Atrophy of Fate

Perineal Visitor (Poem)

Some times when I watch the dancefloor I try to tell whether if those that dance are happier than those that talk

The repetition did not drain my sound however: it converted it to something gradually more familiar: from a song to a foil: to a membrane of my own.

Spaces are dancefloors waiting for the drop in order to exist.

It is universal capacity Primordial creativity.

Looking up there would only wreck
 your soft neck I like to bite into when we fuck.

MODULE#08 [A STATE OF FLUX]