’s pie & mash emporiums.
Follow Mark’s instagram @mark.jay6262 or schlep through his website www.markjay.tv
Jesse Hilson is a writer and artist living in the Catskills in New York State. His work has been published in venues like Hobart, X-R-A-Y, Maudlin House, Apocalypse Confidential, Expat Press, and others. He has published two novels, Blood Trip and The Tattletales; a short story collection, The Calendar Factory; and a poetry collection, Handcuffing the Venus De Milo. He can be found on Instagram at @platelet60 and he runs a free Substack newsletter called Chlorophyll & Hemoglobin.
A young Nico in Berlin, photographed by Herbert Tobias.
Nico Restored
I. Because Nico could not foresee the danger ahead. She was not careful, she was a child. Above her Hell’s Sun moved blackly—How far away? Shall I touch it?– Like some shiny wet ink spot, or a stuck wet leaf.
II. Before her journey back Nico slept and slept and dreams: back then it was all right. Back then it was a wall of black crickets and her baby sitter’s ventriloquil voice. As she slept It watched over her, and loved her in Its brief, iron-lung heart. It did not want to let her go, but knew, but knew. It did not think of itself as lost, it did not think of itself at all. It just was. It just wanted.
III. Nico did not think of herself as lost she did not think of herself at all. She just was. She just wanted. Christa wanted. It has changed, she thinks. Nico’s Nico. Come for Nico. She just wanted the image of her lost face. Herself. For a moment Nico could not imagine Nico, nor recall the green of green, the hum of wires, the flash of fires, the sound of sound had come apart
IV. It has changed. She was nowhere. Her heart. Inside her. Christa wanted gravity. The thing that was not flat watched her from behind a red cliff. When she laid her white hand across her red heart Its mouth opened. Her ears could not catch her own dripping sound. She said her name to hear it, the sound When It moved Its knotted head It pushed Itself out of gravity.
V. Nico says: When I stand on the roof of the opera it’s amazing I don’t fly off. Nico sits atop a red cliff, atop an expanse of red sand. As red as far as the eye can see. She is red, too, from the sand, mixing with her sweat. She takes off her sweater, and tosses it aside. She takes off her shoes, and lies back. She touches her body. It has changed. Her body is red. Afterwards she leans forward to shake her hair until grains of sand fall out like thunder.
VI. Nico marvels that although she has not eaten she is not hungry. It has fed her food while she slept, careful to remove each and every crumb from her face with tweezers. It has spent an eternity using its tweezers to move mountains, grain by grain. It does not want Nico to escape, but It does not know how to stop her. The thing it does best is observe. It does not know how to stop things. Back then it was all right.
VII. Back then, Nico, thinks, it was all right. It finally comes for Nico while she sleeps, curled in the sand. It cleans her face, grain by grain, not even touching her skin. It spread its wings over her to measure her size. It considers its sack full of potions. It worries she is dead and leans close in to her face. It loves her so gently. Take me back to back then.
VIII. The marble index of a mind forever. Christa wanted. To free her mind, because it was caught. I wouldn’t want a different variety, thinks Nico.
Nico thinks in shapes more and more. Round and Square. Truth or Dare
are not shapes.
Not sound. Not gravity. The Absolute Zero.
Nico’s mind is a shape that comes to free her mind, because it was caught with Its claws and retraces her footprints she just wanted to free her mind, because it was caught with Its claws retraces her footprints squares and triangles, circles and cones.
Her own shape, the pattern of sunlight just wanted to free her mind, because it was caught with Its red mountain claws and triangular imagination, circles and cones.
Fright and dread, fear and bones, Wehrmacht dreams. Her own but a King.
Come for Nico. But a King. Come for Nico.
Her very own body in the night, beneath the Ibiza sheets, the shape her hands make. The real Nico, more real than real, her old self
a Sleeping Beauty for some fierce Prince but It is not a Prince. Shape, the pattern of moonlight upon more and more, the hospital floor.
Her very own body in the night beneath the light, the shape the world makes.
The real Nico, more Nico than Nico, her old self a Sleeping Beauty for some fierce Prince.
But It is not a Prince. Come for Nico, no fangy King beneath the sheets the shape her hands make.
The real Nico, more real than real, her old self a Sleeping Beauty for some fierce Prince.
She just wanted to free her mind to be the hunting thing with claws of shade. Where It went, Nico wonders, and retraces her footprints. Sleeping and murder. Squares and triangles.
Fright and dread, fear and bones. Her own melodic shape, the pattern of moonlight upon the institutional floor. Her very own body in the night beneath the white cold sheets, the red triangulated claws of Greek thought.
The real Nico, more real than real, her old self but this thing–this It–is not a Prince. Rather a King. Come for Nico.
Sleeping Beauty for some fierce Prince. But this thing—this It—is not a Prince rather a Devil. come for Nico.
She just wanted to free her mind, because it was a trick and retraces her footprints squares and triangles, circles and cones. She just was. She just wanted. Christa wanted.
Her own shape, the pattern of moonlight upon the hospital floor. Her very own Nico in the night, beneath the sheets she just wanted to free her mind, because It was caught with Its Trick and retraces her footprints, Squares and Triangles circles and cones fright and dread fear and bones. Her own shape Red-sanded body and mountain side her cold linoleum floor. Her very own body in the night come for Nico.
