Webster’s defines “Modernism” as:

That’s the point at which the working artist realizes she has whored her senses out to the public. It was, with valour and honour, a central preoccupation of the aristocratic spheres. Around my nipples velvet stars burst like the first bite of just-ripened pear. In my olive pants I drip with saltwater, dropping fish in shimmering lines across the sides that I walk. The Law precludes dulcimers, zeniths, and chlamydia. That’s the spot where each sentence enters the next slowly, issuing from its tail. The birth of threaded blocks. Nothing is less certain today than sex, behind the liberation of its discourse. This is touch-talking, or the true language of objects. My half-sister works in a Wiccan store. Valves. It would seem that I have either lost rhythm, or lost conciousness.

The drum provides a sense of continuity, interspersed through bleached tones.