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.