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.
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