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The Woodcutter by Vik Shirley

Nico (1967) by Michael Ochs.

Vik Shirley is a poet and writer from Bristol living in Edinburgh . Her collections and chapbooks include: Persona Digitalia (PhotoWorks, 2025), a photo poetry pamphlet which was selected for the inaugural P5 photo poetry series, Some Deer (Broken Sleep, 2024), Strangers Wave (zimZalla, 2023) and Corpses (Sublunary Editions, 2020). Her work has appeared in Poetry London, PN Review, The Rialto, Magma, Perverseand 3am. She has a PhD in Dark Humour and the Surreal in Poetry from University of Birmingham. 

consecrated to the gods by Misha Honcharenko

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].

DECEMBER 2025 Guest Editor Is MATTHEW KINLIN!!! Theme: My Heart Is Empty: Responses to The Life and Work of Nico

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!

Late September 1978 by Kelly Rebar

Photo by Kelly Rebar

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.

Three Poems by Alexis Karlsen

Ferdaminni [XI/24 – X/25]

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.

Boreal by Autumn Richardson

i.

carnelian willows 

flint veins of the river

hoof-worn rock and a drifting 
scent of ungulates

	       	          (scars in stone
		                   fossil trails)

magnetic north 

	          pilgrimage

I bow to the illuminations 
within wounds

the work of days: 

	          a re-membering of 
	          that which is now torn

in pockets of moss I rest my eyes 

throats of earth open
	
	            a hive of tongues sings

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.

www.corbelstonepress.com

3 poems from Book Of Mirages (Libro de los Espejismos) by Gaspar Orozco, translated from the Spanish by Ilana Luna

Photo by C.C. O’Hanlon

¿Y el fuego que no se ve? ¿Cómo registrarlo? ¿Y la llama que invisible cerca al cuerpo? ¿Y la hoguera incolora que arde en el cerebro? ¿Cómo dibujarlas, cómo explicarlas? El incendio ciego encerrado en cada gota de sangre, ¿con qué tinta, con qué pigmento se traslada al papel? ¿Cómo hacer visible el alcohol que quema su anillo fantasma en la retina? ¿Y el fuego innombrable que calcina la lengua? ¿Y el alambre ardiente y afilado de la circunferencia que te atraviesa el alma? ¿Cómo decirlos, cómo llamarlos?

And what of the unseen fire? How to record it? And the invisible flame about the body? And the colorless bonfire roaring in your brain? How to draw them, explain them? The blind blaze enclosed in each drop of blood, with which ink, with which pigment can it be put to paper? How to make visible the alcohol that burns its phantom ring on the retina? And the unnameable fire that scorches the tongue? The blistering, razor wire that encircles the soul? How to name them, how to call them?

. . .

El nombre es una espiral, un erizo que da la vuelta a la sombra. Adivinas luz al torcer el muro. Casi la tocas, pero no la alcanzas a ver. Arena blanca. Sigues. Recorres un segmento del círculo con una jaula de pájaros vacía en tus manos: la puertita choca su metal al abrirse y cerrarse a tu paso. El mar deja en libertad uno de sus vientos para que se pierda en el laberinto. Lo encontrarás llevando el rumor de campanas distantes y de piedras tristes y metales que brillan lejos. El palacio del caracol es su esqueleto. El palacio del estratega es su memoria. Hay un mar vivo en el centro. Al humedecerse, el cráneo del remolino canta su canción. Es lo que llega a tu oído.

The name is a spiral, a sea urchin turning round the shadow. You glimpse light when curving along the wall. You can almost touch it, but you can’t quite see it. White sand. You continue. You pace the segment of the circle with an empty birdcage in your hands: the tiny door clanks its metal open and shut with your footfalls. The sea sets free one of its winds to lose it inside the labyrinth. You’ll find it carrying the rumor of distant chimes and sad stones and metals that shine from afar. The seashell palace is its skeleton. The strategist’s palace is his memory. There’s a living sea at its center. When wet, the whirlpool’s skull sings its song. That’s what you hear.

. . .

A lo largo de la Odisea, hay una frase que deja un leve rastro en la historia de los días y las noches de Odiseo entre las islas: la luz del regreso. Telémaco la pronuncia por primera vez cuando le confiesa a la diosa Atenas, la ojizarca, el temor a que su padre hubiera perdido ese fulgor. Odiseo la emplea cuando trata de explicar a Calipso su deseo de volver a Ítaca. Hay esperanza en esta imagen, pero se trata de una esperanza humedecida de tristeza. La tristeza de la imposibilidad del retorno, la de la callada certidumbre de que la Ítaca de la cual partimos no la encontraremos ya. La Odisea, como todos sabemos, es la apuesta para recuperar la luz del origen, la primera que vieron nuestros ojos y por la que vale la pena morir para verla brillar una vez más. Todos tenemos una Ítaca que reverbera en el filo de nuestro horizonte. Así, el poema entero –es decir, la vida- se concentra en esa imagen, como la luz de la isla en el vaso que dibuja su reflejo en el muro.

Throughout the Odyssey, there’s a phrase that leaves the faintest of traces on the history of the days and nights of Odysseus among the islands: the light of the return. Telemachus first pronounces it when confessing to the goddess Athena, the bright-eyed one, his fear that his father may have lost that glow. Odysseus uses it when trying to explain to Calypso his desire to return to Ithaca. There’s hopefulness in that image, but it’s hope dampened by sadness. The sadness of the impossibility of return, that of the quiet certainty that the Ithaca we left won’t ever be found again. The Odyssey, as we know, is the attempt to recover the original light, the first our eyes ever saw and for which it would be worth dying to see shining once more. We all have an Ithaca reverberating on the edge of our horizon. Thus, the entire poem—that is to say, life—is concentrated in that image, like the light of the island in a glass that etches its reflection on the wall.

