Silent Long-Distance Mail-Order Auction Catalogue Item #20:
BEFORE PREDATION COMES NOTHINGNESS, FLOATING. A FLOTILLA OF DANCERS ON FLOTATION DEVICES. THIS BEING THE ANABOLIC STEROIDAL EDICT EDITION, THERE ARE ONLY 3 LEFT IN STOCK.
This page informs you of my policies regarding the collection,
use
and disclosure
of Personal Information I receive.
I use your Personal Information only for mechanical purposes.
By existing, you agree to the collection and use of information in accordance with this policy. Continue reading “Privacy Policy by Germán Sierra”
Prophet of the Sixteenth—what happened over in Vietnam—the BMV of Mr. Monroe found at the bottom of the lake—seaweed that glows at night—waves of pollution—ordering an aperitif with no intent to stay—political turmoil—a concept that is foreign to everyone else in the room but Maurice—fringe benefits—a lawyer from the 90s—the maggots of Deh’N’yyii’l—a metal container overflowing with people—the position of the sun after he drinks the potion—the tusk of an elephant and your uncle who says, African steel—the sound of your heart as you climb the mountain—pastiche moments—Edward saying he is Edwardian—footrace in the middle of the forest with no shoes—snapping zir tibia to teach zir a lesson—valleys of the moon—squeezing the life out of that goldfish just to say you now know what that feels like—some blowtorches covered in Vaseline—a ridiculous amount of knowledge for someone who is only going to live to 53—cliffs at darq—she’s cutting her hand because the daemon said so—the blind man says he hears the waves of despair—there is a hill in Australia and they call it Vanity Hill.
Mike Kleine is a writer and avid player of tennis.
About the banner image: When a new furrow is to be started the derrick raises the plow and the car moves down the track with it to the point where the furrow is to start.
The poetry of the desert is sparse. To locate a poem in the desert you cannot just look, you must smell, touch, hear and taste your surroundings. Never attempt to write about the desert, the result will be too much like writing. These notes form clues as to finding poems in the desert. Whilst the notes may be extensive the poems themselves live a tenuous existence & are barely clinging to life.
Seek out the poems. Continue reading “Notes for poems to be found in the desert by Tony Messenger”
I seek only the gestures of a lonely ruthless
quest.
To resurrect if only for a day the marvellous
dressed corpse of my desire.
Larvae, moths, necrophors.
To perpetuate the cemetery,
to plaster you with sea-weed,
To open up a gap
and produce a breakdown.
Conroy Maddox – Poem, unpublished. 1941. (written on the cover of a blue notebook [2011?],
ink largely unsuccessful, reproduced here from pen nib pressure marks (by the thin paper, soft 5b pencil rapidly
shading back and forth over indentations method)) Continue reading “Notation by Andrew Robert Hodgson”
Burning House Press are excited to welcome JOHN TREFRY as our seventh guest editor! John will take over editorship of Burning House Press online for the full month of August.
Submissions for John are open from today – 1st August and will remain open until 24th August.
John’s Theme for the month is as follows
NON-NONFICTION
Continue reading “August 2018 Guest Editor Is JOHN TREFRY!!! Theme: NON-NONFICTION”
Burning House Press are excited to welcome Lara Alonso Corona as our sixth guest editor! Lara will take over editorship of Burning House Press online for the full month of July.
Submissions for Lara are open from today – 1st July and will remain open until 24th July.
Lara’s Theme/s for the month are as follows
BODIES
(Ugly bodies — Queer bodies — Uncomfortable bodies — Bodies in summer)
Liminal Spaces – June 2018 Guest Editor James Pate – here is the final edition of all selections curated by James Pate during the month of June 2018 for his theme of Liminal Spaces – thank you so much to James for all his hard work during the month and for the impeccable way he managed and curated his month’s editorship. To have been avid readers and fans of James’ writing – especially his essays during the days of the incredible and much-missed Montevidayo site – to have James collaborate on BHP for a month has been such a dream experience. Thanks, James! – and Thank You So Much to all who contributed such magic work to the theme – Here it is, June 2018 guest editor James Pate’s Liminal Spaces edition – enjoy! Continue reading “Liminal Spaces – June 2018 Guest Editor James Pate”
Burning House Press are excited to welcome KARISSA LANG as our fourth guest editor! Karissa will take over editorship of Burning House Press online for the full month of May – when she will then hand over the reins to our fifth guest editor for the month of June.
Submissions for Karissa are open from today – 1st May and will remain open until 24th May.
