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.