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glasswork s

a collection by jake kingsley


SHE, said the gun and the rest was mute soliloquy.

june brought us flowers like a child to a grave white and wilting soft.

static rabbit heart you beat inverted, a dream swollen sacrosanct.

carbon paper
hello, straw girl. today, i am waiting for the ghosts in old polaroids that crawl through my veins. the nameless and faceless the color of smoke clouds against concrete. the tungsten flashes. the ribbons spilling out upon the sky. the polachrome brittle girl hidden eyes. your black chemical burns schizophrenic upon my arms.

like steam rising in winter, we are transparent and we are scarred.

(unnamed) -circa early 2013

our love is the stitching in your split lip the cleft of your cupids bow cracked & artificially reattached a prosthetic beating for a phantom heart

a bruised hymen; our eden, once revoked.

our mingled futures: a hazy ouroboros; blood in the water.

ken: to know; to understand intimately, intuitively; to split unevenly, special k without the crash; to see with closed eyes; warm death; a mad rabbit heart beating hollow & alone.


i climbed every step of your spine and when i reached the top i jumped.

tonight i became numb and immovable. i have no-one to write and no-one to love and i am fat and content in this derangement. i am organically stunted ; i have been cut and pruned to a delicately blunt point ; my roses bloom in milk-white anomie.

and when flowers start to freeze and die in senseless bone-white meaninglessness i will nod and appreciate.

the secret she keeps behind her lips (the one you struggle with against her hips the one that enumerates your seams &your sins the one you can taste in the silence she chooses to speak); a zenith; a dream colorless; gauze moths-

the sutures we are born with.

on growing up

the cigarette does not taste the same today. the ash falls. the smoke blossoms. the cinders burn holy spectral hymnals in their wall-mounted cemeteries. but the murmur of exhalation wanes as relic & long-forsaken prayers.

stars raining excursions onto the eyes, razorblades and us, left staring upon ruined gods as fables of our own blossoming red into the snow-covered hillock under the safelight of an offset moon germanium flowers veins higher than the eye our open dream fractures abandoned railways in paris petit ceinture an aside, an aneurysm in scarlet aortic sibilance ghosts eat-singing whispers through cathode roots tongue stems wrapped around a duskette (an astronomy vivisected; the inner workings of falling rockets striated in the event horizon of small deaths) and you, my funny valentine with the terraformed heart your sternum autumnal holy be always with the moon silent and surviving last until dawn


terminal velocity

ascending, the sky is a canvas torn sternum -white our halos on high are gods foramina: little caisson cirrostratus schisma & everything falling is beautiful


in dreams we are all evelyn mchale: beauty falling from on high.


we were benzo kiddies once: angels missing their wings or, maybe just whales looking for a shore to beach upon and feel the sun blister our skin into the poetry of experience; & twice we became shipwrecks

upon our own serendipity: you, a smiling streak of flotsam upon the surface (waiting to break); i, a scar of jetsam just beyond the horizons breakers. & now ive got this whales heart (large, tumultuous and hollow;) & you have a sigh of forgotten oceans & of forgotten shores.

Step one: Close the bell door.
cumulonimbus cacophonies in situ; the dextrocardiac heart a diving bell upon the mirrored shoreline.

Step two: The diving supervisor increases the bell pressure to seal the door tightly.

Flag will fly at half-mast on all Russian vessels and submarines. A moment of silence will be held at all naval units. Naval officials, relatives and family members of the Kursk victims will lay flowers and wreaths on the water surface in the Motovsky Gulf of the Barents Sea, the press service of the Russian Defense Ministry said.

Step three: Close the door between the trunk and chamber one.
10:14 an empty hymnal an abandoned holy ground the skeletal remains of burnt dresden another vacant sabbath transient orbit pale earth, bokeh moon the end of dejected consciousness silent in the ambivalent no static, no discord the soil cold and still shores & currents of encroaching freedom (we will drown in our havens grey hooded memories) no life, no life 15:15

Step four: Slowly depressurize the trunk to one atmosphere.

It seems that there are no chances. Maybe 10 or 20 percent. Four divers in a compression chamber system were suddenly decompressed from 9 atm to 1 atm. One of the divers was about to close the door between the chamber system and the trunk when the accident happened. He was shot out through the door and severely mutilated. The three others died on the spot. The autopsy results are described. The most conspicuous finding was large amounts of fat in the large arteries and veins and in the cardiac chambers, as well as intravascular fat in the organs, especially the liver. This fat can hardly have been embolic, but must have dropped out of the blood. It is suggested that the boiling of the blood denatured the lipoprotein complexes, rendering the lipids insoluble.

Step five: Open the clamp to separate the bell from the chamber system.
in existentia, a high-pressure gradient: love bruised petal veins; skeletal sanctity in a caesura embrace. detritus & sunbursts the chaotic schema of man. (dead, dead, were all pale butterflies pinned to translucent walls.)

slack water spectres

there is a calm serenity in the dying light of signal flares like coronal transience leading us to the twin ribbons of decay & salvation. we filled our pockets with the husks of falling stars and we fell in love with the rising tides. the moon looks on: an apologetic apogee.

watching cars slide off the side of dirt roads in old abandoned cinemas

heterochromatic dream: the filmography of the soul phantasmagoric. epileptic, we swallow words in spasms & drams our breaths catch-stitch between the real & Reality. (a curtain; darkness courting both cinema & the cinmatique.)

i once told you that there is no sadness left in my veins to freeze my little heart , that i had detoxed from my phantasms & perennial haunts all those years ago . but love , perhaps this was not the truth .

