The Arsonist Magazine edition 01 – featuring flammable materials from 30 international writers artists photographers – Coming Soon
Dream Wedding
I.
The dress is white and silk and sheer. Mother puts a hand on her chest, tells me that she is so proud but I look at her wrists and her string of fate clashes with her softness—an accessory out of place with her flowers and stars.
II.
I walk down the aisle covered by a veil of light—the handiwork is flimsy, I know the weaver’s still getting the mechanics of it—holding a bouquet that has been wilting for days now; it stinks of anger and disappointment, pungent and bitter and sour.
III.
My fiancé lifts the veil: I wonder what he sees—I, no longer a girl, but nearly feral, nearly clawing out a ribcage, with lips bleeding roses and charcoal masking eyes. I wonder if he can still recite his vows in the face of an oncoming storm.
I.V.
The rings are the sun melted down to fit both of our fingers. The varnish chokes the air in my lungs. He says I do as he slides his ring on my finger, something in me screams and collapses, shattering into muted petals. I say I do as I slide my ring on his finger, I hope he hears the clink of ball and chain linked around our hands.
V.
The night after the reception he’s in the bathroom and he won’t come out. With the door in between us, I ask why and he said that he did not marry a wolf, he did not marry to be eaten alive. I told him that someone had to, for tradition’s sake. I also said that girls weren’t meant to howl at the moon every night.
Leaves, Blades, Cupboards (I)
Show me your bones.
Tell me what they would say
if they could speak their reasons.
That is your smile hand-sewn over pursed lips
(in time the stitches have disappeared).
All but a card trick—sleight of a poised hand.
I understand this well, all show and no tell—
the body a floor plan of pain.
TINDER OF THE “DESPERATE MAN”
selling points include “fairly good shape”
liberal politics a breezy concept of god
checklists presenting
banged-up circles for easy handling
into this desperate mechanics turns
the gears of hard consonants
hikes, bikes, kayaks, walks
toils of past-time that toll hollow
now you want a goddess to flame
on one immune to the sting of obsession
Safety Pin
Will a safety pin be enough
To quell the din of racism
And help those on the sharp end of abuse
Loosen xenophobia’s noose?
Are you pinning your hopes on too little?
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FRANKLIN HIRAM KING WRITES A BOOK CALLED “THE SOIL”
The one who begs
the elements
to be no more
than elemental
also prays
that his wife’s mouth
may be more
than the dust
she swallows trailing
you around
the dry seasons.
It’s simple that way.
Simple compounds
into the whole
of the universe. It
does that every time.
Inevitable
The hardest worked waters wore out
The rivers lost in time
Perhaps it is a way to maintain happiness without people
To fly freely from
For The First Time
There’ll come a time
When you’ll be going through my things
And my intimacy will be no more
A Natural Tendency
some minds take pleasure in counterpoints
absently answering some deep call
they move in a hushed, ice-clear trance
and lucid, inescapable rhythms, low beneath
so to beseech them as full as for it
the inexorable growth
the signal to a sacred plea… Continue reading “‘A Natural Tendency’ by Christian Patracchini”
The Heat
when we were young
and time was free,
our skin danced in bronze
crafted by sunlight’s constancy
our footsteps whispered
in fields of green and the distance
between us was a heartbeat,
caught in the hum of laughter
about something silly, I’m sure,
but now the reason is gone
as much as who we were,
once—when summer knew us best
for all I know now is heat,
how to harness it by air conditioning,
while seconds rise like goosebumps
to steal the rest of youth away
When
When people use fund-raising and donations,
As ways to pacify their rising guilt.
When trafficking destroys a generation,
And shelters are unfunded and unbuilt.
When children under ten are mutilated
For sinful natures they do not possess.
When bodies are both lusted for and hated,
And violence is blamed on how she’s dressed.
Coach House Series by Paul Hawkins
cut-up text
medium: mixed media on found card
dimensions: various
date: 2016
1. ‘a sigh, a sorrow, a suspicious mind’
A Woman Learns
A woman learns when she is young
That all of her is a weapon
Against a world that is determined
To mould her softness into something
Convenient, hard, eventually,
a disappearance.
Nottingham-born Henry Normal co-wrote the Royle Family, Mrs Merton and many other television comedies, was a co-director with Steve Coogan of Baby Cow Productions and Executive Producer of ‘I Believe in Miracles’, the real life story of Nottingham Forest’s European Cup triumph. As it turns, we share educational, musical tastes and neurology – although Henry has made far better use of his – and it was a pleasure to interview him about his influences, autism, family and future plans, particularly his return to his first love, poetry.
– Trevor Wright.
You’ve recently left Baby Cow and started to re-engage with poetry. What was the thinking behind that?
I worked in television for about thirty years. I’ve always loved comedy, I think there’s something akin with comedy and poetry and it comes down to truth. I think you’re searching for truth in poetry and there are certain things you only laugh at if they’re true. Comedy is a bit like playing a musical instrument, you know when it’s off tune and you know when it’s right. Comedy is exact, whereas poetry requires a little bit more imagination, and a little bit more interpretation. Continue reading “‘Find A Way Of Saying It’ – A Burning House Press Interview With Nottingham’s Henry Normal”
Look Up
I
Sovereign fires
Crane their necks thin
Hovering upon faultless feet
Weary scythes drop eaves
Overlook brothers of sleep,
Taking age to the face of day
Above brilliant margins
Drowsing sentinels
Illuminate the mainstream Continue reading “‘Look Up’ by Adam Steiner”
Light Buried Underground
1
Weeping woman, look up here.
It seems a beautiful day.
Ovals lay eggs. We have flowers.
Even a simple call can turn into a racket,
self-reflection in bright yellow.
2
You are different now.
But not bad different.
Just, you know, not like 1999.
Go die, come back, I’ll love you.
Love will save us, love will save us.
Violet hearts run crimson tides. Continue reading “5 Assemblages by Howie Good”
BURNING HOUSE PRESS 