Johannes Punkt’s Flaskpost

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Tag: poetry

Fall, 2018.11.29

Did you fall out of want?
It is not a big deal:
we all feel what we feel.
We don’t touch what we can’t.

Did you fall, out of want?
Did you reel your self in —
is that touch, may I skin?
Do you blink, do you daunt?

Did you fall out of want?
Are you house in the night
that has glass with no light
which has shape of the face
but it’s shift and no trace
from its in. Did you fall
and if so are you stall?
Are you stay, are you haunt?

I am close I am taunt.
Are you fall, are you far?
I am sky and I’m star;
did you fall out of want?

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Love Song/Weathervane

You kissed me. Bad aim.
Kissed me quite insane.
I won’t be the same.

I know how your fame
Tastes now, and your pain:
You kissed me. Bad aim.

She told me you came
Down like monsoon rain:
“I won’t be the same,”

Play your stupid game,
Crooked little vein.
You kissed me. Bad aim.

So now you’ll be tame?
So now you’ll refrain?
“I won’t be the same”?

So whose goddamn name
Shall I take in vain?
You kissed me. Bad aim.
I won’t be the same.

Not Arthur

In the forest of reckless adventure a stone
with a sword sticking out stands surrounded by bone.
     Through the foliage, at night
     comes an unbridled knight
who gloats; throws himself over the blade; dies alone.

Lightswitch Haiku

Roach-light-scattering,
you disappear each time I
ask how you’re doing.

Nettle Leaves

Found a nettle growing under a bridge. Start of summer, I was out looking for shards of your heart between the cobblestones.

A single nettle. Out of place. Like someone had set it down there and walked away. Sat on my haunches by it, feet pointing at Chimère St. and Byson across the canal. Reached out a hand as if picking a flower for a lover, gloveless. Held it between thumb and forefinger and anticipated the sting, brushing it up and down my underarm over the area where your tattoo goes. Expecting, in vain, the skin to react at all.

~

I walk the street to Leone avenue. There’s a lingerie shop on the corner
next to the Serbian café. I walk past men, thick
with hair on their arms, face and chests. They do not call to me in the street,
busy with their espressos.
And I stand
to admire a balcony bra with dusty pink straps.
The female street musician claims a tango on her violin.
The bra has embroidered nettles on them, I think
of the hands of him, blistering, his air sucked through clenched teeth. At home I dance in the open window, a lonesome nettle tango.

~

The potion shop on the far end of Leone Avenue is legally required to inform me that their love potions don’t work. Still, in my bathroom at midnight I follow the instructions on the roundbottom alchemical-style bottle to a fault: bruise the nettle leaf and place it under your tongue, say the object’s name until your mouth goes dry, then drink me.

When I wake up tomorrow I will call you up and I will ask to come over and I will ask to share your bed. When I wake up, the day after tomorrow, I will love you again.

~

I loved you
your thighs
up against my legs which I had not shaved. They prick your
legs like nettles. Outside the sun rise,
outside the sun rises, outside
the sun
whispers this love is a room and I am alone here. Your old cafetiere is gone from my kitchen counter.

Your apartment is strewn with empty bottles and your tattooed arms embrace me with their painted on pretend permanence but I
linger.
My brassiere visible through a sheer blouse and your sheer eyes say – this love is a room, with a courtyard, overgrown with nettles.

— Your face is unshaven.

~

The same second as you stepped down from the balcony ledge halfway across town, apparently deciding that the fall wouldn’t kill you or that it was too cold or that you didn’t really want it, not like that, I was watching the shadow under a bridge refuse to freeze over and got a nosebleed because of you. I thought something might grow in the red spots and I thought of you as I pinched my nose and tilted my head back and watched the sky thinking, irrationally angry, I was missing the action from the warring factions under the bridge.

~

Rue de la Huchette becomes a tied cherry stem in my mouth,
the sober mood all knotted up in the jazz the musician spreads
out over the piano like a wife;
all solemn vows and sharp lines made with his hands. The blood
rushes to my face. You can’t look away.

It is nothing but a fantasy between the cobble stones of the street,
spilled there like two euro wine, it was not a loss, but a baptism of the moment.
A single drop of blood from you, a single sentence spoken in
loss and utter devotion.
The sting and burn
of your hands on my arm where a tattoo of a single nettle rests.

~

~

~

A collaboration with Cecilie K, originally posted on our tumblrs, with the motif of nettle leaves. The even-numbered pieces, more poem-like than mine, are hers. The others are mine. You may find Cecilie’s writing in books or on her tumblr, by following the following links:
createspace.com/5853622
ceciliewriteswords.tumblr.com

22-nov-2017

I’m only allowed
to say that I love you in
dependent clauses.

Untitled

I cannot promise you I’ll write about this
I cannot promise you I won’t

Another Villanelle

It’s fair to say I know a thing or two
about the art of leaving something good.
However, I would like to stay with you.

I may not be deserving, sweet, or true
but with me you’d be unmisunderstood.
It’s fair to say I know a thing or two

about the bitten hand. And I may woo —
I too have stooped to doing what I could,
however I would like, to stay with you.

It won’t redeem my soul, that benthic blue
ifreet, for never knowing what it should.
It’s fair to say. I know a thing or two

about the wish economy though, too;
I’ll spend the night that I saved up. I would,
however, I would. Like, to stay with you

is sweeter than a world-engirdled view.
So of this hollowness, pariahhood,
it’s fair to say I know a thing or two.
However, I would like to stay with you.

~

Another exercise in making the same words mean different things. With the help of Richard Kirby on the refrain.

Abscission

A haiku for the wrong season.

~

If you need somewhere
safe to come down, I wrote my
address in your phone.

Two of Them

You left your pills on the counter like
you meant to take them.