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 wall i've caressed. a stage is like each bolt of wood, like a log of helen, 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 PA 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 carved covering, but now my hair itself is a veil, and the scalp of a crazy and sleepy comanche lies beneath this netting of 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 moslem in heart i am an american. in heart i am moslem. in heart i am an maerican 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.