Babelogue

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 lock of Helen, it's my pleasure

I would measure the success of a night by the way, by the way I, by the amount of piss and seed I could exude over the columns that nestled the PA

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 the scalp of a crazy and sleepy Comanche lies beneath this netting of 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 Muslim, in heart I am an American

In heart I am a Muslim, in heart I am 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 letters

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