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