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.