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.