I haven't $#&@ed much with the past, but I've $#&@ed 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 !@^%.
He spared the child and spoiled the rod. I have not sold myself
to God.