high-queues

pt 1

thumb wrestling goblins
can’t find pills
like credit ‘s never owed
distance ;
three weeks no water

lying; some water
hunt at night
tasting spear dipped in sauza
choices
between gold / silver

crucial self-pleasure
fake bathing
pretending indigestion
[urges]
gush quietly sweet

mucus

drains are important
murder wells
calms diet paranoia
[guilty]
locked behind common

addictions

I’m supposed to be
freaking out
about babies so I keep

habits
secret, crinkled gum

wrappers

skipping trivial tasks;
bin fishing
make waste / make haste; past-due work
today
I spit the gum onto the

pavement

wait for the worst
whatever
comes may come I wouldn’t
expect
her to fire them like that right

in front of me

if she had planned on
excising
me from my lead position
next day
everyone’s impulsive

c. c. stands for ‘canned chupacabre’

soylent but much worse
necro-organic
vines of severed bare
rump cuts
confused for russets

what are they growing under those

dimples of rot stock
I don’t care,
as long as it satisfies
& protein
we are not eating

human if they never were

 

 

High-queues

pt 2

drinking sober gaunt | | somber rhin of
wrinkled sot || confessedly writ
|| projecting the desire || typical white boy

bored and seeking cabalistic aggression
swatting cars ahead of us with
concealed flicks
yes, if I was given the ability
I’d most certainly sneeze
flurries of bends & buntings

unfasten buttons || forearms depart biceps, float
|| artificial limbs || twirl in zero gravity ||
propel ppl w || trendy haircuts, ponytails ||
spin like tassels twist ||

heads clean off; the cap
of the bottle pops–
in layman’s terms: I fantasize
about having superpowers
& the mayhem of attaching myself
to that reality, detached from consequence

nothing special, lame || lamentations drive
the arc || troubled mystery || tractions well
with bad kids, white || kids with baseball bats

busting apart entertainment centers

pastime || privilege

 

 

high-queues

part three

criticism waived
when I buzzed my head
emaciated
& lethargic stooge
[O’] tragedy dogma.

now, suddenly, I prefer
to go by another name
c. c. ≠ charming crisis

they call me the king of sighs
I fucking hate my job
but I’ve gone two days sober
regardless. I don’t feel fat

in this shirt.

too many romance
the retrograde / youth
I’m good w/o having to
ask friends for shiners
to make a lie stick

to the roof of my mouth.

 

C. C. Hannett / kmwgh loves cheesesteaks and Madonna GIFs. He is the author of I Gave This Dream to a Color, Triune, SAGA ctrl, and DMMTHL (Spuyten Duyvil) +  chapbooks w/ Shotgun Wedding and Horse Less Press. He is the event organizer for Quake: EVT Lit Walk and D’DL. The founder & editor of @rlysrslit, a press focused on publishing digital ephemera and unconventional literary objects. Work has been placed with Softblow, DREGINALD, Gramma, Juked, South Broadway Ghost Society, FIVE:2:ONE, The Operating System, Dream Pop, etc. You can find him somewhere in Everett, WA; presence elsewhere, divorced and spooning his cat Manchester.