"I don’t fuck much with the past, but I fuck plenty with the future.
Over the skin of silk are scars from the splinters of stations and the 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 all 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
—- a scalp of a crazy and sleepy Comanche.
He 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.
And, 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 — 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 —
— the mole on the belly of an exquisite whore.
He spared the child and spoiled the rod.
I have not sold myself to God.”
Photograph by Lynn Goldsmith