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.
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