1-700-C-A-L-L-I-F-U-D-A-R-E
by CK Kane
If you call this number, you will hear your mother’s screeching cervix.
you will hear the tinkling breaths of the harpsichord.
you will hear an echo outside (but outside, there’s mostly garbage.)
it depends on the day (sometimes, on Sundays, a husband.)
you will hear tympanic upset.
you will hear the wrong shade of green.
you’ll hear briefcase eyes click open.
he’ll regale you about arachnids in your toilet waiting
to tickle you.
you will hear birthday cake smacking off the face of a clown.
brown water hyphenates will metronome your sleep.
glitter will spurt from the receiver.
crisp bats will genuflect to you, shrouded in a violet mist.
you’ll hear Wolfbone bragging that he doesn’t recycle.
you’ll hear all your dead dogs hiccup.
a collective canine cadaverous hiccup.
you will hear Lurex snap.
you will hear a white opal humming light between fingers.
you will hear the casual sexual assault of your ancestors.
you will hear webbed ooze and know it.
you’ll hear every dumb thing you ever said and will say, on a loop, forever.
an ice calendar will scrape your event.
you will hear your favorite song, whatever it may be, performed by your least favorite band, whoever they may be, backwards, slowed down, and with burnt jiffy pop pans instead of instruments.
you will hear the firecracker prattle of seaweed.
you will hear copy from ripped out pages of catalogues from the 1990s, categorized warmest to coolest.
you will hear a voice ask you: Which vowel sound do you find the most erotic?
go head &
pry that horn away
the clangor isn’t done
with you yet
you will hear the tinkling breaths of the harpsichord.
you will hear an echo outside (but outside, there’s mostly garbage.)
it depends on the day (sometimes, on Sundays, a husband.)
you will hear tympanic upset.
you will hear the wrong shade of green.
you’ll hear briefcase eyes click open.
he’ll regale you about arachnids in your toilet waiting
to tickle you.
you will hear birthday cake smacking off the face of a clown.
brown water hyphenates will metronome your sleep.
glitter will spurt from the receiver.
crisp bats will genuflect to you, shrouded in a violet mist.
you’ll hear Wolfbone bragging that he doesn’t recycle.
you’ll hear all your dead dogs hiccup.
a collective canine cadaverous hiccup.
you will hear Lurex snap.
you will hear a white opal humming light between fingers.
you will hear the casual sexual assault of your ancestors.
you will hear webbed ooze and know it.
you’ll hear every dumb thing you ever said and will say, on a loop, forever.
an ice calendar will scrape your event.
you will hear your favorite song, whatever it may be, performed by your least favorite band, whoever they may be, backwards, slowed down, and with burnt jiffy pop pans instead of instruments.
you will hear the firecracker prattle of seaweed.
you will hear copy from ripped out pages of catalogues from the 1990s, categorized warmest to coolest.
you will hear a voice ask you: Which vowel sound do you find the most erotic?
go head &
pry that horn away
the clangor isn’t done
with you yet
Laugh-track hospice
by CK Kane
i wanna go back
in history
and know really
how did anyone act
before movies told them how
that one ringtone
that sounds like the American Beauty score
i’m Precious
(collateral at the bottom of a well)
put an alarm clock under the covers
(mancanza of a beating heart)
troll-doll smell ambrosial
marrows, foams, feces
scuttling towards a sour cream hell
a cove of scarabs
a mcdonald’s play-place ball pit
but instead of balls, scorpions
scapulimancy: worth the shot?
To hell with the ignominy, bay-bee
all my teenage witches
now say prayers
to God
but my toothless friends tell the truth
in history
and know really
how did anyone act
before movies told them how
that one ringtone
that sounds like the American Beauty score
i’m Precious
(collateral at the bottom of a well)
put an alarm clock under the covers
(mancanza of a beating heart)
troll-doll smell ambrosial
marrows, foams, feces
scuttling towards a sour cream hell
a cove of scarabs
a mcdonald’s play-place ball pit
but instead of balls, scorpions
scapulimancy: worth the shot?
To hell with the ignominy, bay-bee
all my teenage witches
now say prayers
to God
but my toothless friends tell the truth
The Show Must Go On
For Patricia O’Grady
by CK Kane
I ooze
billiard chalk blue
From the corners of my spotlight mouth
I’m geranium-uncomfortable
You don’t know you’re in my house
You smile: a furtive task
Like a wealthy housewife
At a bathroom attendant
With a limp.
No hot water
But my lungs were filled with pearls.
Just because we’re both here
doesn’t make it writing
Until you become someone worth ignoring
At half-mast I soliloquized
Under books
Under piles
Stand-in
years
under
A canopy of lead paint
Couldn’t cork
This moxie dazzle
Sure, I’d like to
yank you out of here
with a vaudeville hook
but at 5k a month,
I am but a spectral understudy
billiard chalk blue
From the corners of my spotlight mouth
I’m geranium-uncomfortable
You don’t know you’re in my house
You smile: a furtive task
Like a wealthy housewife
At a bathroom attendant
With a limp.
No hot water
But my lungs were filled with pearls.
Just because we’re both here
doesn’t make it writing
Until you become someone worth ignoring
At half-mast I soliloquized
Under books
Under piles
Stand-in
years
under
A canopy of lead paint
Couldn’t cork
This moxie dazzle
Sure, I’d like to
yank you out of here
with a vaudeville hook
but at 5k a month,
I am but a spectral understudy
CK Kane is an American writer living in London. She wrote & directed the feature film Behind Some Dark Cloud. She has stories in Hobart Pulp & X-R--A-Y and is working on her first novel.
