May | 2015 | Johannes Punkt’s Flaskpost

27/May/2015

Make Room for OTHER PLACES IN DREAMS

I bet you’re all wondering why I gathered you here. It’s simple: you’re in the St. Louis area and I have something that will interest you. Within the next week or so, a contract of textboxes will appear in the South Grand neighbourhood. Or rather, the artist will make the textboxes appear. They will become appeared.

OTHER PLACES IN DREAMS is a project by Lena Bohman. Text: Johannes Punkt. Artist: Lena Bohman. Technical Assistance: Rachael Telleman.

It is a sort of Choose Your Own Adventure, where the story is something to do with a dream you just had, and you want to remember it. You have to make choices and then read what those choices lead to.

THIS IS THE PLACE IN DREAMS THAT IS INSIDE, DREAMED BY SOMEONE LIKE YOU

I am very excited about this. This is one of the coolest things I’ve ever been involved in.

THIS IS THE PLACE IN DREAMS THAT IS OUTSIDE, WHERE IT DREAMS, LIKE IT MIGHT RAIN OR SNOW OR HAIL

I will make another update when the thing kicks off for real. When I do, you should find yourself in Tower Grove Park, at the corner of Grand and Arsenal, and you shall read

PREHENSILE NONSENSE, BRIGHT BLUE WORDS WRITTEN ON THE SIDEWALK WHICH YOU CANNOT READ OF COURSE

If you go on this adventure, please take pictures and send them to me. Please let me know what consequences your actions have, and what emotions are wrought from this paint.

Good talk, friends.

16/May/2015

Three Trees that Fall from the Sky

Three trees that fall from the sky: confetti, propaganda, burning paper wings.

Triad written by me and Rob Mitchelmore (@kerastion).

3/May/2015

To a Pervert

Art by Andreas Porss, photo by Cecilia Hellström.

My good friend Mr. Porss, of andreasporss.wordpress.com, gave me a painting and in return I have written him a poem. Decades from now, art historians and literary historians will uncover this post, printed out and tattered, and they will wonder about the past. Did we really wrestle octopodes together in Cyprus, in an underground and very sexy establishment? Is it true that we invented the pizza salad? What is it with swordfish? None of these questions are answered, or even brought up, in the following poem.

To a Pervert
I know your heart is not some cunt heart
To sheathe a sword in; your young blunt heart

Still sizzling the teflon wok pan:
I cannot eat out your undone heart.

So eat! Eat your own damn heart out, man,
At least feast your eyes. My unwrung heart

Plays Prisoner’s Dilemma, cut-throat,
No Nash equilibrium, some heart.

So shove a microphone down your throat
And learn to speak from your unstrung heart,

But hearts make poor cufflinks, rough red sand
On those you greet, mess, with but one heart

You’d say, today I wanked with this hand.
Today I’m ribs and spine, lung, lung, heart.

Be softer yet, wrap silk round your unspun heart;
And give away your well-hung punk heart.

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