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 email@example.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.
three friends will lose themselves
in a forest
not to be parted by death
but by annihilation
one falls down into oblivion
one longs to catch a new breath
as the third one rummages the bookshelves
to gather the story and find what they lost
in the forest
of memories preserved by frost.
december rings the bell of forgotten habits
for when darkness arises as the moon sits
a legend from ancient lore
echoes like a silent roar
that from the shadow
will appear a soft glow
of a new battle to be fought
as fate will be wrought
a flow of liquor fills up the lakes
and when the flood reaches the gardens,
[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]
[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
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 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
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 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 hate it
and nobody can even see it
why do you even do that
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]
[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.
“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
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.
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.