perhaps i carry in me a seed of melancholy waiting to decolourise your small petal lips (curled & wilting gently) . perhaps my veins are still screaming through the roots & vines tangling your heart so carelessly . perhaps my ghosts have carved their names upon your wrists (illegible & slightly shaking) .

perhaps my angels have all fallen leaving commas on your pink & red dream clouds before crashing back into me like the autumn moon hiding in your smiles (promising winters breathlessness & springs piercing renewal) .


the ancients had it right you can see a future if you look hard enough at the dregs

kill yr idles
at the end of a matchstick the world starts to fall apart. she lights a cigarette and i think of her eyes sealed; she is the airport every one leaves lonely & looking for asylum or, just escape. (i am just a passenger behind glass.)

her mouth moves and i am deaf in this turbulence. (her lips are red strike anywhere and her words are blinding friction.) this chest i live inside is beating constantly pressurised & waiting for a spark. at the end of a matchstick the world starts to fall apart.

historically, the moon has always been our mother a a a a cathedral for our indifference mosaic for our loneliness mirror for our romance sea for our broken dreams

and we have built ceilings to keep out the darkness, we have built ceilings to keep out the light and the moon has always watched us in warm ambiance (like a heartbeat, you are only faintly aware until you catch yourself staring wide-eyed and mystified) and the moon will always be looking back at you and the moon will always care an assemblage of the hopes you cast off days, years ago; now as sparrows coming home to roost your diaspora dreams as moths knelled gently to a loving flame and the moon will carry your scars as her own the moon will be marred, the moon will be beautiful with your tragedy, your romance oceans, mountains, gouged plateaus all reaching in a synchronous suffering to your own lunate legacy

and you will build your walls, you will build your ceilings off-white and you will stare until you feel a pulling and your heart will be weighed down by its own rushing tide, in love with the sway of a sad and waiting moon the selenography of your heart a cardiographic moonscape weightless; indifferent (the moon will guide us home.)

a dream
you glanced upon me with icarus eyes and pressed chrysanths into my palms death-flowers white and injured whispering to me disjointed love songs like tidal lullabies to thirsting sailors (your breath forgotten in my wilting lungs.)

there is a strange phenomenon in your kiss that leaves me breathless as if i swallowed all of your petals torn & wilting and each one kissed my sternum with bruises and poetry temporary & ever-lasting; and when i do finally try to speak

my words come ephemeral & noctilucent like moths wings too fragile to have survived more than a moment in the light of a thousand curious stars

crescent moon little sickle of child Death a Smile like an angels busted collarbone; these touched wings Phantom sands of an hourglass the sound of life Shattering as you awaken.

(by jake & jun)
april is the cruelest month a cut thorn without the rose like dead flowers clinging to spring we fall with the snow we breathe in skins we have rosebud mouths we bleed words through our gums we write with razorblades on our tongues lush petals pruned & clipped a clouds wings an angels hesitation red & smiling she feeds you ghost cake /she is the miasma jinx / her words are red and fleshless / her words are enzymatic / you put your mouth between her angel legs / you speak to god

she is the cancer /on your lips //torn rose hips //a scar /a seam /a dream //pink /bruised /& beating she she she she is is is is the the the the sweet dream you had at sixteen wet dream you had at twenty dead dream of tomorrow dying light of today

she is you inversed / heart adorned outside the ribcage /antagonised/ the dirty petals inside, the clean ones out /the upside down butterfly / the flower rooted from the sky the vein tied /in an ampersand //a bouquet;/a tourniquet.

love exists in cum shots and suicide notes. Death comes dressed an oyama, head crowned in blue-violet nettle & bearing a crucifix porcelain-lipped stitched scarlette; a lily in repose westward toward the crow moon waning.

in effigie
Dramatis Personae: a gun, sunset a needle (to thread, or sew) a heart, pierced an ampersand FADE IN INT. DUSK [CAMERA is framed on the horizon, an ampersand clinging us pitifully together.] you are the other me my thrush heart circumcised my autumn death in absentia a severed artery sunset spilling colours against the pale flesh of night atria coalescing, asynchronous pulses slowing to a matching melancholy

[CUT TO frayed wings enveloping you as the dark weightlessness of sleep; an uneasy detente of peace and ambivalence.] The day I met you is the day I learned to French inhale my regrets. She was the girl with the shrapnel heart. She spoke of Shinjuku suicides and hyacinth Hiroshimas. She told me of nursery rhymes scarred, of tone-deaf angels and beerlight meridians. She wore safety pins on her crucifix. [CUT TO the westering sun; we are spectres of our own lives.] [CUT TO an abdomen filled with chroma longing for desaturated fingers to pull.] [CUT TO St. Stephens Cathedral, April 12th, 1945.] something stirs under her skin, chaotic and oblique, a thousand roots grasping for something yet unknown. the gentle caress of an undertow, a crocodiles smile.

[CUT TO illustrations of where the sea has kissed the shore, taking small fragments away with its wistful breath.] CHORUS: Within Thy wounds hide me ; Hallelujah. [CUT TO and Morning comes recalcitrant without the Dawn that is your Heart to Guide it.] The day I met you is the day I learned to blow smoke rings from sadness. FADE TO BLACK (close your eyes and see the credits start to roll.)

pretty girls shouldnt love ugly boys

we are exposures clipped white & shot to the right, you: the scar tissue isthmus, i: the static dysrhythmia; we are shadows crushed black & left to be shot, i: the fractured orbital falling, you: the failing aperture;

at the end of the day we are lucky to have two black eyes & a beating heart.

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