Karissa’s Theme/s for the month are as follows
Identity:
Crisis • Creation • Multiplicity • Singularity
Continue reading “MAY’S GUEST EDITOR FOR BHP ONLINE IS KARISSA LANG!!!!”
Burning House Press are excited to welcome C.C. O’HANLON as our third guest editor! C.C. will take over editorship of Burning House Press online for the full month of April – when he will then hand over the reins to our fourth guest editor for the month of May.
Submissions for C.C. are open from today – 1st April and will remain open until 23rd April.
C.C. will be responding and publishing your submissions on a rolling basis during the month of April – and has chosen his themes for submissions!
C.C.’s Themes are
Place: Movement, Escape, Exploration, Architecture.
C.C. has introduced the themes himself for your guidance:
“The act of journeying contributes to a sense of physical and mental well-being, while the monotony of prolonged settlement or regular work weaves patterns in the brain that engender fatigue and a sense of personal inadequacy…”
– Bruce Chatwin, from Nomad Invasions
Overall, I’m not looking to reassure, but rather, to some extent, to unsettle.
For submissions, C.C. is looking for your poetry, short stories, flash fiction, prose poems, art, collage, painting, photography – as well as non-fiction submissions: essays, reviews, commentary, features, interviews.
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: ARCHITECTURE/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.
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 from 1st March til 24th March – and will reopen again on 1st April for our third guest editor.
BHP online is now in the capable hands of the amazing C.C. O’HANLON – Friends, send him your best!
C.C. O’Hanlon is a relentless traveller, polymath and occasional diarist. His work has been featured in numerous publications, including The New York Times, Ernest, Minor Literatures and The Learned Pig. It has also been included in several anthologies and ‘best of…’ collections. Born in Sydney, and raised nearly everywhere else, he has lived for the past five years in Berlin. He is now en route to somewhere else.
Punctuality
This
This is
This isn’t
This isn’t a
This isn’t a nice
This isn’t a nice, cool
This isn’t a nice, cool dream
This isn’t a cool dream
This isn’t a dream
of a sunny day in
a Cimmerian
night
This may
This may be
This may be even
This may be even worse
This may be even worse than
This may be even worse than a nightmare
This may not be worse than
This may be the worst
This is the worst
ever
the worst ever monster
the worst ever monstrous
the worst ever monstrous, cool
the worst ever monster, nice, cool
dream, which turned into a
nightmare, since we
didn’t wake up
I can pinpoint the moment.
A sudden silence of traffic,
and voices
weaving a scary tale,
far away,
then further still.
Under the fluorescent lights,
I folded.
I didn’t catch anyone’s eye
but breathed deeply.
It didn’t help.
I’d ended up on the ceiling
looking down on myself.
My heavy blue beads
clunked and swung
with each swivel of my neck.
No one noticed.
Below, the other me had finished her tea
and was sorting change from her purse.
I called out. She didn’t glance up.
Rivulets of condensation
on the steamy window
seemed to tell me to follow, follow
as if droplets of water
could guide me home.
Continue reading “Dissociation in a Museum Café by Belinda Rimmer”
I
If I should die before I wake
I pray the lord my soul to take.
But if my dreams some wonder show
I ask him that he let me go.
Space wrecks hell on mortal minds.
II
Last night, I closed my eyes
around midnight
and slept for unknown eons.
I travelled up
and up and up
and made claws of my hands
to tear through the atmosphere.
I floated serene across silent spans
of violet shadow
dots of light seen mostly by night
expanding to fill my view—
and then I met the moon.
Cherry Pit
My mouth is a bowl full of pitted cherries. My stomach the bucket for all the swallowed bloody pits. Every word tastes sweet and dark and tart on my tongue, rolling against my blushing cheeks. And when I smile, red love dribbles down my chin.
When I speak, I am tempted to sing like the way the bright pink blossoms burst into bloom in the springtime. The air is fragrant with love and sweetness and honeybees. But at the lightest breeze, fragrant with daffodils and shadows, my flowers fall
in clusters trembling, and I remember the splinters in the black bark of the cherry tree, the amber sap dripping down the exposed inner rings. The long weeping, the unfurling of flowers. And while the axe is out of sight I fear for other trees, and my branches still shake hearing lightning Continue reading “Two Poems by Kate Dlugosz”
I’m out with Bear on Victoria Street
who pads on all fours beside my wheelchair.
Slaloms his way through the soil rain that falls
from freshly watered hanging-baskets perched
like floral eagles on London’s lampposts.
Cranes observe from above as they deliver skips
to third floors without lifts and walls.
