She collects broken glass in her coat pocket.
Pleasure is something you do to yourself
before anyone else can do it to you.
The text is a body.
The body is static.
all signals firing,
none arriving as music.
She plays herself like Schubert
but the score is asemic:
pre-verbal commands
from a nervous system
that mistakes blade for touch,
wound for syntax.
What bleeds is not the keys
but the rupture between
begging to be touched
and cutting first so no one else can.
Ghost marks.
The pleasure of the illegible cuts.
PSYRAW FLUX 