Prolit

a literary magazine about money, work, & class

b(rat) I (house [fire])

living light & hiding-like,

a fire in the basement,

a landlord 

owing nothing

(even after she       

nearly froze 

the snake alive), 

the cold, a shedding thing,

proximate to capital,

sterile & fright-less,

dribbling over the grease-wound,

the sex-scent of hollow dividends,

the image, a refraction of labor

breathless & bending

under the convex heat

of presentation, 

automation

sans affect, sans strife

(is this what it is to be brittle?)

& in her 2013 short film, 

How Not to be Seen: 

A Fucking Didactic 

Educational .MOV File, 

Steyerl writes, 

“to become  

invisible, one has 

to become 

smaller or equal 

to one pixel,” 

& this here is a new lease now

(fragile whisper dashed 

too soon)

the too-common

voice of less-ness,

to be born

all intestinal

& wavering, 

(a means of crashing),

bile dripping pores 

burning holes

in the carpet, burning holes

in the basement, bespoken away

w the rest of skin


b(rat) II (wage labor)

i read Bell’s Austerity 

in a single night; tomorrow,

at the bookshop,

i chat football 

w Mr Tucker,

i say “this is called 

‘being spritely’

now,” re the acts of speaking

on the equal 

& opposite 

pressings of flesh 

w my eyes closed, 

w/o u;

i search, “does being 

a professional boxcutter cowboy 

make me less of a faggot?”

less of a cactus-killer,

beaconing away,

brightly boiling my slinging fingers;

i eat naught but candy & sleep today


i don’t think i want to ruin my own life anymore III


handfuls of winter-ruin          in tow,

            i kill my job & lull         in the quiet

wanting feel    tiresome these’m days

i kill some more breaths &                   roll in the

            cold,    covered in my monster-teeth,

knucklebones,               hatchets,        crows,

that one kind of torture where      rats

             burrow thru yr guts                 & its counter,

tweeting about Being Relatable       for two hours,

            i shower & bleed in the heat,

crass & clear-                headed, winning best-

            rat-king-love,                been-sober a green-y steam

filming my lil corpse,   my brokerage for getting-bys,

resting-house-plain     for now, for here        for you, now

Faye Chevalier

Faye Chevalier is a Philadelphia-based poet and essayist. She is the author of the chapbook, future.txt (Empty Set Press 2018), and her work has been featured in The Wanderer, Peach Mag, Witch Craft Magazinethe tiny, and elsewhere. Some of her awards and recognitions include being the first ever poet to have work published on a cyberpunk tabletop rpg podcast (Neoscum 2018) and also a Pushcart nomination. Find her on Twitter where she cries about cyborgs, vampires, and having a body at @bratcore.