January-March 2014

SOURCE TEXT I: The collage text Cranberry Jouissance edited by Sarah Crewe and Dimitra Ioannou


• The sound poem Porn Poetry by Liliana Vasques is linked to the words “positive pornography” from Cranberry Jouissance‘ s intro.

• The poem &yet by Sophie Mayer is linked to the words “one time flood” from the source-text Cranberry Jouissance.

• The poem Dream of a Butterfly by Yoko Danno is linked to the words “last long,” “rose-wet,” “water,” “eyes,” “cliff,” “waves,” “salty,” “sea” from the source-text Cranberry Jouissance.

• The poem M by Sarah Crewe is linked to the word “water” from the source-text Cranberry Jouissance.

SOURCE TEXT II: The poem Dream of a Butterfly by Yoko Danno.

• The posters Between Us (after Jack Pierson) by Antonis Katsouris are linked to the words “palm tree.”

aglimpseof’s issue 16 is dedicated to jouissance. Bodies are wet here, happy, and orgasmic, fond of everything erotic, eager to become ecstatic. They are aroused by insatiable tongues; they want to fuck like they never fucked before. Sex is their time-out, and an illumination of the flesh. In this moment, bodies are free. Sensuality does not come in a dress size, a specific shape, or gender. It is a celebration of that which happens in the here and now, the joy of being one’s utter self and nothing else.

We search for prose, poetry and art that will reflect the chameleonic, the colourful and the continuous human drive of sexual desire, not that which has been done before through stereotype and plastic Hollywood, but that which turns real people on and into erotic beings in their own space. A positive pornography, that which promotes pleasure across all spectrums that simply can’t be boxed, discounted or dismissed.


As I ruffled the man’s hair, I said, a one time
Flood of emotion surely won’t last long
As I sucked hard on his lips, I said, kissing is
Really wonderful, sex is
Really wonderful
As I ruffled the man’s hair, I said, a one time
of emotion surely won’t last long
As I sucked hard on my lips, I said, masturbation is
Really wonderful

Hiromi Ito, Killing Kanoko (Action Books, 2009)

Whatever happens with us, your body
will haunt mine—tender, delicate
your lovemaking, like the half-curled frond
of the fiddlehead fern in forests
just washed by sun. Your traveled, generous thighs
between which my whole face has come and come—
the innocence and wisdom of the place my tongue has found there—
the live, insatiate dance of your nipples in my mouth—
your touch on me, firm, protective, searching
me out, your strong tongue and slender fingers
reaching where I had been waiting years for you
in my rose-wet cave—whatever happens, this is.

Adrienne Rich, The Floating Poem Unnumbered (1980)

| Where the desire comes from? | … to the look I desire … | Architecture of lack, of loss that is the desire cum delirium of disappearance : the passage from nothingness. | Desire, the trial that hold us, the point of suspension … |

Nathanaël, Absence Where As (Claude Cahun and the Unopened Book) / (Nightboat Books, 2009)

Twisted, I am wet; water floods high enough to wet my eyes. That’s how I clearly recognize my own desire when I look in the mirror.

Yamada Eimi, X-Rated Blanket

The erotic functions for me in several ways, and the first is in providing the power which comes from sharing deeply any pursuit with another person. The sharing of joy, whether physical, emotional, psychic, or intellectual, forms a bridge between the sharers which can be the basis for understanding much of what is not shared between them, and lessens the threat of their difference.

Audre Lorde, The Uses of the Erotic

Each wave is an orgasm. Sometimes they’re big. Sometimes they’re small. Sometimes they tear faces of cliff from the earth’s surface. If the ocean did not have waves, it would be a big, salty lake. A lake is a still pool of water. Personally, I don’t venture into water that doesn’t move. Bored, malevolent monsters live in bodies of water that do not move.

Inga Muscio, Cunt: A Declaration Of Independence

Kiss me. Two lips kissing two lips: openness is ours again. Our “world.” And the passage from the inside out, from the outside in, the passage between us, is limitless. Without end. No knot or loop, no mouth ever stops our exchanges. Between us the house has no wall, the clearing no enclosure, language no circularity. You kiss me: the world grows so large that the horizon itself disappears.

Luce Irigaray, When Our Lips Speak Together (1986)

My mouth is at sea-you are so slow to get your hand out and to suck me. My nipples are large, my nipples are your trade, standing estranged, sour as cranberries. My nipples need you without delay.

Dodie Bellamy, Cunt Norton (Les Figues Press, 2014)


by Yoko Danno


                          affinities between this butterfly
                          and me―an eternity for the insect
                          but a few-second stay on my palm
                          before i clap my hands in worship

The door bell rang, rang and rang. I reluctantly left my couch and made for the door, as if wading through water. I found nobody at the door except a large, black swallowtail fluttering away. I returned to my comfortable seat and took up the book I had been reading. The pages were blank, all the words gone. I couldn’t even remember exactly what I was reading. It must have been a book on a learn-while-sleeping method by a famous lepidopterist.

                          a swarm of butterflies flutter
                          in an illuminated glass dome,
                          light breaking into winged souls
                          in and out of the rose-wet grotto

In and out―I wasn’t escaping to somewhere but from something―in fear of being caught by a net. Out in the field children were chasing pollinators to pin them in insect cabinets―their summer homework. Every time a boy gave a shout of glee, long grasses trembled like nerve fibers, agitated, restless, as if mediated by the sweep of the net. I was kept alive in a glass cage together with other winged fellows―for eons. The door bell started ringing, louder and louder.

                          screaming i struggled to wake ―
                          i was one of a thousand butterflies
                          in an enormous LED light bulb,

                          my voice silently rising like bubbles

My eyes stopped at the margin of a blank page. A ravine was under my nose, and beyond, an overhanging cliff with a few low pines in the shapes of crouching animals. I sat in a chair placed on the grass-covered plateau and played the bass viol. The undertone echoed back like waves of hunger. The breeze felt salty as if coming from the sea. Somehow I thought of steamed-rice balls wrapped in thin sheets of dried seaweed, which I had prepared in the fridge, just in case.

                          the land shook, suddenly as before,
                          nymphs trembled, terracotta soldiers
                          guarding the underground palace
                          shaken in alarm―attention! forward!

The air was warm and humid. I strolled among palm trees , in an ecstasy, perfumed by orange and yellow tropical flowers. When I stood still, holding my breath, wishing the moment would last long, butterflies came to settle on my shoulders and on my palm, for honey. A bell started ringing again―the closing time of the butterfly farm. I had to leave the Shangri-la. On my way home I stumbled over a stone that had tumbled down the hillside. Yes, I realized, there had been, to be sure, an earthquake.