one much quieter
one much more talkative,
interpreting daylight as if it were a room
depleted sidewalk wants
2 tell u (me) some
thing
something só imp. It
had to wa
it
a pile of dirt remains ambiguous
laying on the stone like that
can it tell the future?
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
Sculpture Garden
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.
2.
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaààbbbbcccc
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
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
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 