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.