//selling zines//

Hey there!

I have a couple of published works that I am selling both as PDF versions and as paper versions. You pay what you can, suggested amount is $8 CAD.

Please follow the instructions if you want to purchase one of the collections as PDF:

1: send an email to eschalmis@gmail.com (this is my email address) indicating the title of the collection you would like to purchase.

2: you will receive a response with the collection as well as Paypal link to which you can transfer the desired amount.

Please follow the instructions below if you want to purchase one of the collection as a physical copy:

1: Go to my etsy : https://etsy.me/2HHg8FQ

2: You can make the purchase online with your credit card.

3: Zine will be sent by post

here are the collections:


This collection is trial against oneself in order to understand the origin of dysfunctional patterns and mental health issues. It explores childhood trauma and substance abuse as well as grief and the process of healing when confronted to today’s society.


Haze is an experimental compilation of poems and tales of love, sex, pain and abuse, all in a disorganized fashion the way haze is impossible to grasp. Mixing genres and themes ranging from comedy to death, and exploring the diverse and contradictory emotions and life experiences that all go against each other.

the colour of wheat fields/the shade of old spectacles (double feature)

This anthology consists of two collections mirroring each other and inspired by the book The Little Prince, from french author Antoine de Saint Exupéry. The colour of wheatfields is about being away and reflecting on relationships and dying friendships and having difficulties receiving love. The shade of old spectacles serves as an illustration for how mental health is a key factor in this inability to be with people and draw the road towards healing and going back home.

a fairy’s swansong

This collection is about spiritual death and coming to an end with unwanted patterns and trying to be born a new. It is divided into 3 acts towards an inevitable demise. From depression, to excess and finally to self-awareness and the understanding that there can’t be any more growth from there on and that the only way to move on is to arise anew.

[nightwood [encore]]

[we’re in the womb of the same mother

Sheltered in the guts of the goddess of pleasure

but really I’m just with myself

listening to the whispers of my mind

feeling them like hot steam of my breath

they fade away

drooling on my spine

i discover nervous connections

this is just me now

in my own bed of ashes

i just burnt

my ugly thoughts consumed

my dirty desires quenched

my cells quiver

i could be the wood in the fire

but i’m more like the golden glitter

of a party i’m having with myself

but wait, you are here too

you are the silver

ashes and fire

warm and sweaty

you can stay here i don’t mind you]

[nightwood [chorus]]

[a campfire on a cold winter day

the hard unyielding log on which you sit

it is organic and there is something soft

about the discomfort of it

a connection with nature

the snow melts where my hot tea cup lays

it’s tempting

but if i put my hand inside the fire i’ll scream

we just dance around it in circle

in the flames blue and yellow never mix

they tickle each other.

i kind of want to harden your skin with icy cold water

but even the heat gives us goosebumps

even if i’m hot and sweaty

i’m shivering

i want to be closer to the fire

i kind of want to burn my outer layer

i want to rub myself against the tree

i want you to melt like snow around my cup of tea

cool me down

or with the temperature shock, crack my shell

and let the beverage spill

my essence dripping

wash your impure desires with it

wash your repressed intentions

wash away the small talk and the distractions

clean the stains left by social ruling and codes of conducts

clean it with the temptation leaking from my skin

clean the dirt with our dirty sin

with the pouring of my soul

i want you to taste me with caution

so you don’t burn your tongue

but i can still leave a stinging sensation,

in your mouth.

like shelter in winter

like melted candy on my finger

i want to put another log into the fire

so this contrasting night lasts forever

so i can keep bedding myself into the snow

close my eyelids, and blood red shades

dancing through my skin

giving in.







[nightwood [prelude]]

and in your insane quest towards impurity and self destruction

you may find temporary relief in letting your body be torn apart

you’re sick for letting sick people touch and lick your skin

their wet saliva dripping

and you’ll never forget the smell that they leave on your cheek


everything can be repaired they say

even the bridge that was connecting your body to your soul

can it be built over this river of garbage

you can do much more than rampage

your dry skin can once again make whole with your shattered mind

can you

can you ever enjoy sex and still feel like you’re in control of yourself

that your desires and feelings are nothing but impurity

sex doesn’t have to be damaging

in your quest towards peace and wholesomeness

you may find temporary relief in letting your body be torn apart



[cling cling makes the wine bottle

spilling out on the couch

harder to hide it so you crouch


your knees becomes soft by kneeling

you submit

you hate it

and nobody can even see it

why do you even do that

no {point



the only thing that makes sense is the opaque bloody liquid in your glass

but even you wonder why

even you can’t piece together

what feels so good in that glass of wine

certainly not the morning

hey how are you? i’m fine

as you meet your friends in your favorite store. your mouth already watering

we all know you licked that spot on your couch]


