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