FANZINE

All the relations will end today
all the agreements called off
statements to flame,
sign on the dotted line
name in a fist
cream of a trade agreement, 1995.
Here is my nationalised heart beating it
up for you, its strings monitored by
a private fighter jet from 1983, warfare.
Breeches. Invasion.

Here is my nationalised heart beating
calling it aflame like motion sickness the union
moving through the worldsick
Trichomoniasis of a mine
the orange jaguar’s brother sickness
cathodes in a dad’s warehouse storage unit
they attached it to me attached it to me like a
Sunlit picture of a Piercing, A tag.
Here the picture gives it back, oil in flood.
Today all the relations were destroyed
the purpose is mine the fault in my
sundrowned here heart of denatured
national little fame,
The family unit became a time
Worn atomic metal
the family unit squeezes itself thru
the sinuous warning shocks blood the
catheter 275 of 300 near to the
end of trying, Desire.
Places flash up like passports
the place has none, stated
the fishing waters of strung desires
with slicked beasts of me
the familial one shuddered in languages
Krinoline cinemaesque
The old computer gives you a shock
when you turn it on, the one of
a dad a relation
put it in a pen put in a quarantine
site all the special languages
Were called off today, I left it
there learnt a new one, the one
radical pure and simple,
the others that were
to be breaking a heart through
its fake cathector
anodyning me
want to fuck it all up
today

—–

no bosses and no oases of hope
lose a home and make it broke
construction time less than fear
is more than oases of hope

steal it from a family and make it
cannot be your own that’s broke
investment, thousands to bridge
holding the home an oasis of hope

your pocket breathes a stolen home
make it break already leaves bright
money like perfumes i create my
self, leaves smelling of perfumes

hope to singe out, oasis of hope
pink wardrobes smelling of perfume,
genitals smelling of money, family
investment smelling of perfume

i create myself a pocket home
construction time holding the home
new pocket smelling the wardrobe
pink like when alone I hold my home

falconry of home, it flies out
leaves flap the family wings
was not an oasis of hope, stinks
the botanic its invested perfume

pink birds the pocket bright are
money, homes chucked out hope
keep on lose a home run up a
tally in a pocket, no hope

what didn’t have a family take a home
i create no self lose all bird money
halves into nothing, lose perfume
am leaving this, no oasis of hope

—–

the burnt out fire station, brown & fatal red
motor cable lost on the plaza of a loved one. Mental
barrier of a tenement, box house sunk in breadth
seedless bask in tone of allure. At home, blades
of grass as only food, artificial & Pearl Vision, know
hunger. Walk then in cherry-blossom fire, proxy revolt
out of bounds, the food courses through. Take motor vision,
leave over nostalgia as memory in the fat of it. The bone
is artificial in the size of a vista, I see myself as a character
in Minor Eroticism, a city fended from park spring and
cable car. The papers become the poems, blue shrift
official writ, but will my poems be marked as wrong? Shrift,
to international waters, writing stomach on the sea. The
small black blades come into archways wend to flag
paradise, this concatenation of mad, unending dream. I
at home in the translucency of arrival will never
have anything to declare. The origin
mark signalling the persons I will not be able to forget,
under questioning. Not to myself, to
the burnt out fire station

———————-

_{Christina Chalmers (b. Edinburgh) is a poet based in New York. Her poems have appeared in and on The Claudius App, Hi Zero, SCREE, and Asphodel. She is the author of WORK SONGS (Shit Valley Press, 2014) and WILLINGNESS (Materials, 2017).}