Johannes Punkt’s Flaskpost

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Tag: sex

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?


The brightness of the music: she was almost blinded
while playing the flute, absent-minded.

Rob Mitchelmore (of and I wrote a poem. I furnished him with the punchline and he delivered the context, proving once again that even sophisticated-seeming poetry is just dirty jokes all the way down. I’m amazed at the result and very proud of our creation, and I hope you’re proud of us too.

You Wept

You wept. Who even weeps anymore? I bawl or tear up or cry, once I even blubbered, but you wept. This is exactly analogous to that time you caressed my skin when I thought you would stroke my chin or pet my hair. You’re from another time, another world. You called me dashing, when I’m nothing above handsome, am I? Am I? I don’t want to make love to you, I want blinding sex, I want a good shag, I want to fuck you, but you wrap your legs around me lovingly and I don’t know how to correct you.


More from the archives. Something about the spiderweb of connotations and me learning how to write, and how to love. They’re the same thing probably.

To a Pervert

Art by Andreas Porss, photo by Cecilia Hellström.

Art by Andreas Porss, photo by Cecilia Hellström.

My good friend Mr. Porss, of, 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.

FakeReview: Sexual Future – A Memoir by Florinn Danderhall

Normally here at Johannes Punkt’s Flaskpost Book Circle we don’t review more “racy,” “sexually explicit,” “orgiastic,” “Dionysian,” “explicitly mentioning vagina-feelings” books, but I had to make an exception for Florinn Danderhall’s latest memoir (2014). Yes, we agree, it is strange for one person to have written seven memoirs all purportedly of her own life in as many years. But there is something to it – this literary suicide and rebirth that mirrors not a phoenix, nor the turning of the seasons, but the way communist leaders continually edit their own reputation – that we simply must, if not record accurately then observe. Observe with all our lusting eyeballs’ might. This time, as in her third memoir “The Land of Broken Toys,” she tells us the tale of a sex life in turmoil. This time she tells us the future.

Using the rather crude devise of a “crystal ball” (her late husband’s “right family jewel, if memory serves”) Danderhall names her next seven lovers and then her own shuffling off this mortal coil. This is, she stresses, only one version of the future and the layman understanding of time travel suggests that telling the future changes it, but Danderhall sees in herself a Cassandra. As evidence, she names a few sex moves that will be heavy in use by 2018. They all have too ridiculous names to even contemplate or investigate: “the door-to-door salesman,” “the lecture on biochemistry,” “the rumption gumption”. This is ludicrous and not sexy, in this reviewer’s opinion.

There is dispute among scholars over exactly how many times a person dies. Jean Rhys wrote that there are two deaths, the real one and then the one everyone knows about, but that’s a conservative amount. Popular wisdom suggests three (when your heart stops, when they put your body in the ground, and the last time someone says your name). Other mysticalists say seven, or seventeen, or another large prime number, but according to our preliminary research no-one has stated it so boldly and largely as Danderhall before:

“I have one hundred and twenty one deaths left and I intend to make them count.”

The obvious interpretation of this statement, which opens the book, is that it’s a periphatic way of mentioning her orgasms, and indeed if you count them in the book they add up to 120. However, 120 orgasms is a very sad amount of orgasms to have left in you. The other way of reading it, which truly opens the book, is as a continuation of what I mentioned above: the way her books keep rewriting her history. Is Danderhall planning an oeuvre that spans over a hundred books? It’s not unbelievable. Sure, this eccentric author tries to distract us with “delicious sexuffration” and “dead leaves and the wet slippery unbearableness of an autumn storm all over Sylvia Plath’s face,” there is a cry for help in these pages. And I am not referring to the literal cry for help on page 152.

But like that cry, it’s easy to miss among all the sex. I strongly believe that there is a kernel of truth inside even the most beat-up and weird and mendacious autobiography. I believe a pattern is emerging, and I cannot see all the implications of it yet. But if you read this book, don’t just take the load at face value, so to speak. Swallow it, ruminate. There is a person in pain behind these words.

To end with something positive, this reviewer thought it rather lovely how the book was dedicated to Sanel Seton, the inventor of sextropy, sexual entropy.

The Vaudeville

…or How She and He Killed, Erotically, an Officer of the Law

Here is some erotica featuring heavy references to lyrics by the Mountain Goats. I have forfeited explanations.

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A Little Worse

So this is how it works?

I don’t know.

Is it supposed to feel like this?

I can’t feel anything.

You can’t feel anything?

Well, I can feel all my usual self. I mean, I cannot feel anything different.

How does your usual self feel?

How does your usual self feel?

It feels like a night, rolled up into an incandescent ball.

Is that normal?

It is for me. I don’t know how selves are supposed to feel.

Did something happen to us?

I don’t know.

Wasn’t that mine before?

The night?


I don’t think so.

Are you lying?

Gender Sells

He comes into the room all dressed in almost-blue monochrome and smiles at me while he strips out of the cumbersome suit and tie and and throws it all aside and becomes many-coloured again, true, and the smile turns into a worried frown: “Where is your dress?” Picks up a few red clothes, scrutinizes them.

I look down on my body of oily swirly colour. “Can’t I just go like this?”

Having squeezed into the red dress and stretched white latex gloves over her hands, she touches my chin: “Not when you’re part of the machine,” she says: “Gender sells.”

Freeverse Smiles

Our metaphors fuck like we do. My poetry leers and wants to know what it can do to yours. There is a smile on your face that is both innocent and not at the same time. Coy, devious. A soft purr hangs in the air, poise of a cat ready to pounce. You smirk, and you lean against me, and you move your leg an inch more; that is a pounce. I kiss you progressively: cheek, corner of mouth, lips. You beam. There is an innuendo in here, somewhere. There is want. There is a stupid grin on my face.

I’m So Glad We Don’t Live in This Timeline

This is the timeline where we never fuck, and each time we come close to it we are comically thwarted and thrown half a world away. I come to your city; the trains are all delayed due to weather, and we hardly have 24 minutes. You visit mine; we get shuffled around by formal events and martial laws. We both go to Krakow, but we don’t know that the other one is there until afterwards. Lastly, I find my way back to your city, we have a moment; and the door is kicked in and I’m arrested for domestic terrorism.