I haven't fucked much with the past, but I've fucked plenty with the future.
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Over the skin of silk are scars from the splinters of stations and walls I've caressed.
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A stage is like each bolt of wood, like a log of Helen, is my pleasure.
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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
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nestled the P.A.
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Some nights I'd surprise everybody by skipping off with a skirt of green net sewed over with flat metallic circles which dazzled and
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flashed.
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The lights were violet and white. I had an ornamental veil, but I couldn't bear to use it.
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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
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Comanche lies beneath this netting of the skin.
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I wake up. I am lying peacefully I am lying peacefully and my knees are open to the sun.
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I desire him, and he is absolutely ready to seize me. In heart I am a Moslem; in heart I am an American;
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In heart I am Moslem, in heart I'm an American artist, and I have no guilt.
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I seek pleasure. I seek the nerves under your skin.
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The narrow archway; the layers; the scroll of ancient lettuce.
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We worship the flaw, the belly, the belly, the mole on the belly of an exquisite whore.
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He spared the child and spoiled the rod. I have not sold myself to God.
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Babelogue
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| Patti Smith |
