the gallerist

such collapse into soul electricity
makes me perspire
the atoms of an orgasm
do decompose into smaller ones
each and every one of them
is an exhibit
of this large museum of my muscles
my pores frame them
the visitors are intrigued
but the grimace on their faces shows disgust.
the gallerist won't contact the artist again.
ever.
not under any possible circumstances.
such art made out of pure instinct and selfisnesh
is beyond post-modernism.