I haven't fucked much with the past, but I've fucked plenty with the
future. Over the skin of silk are scars from the splinters of stations and
walls I've caressed. A stage is like each bolt of wood, like a log of
Helen, is my pleasure. I would measure the success of a night by the way
by the way by the amount of piss and seed I could exude over the columns
that nestled the P.A. Some nights I'd surprise everybody by skipping off
with a skirt of green net sewed over with flat metallic circles which
dazzled and flashed. The lights were violet and white. I had an ornamental
veil, but I couldn't bear to use it. When my hair was cropped, I craved
covering, but now my hair itself is a veil, and the scalp inside is a
scalp of a crazy and sleepy Comanche lies beneath this netting of the
skin. I wake up. I am lying peacefully I am lying peacefully and my knees
are open to the sun. I desire him, and he is absolutely ready to seize me.
In heart I am a Moslem in heart I am an American in heart I am Moslem,
in heart I'm an American artist, and I have no guilt. I seek pleasure. I
seek the nerves under your skin. The narrow archway the layers the
scroll of ancient lettuce. We worship the flaw, the belly, the belly, the
mole on the belly of an exquisite whore. He spared the child and spoiled
the rod. I have not sold myself to God.