[سَفِينَةُ الفَضَاء (safinatou al-faďa’)]

[my mother used to say that there was a path i could follow

beat the dirt, the violence of trying to blend in and make a place for yourself in this world

i’d argue, with my youthful innocent mouth

that there were wheatfields in which to skim your hand


gently planting new seeds in the dry sand

but it turns out it didn’t matter who was right

i’m far far away from the land

and she is six feet under it.


i was never able to contain myself in the cupped palms of my shaky hands

i could never hold anything

holding on to nothing

i was far far from the ground floating in thin air

everything leaving me for the current of the wind

imaginary friends and painful illusions

i fear the moment when i crash down

because on earth there are things i can’t comprehend


i’m not familiar with its sounds. is it like a whistle? some say it’s like butterflies flapping their wings but you know butterflies only live for one day?!

i don’t know its taste. people taste each other but touch my skin you’ll think i’m soft, touch my soul within and i’ll run away.

happiness and long-term planning

it scares me to death

what if it does smell like death and the stench lingers and lingers.

everything on the ground looks scary. i can only guess the pitch of the alarm everyone is supposed to recognize as a warning

but i wouldn’t get it and the wolves would come at me. me. them feasting.

it scares me to death. the landing

i’m not ready for anything. not even the good feelings.

i’m not ready to come back to the atmosphere because that means i’ll have to work on healing.

i’m not ready.]

© Elliot Schalmis and Trees can never be seeds again, 2018. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this site’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Elliot Schalmis and Trees can never be seeds again with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

[best laid plans]

“nothing we do is completely out of sense. everything tends to be intentional. but we don’t often accept the reality. that our mind is able to conjure up ideas so impure and unconventional.”

[what the fuck is love??

is it permission?

is it allowing yourself to get stabbed?

twisted and tied like a vine

blood dripping on your spine, well

isn’t red your favorite color?

but what is the point if you already do a wondeful job

without the need of love in you back

to stab yourself in the stomach

winding yourself to the bottom of the lake

there must something else in the trade.

something that is not pain.]


If you go out to a park

You’ll see squirrels climbing trees

Oaks that willingly yield their fruit

Not defending themselves in any way

For years and years

Have squirrels stolen their seed

For years and years

Have trees remained completely still

Allowing things to be taken from them

There must be something else in the trade.


The other day I read that squirrels

Will often bury the acorn they were bestowed upon

But most of the time forget where.

For years and years

Have oaks given their fruit knowing

That the squirrels would lose them

So it will break the ground and be growing.

To the squirrel, the tree was an easy source of food and shelter

To the tree in its slumber

The squirrel was hope for prosperity.

The strength of their relationship

Came for each other’s weakness

One unable to defend itself

The other had a cognitive disadvantage.


They were a perfect trade.


For some of us, love is hard to receive

Easy to give

And we do have to be waiting

To see the fruit breaking

Into a tree that will be standing

Winters and summers when they come along

A tree that with its branches will turn the wind into a song.

Our benefit comes with some delay.


Is love allowing some pain?

Selling some time?

For delayed streams of delight

Rain breaking the drought

For growth.


Love is a trade you choose to make.


Love was never part of my plan.

Quote unquote “I’m independant”

I wanted to rely on myself

But I wasn’t able to live in loneliness and pay its rent

Because the price of my ego and stubborness

Was that the fruit I wasn’t ready to yield

Grew bitter on my limbs.


I didn’t understand what it meant

I thought of love as a weakness

Even the one I should have had for myself.


Now I can look back

At my mother who took my childhood away

But still loved me and ruined her own life, too

Because that is a trade she was willing to do.

At the people who neglected or abused me

Including myself. The worst abuser of all.

Murderer if happy thoughts. Rapist of self-esteem.

At my plans that didn’t go as planned

But without which

Today I wouldn’t be healing

Today I wouldn’t be learning

Now I am thankful for the failure

I’m on my way for more pleasure

Even if it still involves a bit of pain.


In reality,

I am as much the squirrel as the tree

And it is one of the hardest things to do

To yield a fruit to yourself, too

And to let it be.

To give and receive,

You on both ends


Self love is a trade.

Where you can rely on your weaknesses

To grow and prosper.

And there is something else in the trade.

Now I can bleed while loving myself

I can trust my hands with my own fruits

And trust that I will lose them.

And that there is something for me in the end.

Self-love was maybe never part of my plan.

But now I am willing to do the trade.