We, The Burner, are casting our net wide and looking for essays, poetry, prose, photography, scribbles, marginalia, interviews, mixes, Vines, literary excretions and the disjecta membra of modern life; for notes on monastic life in 8th century Tibet but also your tract on how Bridgerton is fascist.
Phone notes – the awkward cache of private writings where some of our most lurid textual ejaculate washes with our most lucid. Phnotes’s work is trawling the riverbed of autobiography and dredging up the gravelly self-inscriptions ignored by the haughty voice of the diary or journal. This is about waste-products; the sewer of self that you carry around in your front pocket and ponder while you piss.
We want your practice break-up texts, your abject advice to self, your elated delight-in-self, your public transport poems, your 6am curses, your sex dreams, your stilted aphorisms, your truest truisms, your squandered life-projects, your song requests, half-remembered nightmares, jealous ravings, declarations of love and of hatred, your threats to self, epiphanies, threats to others, gasping political rants, pre-conceived sexts and any other verbal clap-trap you have shed like dead skin over the years.
Join us as we tread by the beam of torchlight, in a shoddy set of oilskins, through the odorous nodes of the world’s new cloaca maxima – and let Phnotes be your new Cloacina. Phnotes is to say: we are all writers – the real question is where the writing ends up.