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BURNING HOUSE PRESS

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Three pages from An Invention by Brian Baker

An Invention p.20, 2019, ink and pastel on paper.

Continue reading “Three pages from An Invention by Brian Baker”

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Sapless Fortunes by Dale Brett

Chants of innocuous dreams. Juxtaposed worlds full of images. Nowhere to store these moments but vestigial ingrown pockets. Resultant miniscule sacs swollen with residual blood. Echoes of a thousand Nippon years rasping in my ears. I awake in Queen Himiko’s tomb. Continue reading “Sapless Fortunes by Dale Brett”

Simpering by Shane Jesse Christmass

Human as alien as animal as transformative substance. My gills again. My lungs left behind. The anti-intro that discusses mutations and mutations only. New genes discovered in the side streets of North Inglewood. My personal mental fitness … a direct agency to despair. Psychedelic mathematics … the double helix … organisms occur as new species … desirous selection. Cockroach shells beneath my upper lip. A thousand times a day I vomit in the open hallways. No one sees this sign … let alone someone asking my name. I am not human. Live nude guys on Instagram … the micro-evolution of asexuality … the sticky goo of human bones … a total deterioration of feeling. Continue reading “Simpering by Shane Jesse Christmass”

Three Neighbours by Paul Brookes

1. I Fry Me Chips

in proper fresh Beef fat for better flavour, in a proper chip pan. Don’t let

old fat lie. Keep it new, not like neighbours, nowt against them,

not meaning to be offensive but veg don’t put hairs on your chest,

or give a bloke owt to hold onto on a night. There’s yon young un out

on a morning in her slippers and pyjamas hangs out her undies,

as if no ones looking. Him next door in his loose dressing gown lumps white

bags in grey bin, pussy cardboard boxes in blue. Like I said don’t let old fat lie.

Tha allus sees summat proper fresh out thee windows.

Continue reading “Three Neighbours by Paul Brookes”

The Lost Cowboy [A story in 24 tweets] by Mauricio Montiel Figueiras

In memory of Sam Shepard (1943-2017)

1. Under a fat summer moon the Lost Cowboy stops his horse. Stares at the scars in his hands looking for a map to guide him home.

2. Home is the place where you always long to be but which you will never find. The Lost Cowboy still hears the words of his father.

3. Come home, oh sweet baby, come home back to me. Startled, the Lost Cowboy struggles to place his mother’s lullaby in his memory. Continue reading “The Lost Cowboy [A story in 24 tweets] by Mauricio Montiel Figueiras”

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