Babelogue
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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