Click the link to read. Beautiful work!
I am not from here. I am from somewhere in between push and pull. I am a thrust not yet experienced by what people usually call ‘home’. I am exiled. I am exile. I reside not in my consciousness, but in the lingering smell of last night’s cigarettes and rain drops. In the burning of […]
via Exile, intensive care by Christina Tudor-Sideri — BURNING HOUSE PRESS
What a brutal batch of poems. I loved them. “…scream endlessly into their ears in one long, feral sound. because closure isn’t real, but screaming is.” Click the link below for more stunning lines like these!
August August is second-degree burns / from hands grazing against metal / it is waking from sweat-dripping nightmares / and no more room for intimacy / August is a silent scarring / a tension you can taste / stinking rotten in the air / it is a dozen new bruises / peppering my limbs every […]
via Three poems by Wanda Deglane — BURNING HOUSE PRESS
Click below to see all 3 poems. I’m a fan 🙂
Dementia come to mind cloud come to cloud mind – Marie Ponsot & every now & then, i sit by her feet, on her porch never ever talking. & together, we watch the soughing heavens mutter, str- etching their cotton-silvers in lulls & retorts of nearly went & nearly wait – […]
via Berceuses by Petero Kalulé — BURNING HOUSE PRESS
This is gorgeous work! Click the link below to see and read.
A pair of paradox, or pandora’s box We are forgotten yesterdays of tomorrow, note-booked mementos on thighs time travelled, back from the future, a few tsha-tsha with flashes blackouts and gray-matter gashes, the slurred dance of good memory, crib-notes on collar-bones, bare chest, a loose tie, knots, not around neck formal education white suits, tucked-in […]
via Art + Poetry by nublaccsoul — BURNING HOUSE PRESS
What an absolutely talented writer. The language is just so beautiful, which just adds to the devastation of the story. Seriously, do not miss out on this one!
Marrakesh, Old Town Everyone seemed to have rotten, black, and missing front teeth. They were friendly and kept smiling and that’s how I saw they mostly had rotten, black and missing front teeth. I couldn’t see a lot of the women’s teeth, only their eyes, and often not even. There were many women dressed from […]
via Nothing Dries Sooner Than A Tear* by Joanna Pickering — BURNING HOUSE PRESS