Babelogue (patti smith)
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.