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 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.
  
  ^****