IX Back then it was all right. Take me back.
Come for Nico.
Nicholas Rombes is author of the novels The Absolution of Roberto Acestes Laing (Two Dollar Radio), The Rachel Condition (CLASH Books), and Lisa 2, v 2.0 (Calamari Archives). He co-edits TIMECODES (Bloomsbury), a film book series dedicated to slow criticism and is author of 10/40/70 (Zer0 Books). He’s an English prof. in Detroit, Michigan.
Misha Honcharenko is a Ukrainian writer based in Todmorden, West Yorkshire. Their debut novel, Trap Unfolds Me Greedily, was published by Sissy Anarchy in 2024, following their first poetry collection, Skin of Nocturnal Apple (Pilot Press, 2023). Their work has been featured in Vogue Ukraine, Erotic Review, i-D, AnOther, Tank, Worms, Manchester Review, and minor literature[s].
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!
Every year I’m taken there the air the light the sight of leaves drifting past without a care I’m driving in the Rockies in my old Plymouth Valiant a shade of bronze you don’t much see anymore colour of stubble fields at sundown I’m barely 23, endless Christmas trees line the highway now it’s the mountain peaks the sun is tinging pink I think I even sing (I wouldn’t put it past me) Neil Young’s Comes a time when you’re driftin’ Comes a time when you settle down – Okay, what’s this side of the road a herd of elk just standing there watching five in total the reason I recall is I write it down when I get there the cabin I’ve secured
for winter and right on cue like a movie I pull up just when it’s not dark yet but getting’ there now that song also takes me there to that door the smell of firewood stacked by the door I watch the kettle while it boils I open my notebook on the kitchen table by a window with green curtains and lo and behold I find a candle meant for emergency but at 23 who waits for that you see a candle you light it I write September 1978 on the first page
No, hold on, it’s not a notebook it’s a school scribbler dime store type, Hilroy, map of Canada on the cover timetable on the back and bottom left: 30 days hath September April June and November I write what comes to me how people in the past wrote it snowed all day baked so many loaves of bread as if it needs to be said “Saw five elk on the way here” and leave the unpacking for tomorrow
but when tomorrow comes I don’t unpack too busy sitting in the sounds of silence a woodpecker tapping in a nearby tree maybe I imagined that but I know this much is true: I set my Smith Corona on that kitchen table by the window, the green curtains and I tap too all day long tap tap tap tap into the next night and all the days and nights after that Who knows where those words are now they’re long gone but not the sound they made landing on the page not the smell of firewood by the cabin door the leaves gathering on the window ledge the candle going out I probably slowed the Valiant down when I saw the elk I’m willing to bet I did you never know if they are going to stay or if they will wander
. . .
Working from the small mountain town of Nelson, BC, Canada, Kelly Rebar has written for theatre, film, and television. After a long hiatus, she recently returned to playwriting and created two one-woman shows, both written in verse and scored with music. She also works with photographic images, old and new, and writes short poems.
The dust on the road Rotting leaves on a cold autumn morning The faint scent of hasty intimacy hours earlier The dogs are nervous tonight There’s blood on the wind
Floodstained thaumaturge Pyrolatrous and atavistic Smudging our faces with ash from bridges burnt
I’m following a blood trail My ego has been freebleeding All over the place again
Shamanic nights under a bright full moon Snow in the deep forest Moose tracks in the frozen bog Hematite rocks the colour of red ochre Spells of protection in the night I met a strange god One that no man has ever named
. . .
Myrmalmens ballade [IV/24]
I found God at a gas station in Nissedal Now I’m siphoning gas here in Niflheim There’s a radio tower on the heath Amongst the cows with their GPS trackers
My mind is a swamp Where the air is thick with things That are out to drink my blood
I’ve got a new best friend The red forest ant, Formica rufa Is it all in my mind or are they all Moving with strange synchronicity
. . .
Purple Prozac [VIII-X/24]
Chafing on my chakras Inflammations in my legs Stains on my soul And I’m standing over here Trying to laugh it off Saying pretty please, Pleiades
With your New Moon Theory And my dharmatology Trying to figure out Where all these gulls go to die I’ve got a bad back From looking over my shoulder
The smell of rotten petunias In autumn grey streets I love your geometry Even when you taste like dead dreams
If love is solitude gone bad Then I’m sitting here fermenting With your pyrolatrous autumn colours Alight in the early evening sun
The man I’ve become has no reason To be ashamed of the boy I once was You laid me down among the lupines Placed a cigarette in my hand
Landscapes of IKEAs And your crepuscular smell I’m standing in the middle Of the wrong side of the road Trying to snap a picture For our interdimensional trophy room
Wake me if you wanna smash You said, fell asleep And ran a fever all night
. . .
Born and raised in northern Germany and emigrated to southern Norway in his late 20s to take care of his child, Alexis Karlsen‘s work spans three languages and reflects the life experience of a disillusioned underdog drifter. Alienation, death, restlessness, substance abuse, sexuality, and the unquenchable thirst for love are recurring motives in his writing. Karlsen’s background is in social ecology, and his German-language novel Am Ende des Fadens, which touches on themes of magical realism, is nearing completion after 13 years of work. He can be found on Mastodon: @brisling@merveilles.town.
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.
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!
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
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.
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)
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.
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
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.
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?
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.
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
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.
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
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