. . .

Born in Chihuahua, Mexico, Gaspar Orozco has published 8 books of poetry, three of them translated in English by Mark Weiss. He has translated poetry from English, French and classic Chinese to Spanish. He was a member of an obscure punk band, Revolucion X; the Spanish label Metadona Records will release an album of their lost recordings in December 2025. He currently works as a diplomat. 

Imprint Of Weeping Angels by Jenni Fagan

Photo by Jenni Fagan

There are people with real names and there are those who will never know such a thing. Those with real names have had them called out loud in the valley of their soul. Those people are not the property of weeping angels. I have an angel assigned solely to weep by me day and night. The river of  an angels tears is a damned thing. A cursed dash of the darkest rapids. The creatures that swim there! Winged eels with electric teeth. Octopi in buttonhole suits. They see my faded scales. I sit by their mirror smoking. I am unafraid of damnation. Such a thing was foretold for me. There are those with addresses and amalgamations of numbers and streets they know for some time. I have never known anything for long. It isn’t my way. There are those who have something they may call home and it may be bad or it may be good but they are not tied to it by invisible ribbons or bows. They will have seen it. They will have slept in it. Their feet understand they must return their owner to there and so that is where they go. The bones of my feet ache. They resent shoes. They resent places. They want to return to the river. There are those that are vouched for by others who have known them since they were a drunken night, or since an uncle danced in a way that his not yet conceived a nephew would later copy his particular show of movement (or lack of) whichever it may be. There are those who are defended by mother to suspicious father. There are those who have people who know them. There are those who sit with those they know under to the glare of nurses inspection. When they stand before teachers and bus drivers and the tyranny of all other children there are those who are in some way vouched for and then there are those that are not. No concept of what it means to truly know their face in another eyes, or to actually have the right to even a few letters they should be recognised by. Or perhaps another human who knows them for more than a second or a day. Raised by people paid to keep them for a contracted time. There are those who feel death may be their only truthful companion. They have a longing to return at all times. Even when they do not know where that place might be exactly — that they could return to. So they do not! There are those who are considered suspicious by nearly all who encounter them on some deep and primal level. Like foundlings, or fairies, or any other being who arrives unknown — their presence can incite revulsion or cruelty or pity at best. If lucky their presence might even incite care. They are an open wound. Lacking the kind of a skin that can protect from bacteria. Devoid of layers. They pass without concealment. Those who will never have the right to a name! I am of those. Somehow always assumed to be guilty, unworthy, most certainly contagious. We must be contained. I gave you kindness, what did you take from me? That’s what they often say. It is not often kindness that they have given. The things they have done would render the river of the damned even more impenetrable than it already is. They will always deny it. What they did, they will always blame the one to whom it has been done to. Always! I never met one of them or they or those kinds who would not say I was a liar, they said it to themselves, they said it to everyone else but most hideously — they said it repeatedly for their entire lives to me — so here is my lie, you may read it as truth but it would not be, it would be more than truth, it would be certainty. To those who will also not-be-named I must point out — I did not believe them then and I do not now. 
	I know words. 
	I know terrors. 
	I know monsters. 
	The truth of irrevocable realities — do not belong to them: cannot be named by them: cannot be contained by them — truth is the most garish of foundlings, it is the eternal spirit companion of weeping angels.
	This is my imprint. 
	It belongs to me.

. . .

Dr Jenni Fagan is an award-winning, critically acclaimed novelist, poet and artist. Published in global translations the author of four fiction novels, one non-fiction memoir, eight poetry collections, exhibitions, adaptations and with another two new fiction novels due out next year. She has won The Gordon Burn Prize 2025, was a Granta Best of British Novelist (a once in a decade accolade), Scottish Author of the Year and has been on lists from The Women’s Prize, BBC International Short Story Prize, The Sunday Times, Encore and more. Fagan has worked extensively with vulnerable groups including those  in prison, and the care system where she herself grew up. Described as The Patron Saint of Literary Street Urchins, Fagan’s work responds to the centre always from the margins and without compromise.

https://www.jennifagan.com/

NOVEMBER 2025 Guest Editor Is C.C. O’HANLON!!! THEME/S: JOURNEYS

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!

Labyrinth / Erasure by Teresa Mestizo

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

Ambiguous Dirt by Austin Miles



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
the chapbook Perfect Garbage Forever (Bottlecap Press)
and has poems published in Touch the Donkey, Reap Thrill,
Don’t Submit!, and elsewhere.

Two Poems by Corwin Ericson

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)

Two Poems by Dan Melling

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.

Simón Bolívar (1783–1830) by Peter J King

                                         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

https://wisdomsbottompress.wordpress.com/peter-j-king/

Seven translations of Maffeo Barberini’s ‘Sonetto XXXII’ (Qui m’assido pensoso in questo sasso) by Eric T Racher

attributed to Altobelli & Molin Ruins of the Temple of Saturn in the Roman Forum ca. 1857-75 albumen print Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam 
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

Three poems by Jordan Davis

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 by Jeff Young

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

SEPTEMBER 2025 Guest Editor Is Alexander Booth!!! THEME/S: LANDSCAPE // LABYRINTH

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—

Black Square and Red Square by Kazmir Malevich

_____

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!

“On Silence” by Kelly Norah Drukker

Continue reading ““On Silence” by Kelly Norah Drukker” →

“Interdigital Space” by Michael Borth

Continue reading ““Interdigital Space” by Michael Borth” →

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