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Poetry

from Disassemblage, by Emily Barton Altman

No one asked for the tower

the tower was simply there—

Continue reading “from Disassemblage, by Emily Barton Altman”

three pieces by Sara Matson

<fever>

fingertips tracing the hall        bumping

captured memories in thrift store frames

fabric walls swirled + stumbled

plastic champagne nightmare

aged by ghastly spirits

curled + feline in voyeuristic rage

i am six + vomiting on the carpet

old                   enough to knock

wall to wall berber moist

the smell mind meltingly distinct

mid coitus       shame anger    childpuke

fear      my sadness stained

my character nightshirt + baggy socks

while dad covered crotch w/ sheet

yelling             squint              adjusting to the overhead

light                 bowing my head to vintage porcelain

running the shower

(mom thought: steam helps sickly      babes)

palm to cheek watching

my mother dress

i understood    b/w

polyester silk layers

grief was not a gown

to be slid out of

but a skin to be licked

in tight corners

for a better fit

sitting denim cross eyed style

(two minute pee warning) hair matted to face

+ toilet seat     my puffy slits tracing

bicycle wallpaper bloomers to aged tile to

original stainless toothbrush holder +

even pre-orgasmic my mother is a stunning

wreck-age        her salt-blasted wood

elegant breasted mahogany   stern +

oiled to withstand

a fevered mind

<night terrors>

my room overlooks

snowy garbage            bins +

family photos stuck to crusted

albums              an ancient

flat faced cat presses its nose

beneath the surface

to drink           everything is lit red

hole in my palm made of flashlight

(antithetical religious imagery)

i keep sunshine caged + growling

             locked

from the outside          flicktailed

   babies haunt

nightly i scream + sing

never remember the dream just the

melody (forgotten) before it ever left

+ i feel his warmth on my chest

as an unnamed planet dies inside

(the loss          of an entire world)

you tell me it’s time    from the doorframe

+ you’ve never said anything more

horrific            or true            

i was given an $800 backgammon set

like a rare origin tale

sprinkled w/ blooms in seasonal varieties

jealousy striped but functional

(mother’s burgundy ceramic glassware)

i am blessed to know different types of

hot pepper      burning eyes twinkling

like a beacon    knobbled wood to palm

sliding down stairs +

swimming to the fridge

while on fire

<bedroom>

sticky paged corridor

(technicolor ode) to

youthful sanctuary

emblazoned backwards across

wet or bloody mirror (hair dye)

wheat paste tissue      muddied

astroturf was cheaper than paint

+ dad had an industrial stapler

            safety pins at each corner

            to hang posters           secrets

leopard print bed bugs eating my sadness

this is how i remember

a red doored cardboard house little

brother chewing on pony hair

chunky baby spit in brushed plastic

helpless rage (he ran into my fist)

sara, how could you do such a thing!

textbook witch

inching the world by word

sleight of hand quarter

of an ear          left nibbled +

personified by loss                 grief

jeans tucked into boots

knotted            violence

maintaining structural order

walking on duct tape

to the bus home


Sara Matson’s poetry has been nominated for Best of the Net 2019 + can be found in The Journal Petra, Bone Bouquet, Pulp Poets Press, and elsewhere. Sara’s chapbook, electric grandma is available from Another New Calligraphy and her chaplet, Forgotten: Women in Science is available from Damaged Goods Press. Sara lives in Chicago + Tweets as @skeletorwrites.

Banner image by Olivia Cronk

Continue reading “three pieces by Sara Matson”

ON SHAYE SAINT JOHN, SUPERMODEL OF MANNEQUINS, HOLLYWOOD'S MOST INFLUENTIAL BEAUTY by Ashley Miranda

Every Time You Watch Hoarders, You Become Infuriated

Continue reading “ON SHAYE SAINT JOHN, SUPERMODEL OF MANNEQUINS, HOLLYWOOD'S MOST INFLUENTIAL BEAUTY by Ashley Miranda”

two pieces by Leia Penina Wilson

volta OR she says children are born by being shoveled out of wolves’ bodies, but who does the shoveling? are all wolves, therefore, females; are all females, therefore, as vicious as wolves? tell me, my heart, what reality is

                        —i drain the nightingale

shove you in & through the moan

            tendering

            interior of poem    these trained claws

pulling skin from—how do you say—the way a tongue celebrates its obsession   

accomplishing verbbody/ verbbody/ verb

wetverb/ wetverb/ wet    i drop

your bones from sky    get marrow

starve what desire i have

violence

i have so much violence

another!

another!

bring me another nightingale

Continue reading “two pieces by Leia Penina Wilson”

from The Star Cabins, Sara Wainscott

I’m sorry I am [n]ever seen

Alone   

I look for you every day

A deer in two overlaid poses

Continue reading “from The Star Cabins, Sara Wainscott”

The dark should be safe, by Emma Lee

It’s like a tap dripping. None of her taps are guilty, but the sense of unease pools and spills across her floor.

