Faye Chevalier

blame II (torture[-]time[!])

death cults have to eat too,

you know—go simulcast that

nice wilt away, yr pink-ass

cracked beak in hand,

snarling—seep-drain 

yr excess burn fluids

for fun, the orchestral mix

re a culling of health,

cursed to condition, to

live to see yrself become

the homonational icon

for a desolate killing 

state—shoplifters are 

heroes now, it fucking

rules; they play the capital 

game aghast a field

of real life ghouls, pissing their

problems out bloody

stump pelvises—chunk yrself 

inside forever, shame doesn’t 

fizzle, it simply floats—

birth bich, haha

we’re kissing in the big-ass Smear Room,

“all’s cold & tiled” & “toot toot” goes the 

actual dirt around us, the whisper (of) echoes

weaving, & that’s it, end of image— 

i pay rent in lil crime installments & it all goes

to catch-up construction, the housing

wave chasers aching in time to the tax heaven’s,

riotous breaths, seeping thru the dank cracks in blank

checks, a civil war is too much work to work

but, then again, in this earth, the state

straight-up selects particular persons for slow &

painful deaths in exponentially wilder ways & 

then nothing happens for a while, so,—

kin me like the cum bowl in Totally F***ed 

Up & then take me to the pound

(kill shelter only please!), my v v last request is

to send my plastered fucking balls to the

mystery fleshpit national park ARG 

guy’s house as dripping fan mail, 

we always warned you failure was the 

only option, haha, yea, i know i’m mean but at 

least i’m almost honest about it these days—

v i d e o v i d e o v i d e o

after Porpentine

what is comm-unity 

but a weak pile 

of frothy biches, 

trying their best?

is hard to stay frozen 

in the latest viral slurry salon, 

face first into

grade ten (rare!) 

ideology unboxing 

(mint condition!) video meals, 

going “you tire of me yet?” 

when the sheer ruin catches up

on yr poor, beautiful ass, but

like, someone had to ask 

the hard(er) questions here

like “chunk this crystal in 

mine skull like a cartridge 

please?” & “i’m bleeding 

all over, i’m sorry?” all

ripped off the proverbial rails 

& in(to) the tentacular light 

(show) speculation as the

market mall bubbles & soils over, 

the ultimate kill move

feed slowed (to a crisp)

a t r o c i t y  r a i n

i wakes up & there’s, like,

a whole haptic corpsefrastructure 

set to lock & (up)load a wet mass 

death upon a city’s collective ass

on the daily (“thank u for yr service”)—

read an antiseptic 

scream   of 

blade thru           jaw, 

an eviction gone terribly 

wrong—

my bitch bod slumps 

from the sheer bullet trauma,

haha, yea, but, 

no really, it

actual war on everyone else—

lobotomy check tik tok kids 

knife-fighting traffic, 

commuters in puddles(, & you,)

riding the genocide express 

to the desert from Teorema—

a song of j breaths, a hyper-tactical 

palm strike, (all poised, all living, all vs)

some loose coyote clout killers 

protracting people 

in the woods—

ever-attention(ed), 

steel-tempered 

to economy-sharp edge

(“give me a name, 

i’ll give ‘em a end”), 

get born hand-gifted 

a kill-streak for life by proxy—

acres of sheer slime , the bleached bones

of someone’s fave cowboy, 

emptying a clip

into the sun—

Faye Chevalier is a Philadelphia-based poet and seltzer-appreciator. She is the author of the chapbooks future.txt (Empty Set Press 2018) and flesh_wound (Accidental Player Press 2020). Her work has been featured in bedfellows, The Wanderer, Peach Mag, Yes Poetry, the tiny, and elsewhere. She has been widely recognized as the first poet ever to have work published in a cyberpunk tabletop rpg podcast (Neoscum 2018). Find her on Twitter where she cries about River Phoenix, vampires, and having a body at @bratcore.