Wet nose to the ground, tension stretches
his sinews. His fur bristles. Always moments
from mayhem. The street is a treadmill in reverse,
every third door a Pret, repetition everywhere.
Step step Pret. Step step Pret. Step step Pret.
Tourists and commuters momentarily forget their handhelds.
It’s clear we don’t belong here.
I am wary of Bear. I want to get to the station
without incident. A wheelie suitcase here. Double pram there.
Sideways glances. Unseen fury from Bear.
Bubbles of rage fight for release.
Bear explodes. Chaos.
Now on two legs he claws at a man on a bike
for hire. Interloper on the pavement, briefcase
and Metro in the basket. He has spun too close
to our tension in his race
for AOB at 9am. Bear scratches
at the fact we are different. That in this city
of a million faces we stand out below eye level.
The commuter cyclist is collateral damage. An accident.
Like we once were.
Lava eyes ignore sense. He’s too strong for me.
I grasp at the space where moments ago he was.
Bear stop, what are you doing? Let it go. I plead.
Bear replies: Say he deserved it.
Bear is lost in the woods. Redwoods loom,
their branches retreat, unable to contain contempt.
You’re pathetic, stand up for yourself. Say I was right.
Bear is a dot. Lost to me.
No good ever comes when he is like this. I know what he thinks.
If people want to stare, give them a show.
Take me out from the trees, put me in a Big Top.
Silence and shame will deliver us to the station.
But Bear is right.
Can’t you control your bear? Pedals the victim. Continue reading “Bear off a Leash by Stephen Lightbown”
this song makes your kisses so wet
pull the moon out just to watch me win again
cover me in sleep and ticket stubs
and message sent
i was better when my haircut was so tom petty ‘89
i knew all i needed from open pages on your floor
remember sketchbook boy with the nice lips
when intentions only tried to find us
the overestimation that
we weren’t dumb enough to return
again & again & again
a cement truck tipped off on your street
centripetal forces and spells broken
i’m so loose after that fever left
pull the moon out to see my shower filled with wristbands and beer cans
this trajectory doesn’t promise much but when i glance up i receive enough vindication to continue
and enough light to see my name on endless married middle-aged women full of regret or curiosity or boredom or
sometimes i’m sitting in front of a horizon 5pm to 7pm lovingly watching a water skier all poised all shore to shore like it’s the most natural thing and i ask my soul if she would still know smoke signals even if neither she nor anyone else at a reasonable distance could possibly decipher them
Ten Sentences
I. Rowing
I am setting out on this water not to drift but to row, since this not loving you has drawn from me almost as much as loving you once did, and nothing is as full as a boat by itself in a sea that does not end.
II. Barn Ruin
We found it at the edge of the woods that August you wouldn’t touch me, just a skeleton of walls and poison ivy climbing all the way to the caved-in roof, triple leaves bigger than hands and glossed to the point of dripping, and it was almost pretty, all those edges hooked against each other, baring back a tessellated light, just as long as we didn’t come close.
III. Tide
I was not afraid you would hurt me, but that you never would, that you would never even peer between these ribs I’ve hinged apart for you, until the wind will do to me what it does to all soft creatures left behind by the tide, and the only sound my throat can make will be the sound of robin nests unraveled in a storm.
this splintered
self, always
there and not
there—all ways
fragments
too close
to truth
his
portrait
ear-splitting
hairline cracks
eyes—iced-over
puddles
stepped
into, smashed
nose, broken
punched in
like a code
pupils;
dead flies
captured by
misshapen webs
frown thrown
off guard
skull-shatter
piece by piece
within his
lashes
a universe
on the blink
Continue reading “7yrs bad luck by Richard Biddle”
Of the sea
I was not formed from earth:
A dirty rib, used and scratching.
His name wasn’t on the birth certificate.
A womb of one’s own, forged in a locked room—
Nourished by sadness and
the shame they made her feel.
The sea always felt like home,
wind born waves held me.
Rocked me to sleep in a salted cradle.
Sometimes the monsters would come—
Emerging from beneath,
threatening to take my legs.
They never could, and I floated
eyes skyward.
Wishing I could row.
Someone is whispering
Someone, somewhere is whispering,
blue thoughts to the sharpened night,
leaving words born of the bottle
to shrivel under sleep’s new weight.
Thin syllables drip from bitten lips
moist with gin and clumsy kisses,
and a tongue lolls, slug-like, slurring,
while only the sliced moon listens
to the promises and prayers the night
drags from that full, unguarded heart.
There! Someone is whispering
and your new, cold day has yet to start.
Continue reading “Photographs of Bristol & a Poem by Jason Jackson”
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