Continue reading “The dark should be safe, by Emma Lee”

Mommy, by Nikki Wallschlaeger

        

           For Sage 

Mommy, I need some help. Watch cartoons with me, Mommy. You my mommy. Henry’s a nice pup. I’m hungry, Mommy. I want some pizza. I want some juice. Mommy, I got poop pants. I come outside with you, Mommy. Thanks. Read books with me, Mommy. Snuggle with me. I don’t want to take a nap. Mommy, help, help. You a nice Mommy. When is Daddy coming home. Where is brother. It’s yucky. I don’t like it, I don’t like it, Mommy. Nice dog. Fast race car. My bike, my bike, Mommy. No doggy. Henry’s a nice dog. Give my Mommy a kiss, carry me Mommy. Where is bus. BUS! Find a different one. This. Come on, Mommy. What’s that noise. Go find treasure for you. Mermaids, sharks. Mommy what you doing. Daddy’s at work?  Brother is at school. Take a bath. I want to take a bath, Mommy. Splash Mommy. Boats. Submarine. Mommy, I got owie. Right there. How about some cookies. Fine. You stop it, you do it. I found something, Mommy. Open. Yummy food. I want blue, yellow. I want to help you, Mommy. Mine.

________________

Nikki Wallschlaeger’s work  has been featured in The Nation, Brick, American Poetry Review, Witness,   Kenyon Review, POETRY, and others. She is the author of the full-length collections Houses (Horseless Press 2015)  and Crawlspace (Bloof 2017) as well as the graphic book I Hate Telling You How I Really Feel (2019) from Bloof Books. She is also the author of an artist book called “Operation USA” through the Baltimore based book arts group Container, a project acquired by Woodland Pattern Book Center in Milwaukee. Her third collection, Waterbaby, is forthcoming from Copper Canyon Press in 2021. // @nikkimwalls

_________________

Banner image by Olivia Cronk

FEBRUARY 2020 Guest Editor Is OLIVIA CRONK!!! THEME: STUDIES IN THE HIGH (GAUDY) DOMESTIC

Burning House Press are excited to welcome OLIVIA CRONK as our FEBRUARY 2020 guest editor! As of today Olivia will take over editorship of Burning House Press online for the full month of FEBRUARY.

Submissions are open from today – 1st FEBRUARY and will remain open until 23RD FEBRUARY.

Olivia‘s theme for the month is as follows

STUDIES IN THE HIGH (GAUDY) DOMESTIC

Continue reading “FEBRUARY 2020 Guest Editor Is OLIVIA CRONK!!! THEME: STUDIES IN THE HIGH (GAUDY) DOMESTIC”

VISION EDITION JANUARY 2020 GUEST EDITED/CURATED BY REVERSE BUTCHER

VISION EDITION JANUARY 2020 GUEST EDITED/CURATED BY REVERSE BUTCHER

Continue reading “VISION EDITION JANUARY 2020 GUEST EDITED/CURATED BY REVERSE BUTCHER”

Womannotated, Crow Carriage

 A Crow Carriage

Sonnet Double Feature:

 

Mistress of Malice 

Ten miles upon a tufted seat, elm trees

to village path, discreet, a beast will ride

to seaside town.  One hooded straggler by

him found, too young this hour to be outside

indecent bodice, brown eyes wide.  Fingers Continue reading “Womannotated, Crow Carriage”

3 Poems from Fatal Error by Mark Amerika

Toward A Philosophy of Photography

Last night I dreamt
I was turning real life
into an autohallucinatory dream
within a dream Continue reading “3 Poems from Fatal Error by Mark Amerika”

Bright Blue While the Juice is Flowing by Bobbi Lurie

Bright Blue While The Juice Is Flowing

a piece of
bitterness
transformed

separation
of
my face Continue reading “Bright Blue While the Juice is Flowing by Bobbi Lurie”

Ways of Seeing by Elodie Barnes

Ways of Seeing

Your eyes see things upside down; it’s down to your brain to turn them the other way up. This has become known as the right way up.

My eyes see things upside down, but my brain doesn’t work like yours. Continue reading “Ways of Seeing by Elodie Barnes”

2 Poems by Jocelyn Deane

Spirit Photography
after William H.Mumler

In this photo
Abraham Lincoln lies
in superposition
over Mary Todd’s veil and Continue reading “2 Poems by Jocelyn Deane”

The Wise Master by Chariklia Martalas

1.

Have we been blinded by reality?

Asked the Wise Master

The violence of a reality that sends tremors down the nerves 

To spark and catch alight.

Our eyes on fire. Continue reading “The Wise Master by Chariklia Martalas”

2 Poems by Phu-Linh Tran

No Longer Believe

What do I SE E? //

Why do I have V IS IO N /

if I no longer believe /

what my MI ND /

puts before me? // Continue reading “2 Poems by Phu-Linh Tran”

Smoke by Sophie Rose

SMOKE2

Continue reading “Smoke by Sophie Rose”

Bookstore by Roger Alsop

Bookstore

Continue reading “Bookstore by Roger Alsop”

Undo Their Flow on This by Mat Blackwell

UNDO THEIR FLOW ON THIS

Become.
Many deals, the city and – you
and just years ago It’s through open not change, and deal with the Capitalism story
deeply and Basically, we and void, we’ve So much coiled code – redirect into motion
Support each other with insect calm. Continue reading “Undo Their Flow on This by Mat Blackwell”

Ghosts by Lucy Whitehead

Ghosts

In this desolate place I can almost hear
the sacred buzzing of bees, glimpse
an endless canopy of emerald leaves
pulsing against a clear cobalt sky. Continue reading “Ghosts by Lucy Whitehead”

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