Some Saturday poetry :



Babelogue by 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 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 scalp of a....

a crazy and sleepy Comanche lies beneath this netting of the skin. I wake up. I am lying peacefully I am peaceful 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.