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, 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 that 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 which is absolutely ready to seize me
 In in in in heart I am a Moslem, in heart I am 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