theater of cruelty
theater of cruelty
artaud wants people to visit theater as they visit surgeons
or a dentist.
Artaud challenges earth to speed up. To manifest in her
physiology the
mental agony of the human mind achieved thru generations of
suffering
her slow impersonal processes.
Earth is Theater of Cruelty.
she is conscious of this. She begins to
perform herself as cosmic actor a progenitor of all Art.
I no longer know how to speak. Rimbaud. Fear is poetry. Artaud
1. all matter originates in the explosion of a passion, that
condensed
from night, then
is driven to return.
the mind pulls
back, to see as gods, the viscous thought span
pulling,
unconsciousness. pain.
and the will to
contemplate this. to evolve backwards,
or silence.
distance the mind
as its body becomes, as its black line of food.
its poet. material.
as it, death, consumes.
texts of the great
tragedians, who were dinosaurs.
earth imagined
this, us. because i have tried to imagine myself
as the earth.
2. for i do not believe writing any more. or do i believe my sincere
face in this
mirror, which is cracked. or this fingernail, the ship
of white protein
death. shoved up the oceans of gods
anus, a
fathomless
request.
the thin line of
shit excreting from a pen that flows continuously
from the invention
of history by elemental executors excretors,
shitters of some
idea of god who are cannibal masturbators laying
some starving road thru my moist flesh.
for the men need succoring. they say. women must stop
our work
of change of
poetry and succor them. hurt boys, needing this mother.
hurt by their
mamas, no. it was the bad father. because a bad big
progenitors fucked
them in the ass, women must become a sponge
mop up such pain.
the fathers did it, we must clean it up.
and then
our daughters,
buggered by the poor sons in therapeutic retaliation
for crimes of the
fathers. mop that up, the rapes and
abuses of
daughters. what are mothers for. and then save the animals.
for we begin
beautiful and are made corpses.
luminous, end in
ash. do not applaud criminal tides as you drown
3. inside this dump: is it a
house or a mind. public toilet, pissoir as
theater. we are all common here, as heroes of time.
they are
tyrants. the best of them are beautiful
tyrants. how they
enjoy a feel of
power, twist and line of sexual muscle against the
sun which is
inside them, or the intolerable shine of night as they
bring the rock
down on your head or go for the throat.
Behind them huge
torsos. Cities of things.
I last saw the moon.
she held a gun.
______________________________
1. for i do not believe in writing any more. how can. or: I do
not
believe
writers thats it. dont blame the victim.
something got
assassinated last nite last saw the moon it had a
gun dont shoot
dont shoot sd
Marinetti since then silence
as the rubble of a big
war poetry is not supposed to speak be able to
allowed to Speak
did it ever utter
except out of slaughter you no longer
matter
shut up
2. i think i was burning in fire the renaissance of writers did not care
especially or the
glorious god painters on the popes skull
over the
pious kings
forehead and all across the floor the walls on fire too
w/glorious images
of god on fire not me, the other
guy sd
melting
girlwarriors all past memory my witch ass my bonyass
Time
I think i was
burning in fire one day and no one
wrote it down.
this is my
problem.
3. this is my problem
as if fingers of
devotional candlewax cannot hold a pen.
one has
a creative
meltdown. you understand (a
rage for revenge
unquenchd, it was hot
in there poets )
4. there was poetry after theInquisition and during theInquisition
enduring
theInquisition i think 3witches rhymed
around a cauldron
famously for him,much applause. and before and after
and all around
nothing stopped
it who would stop it life goes on
All around before
after so as the flames enter yr mouth and yr cunt
and whatever
else who wants to swallow the fire ofInspiration
who would stop
it Poetry only someone with something
in his hand,
something instrumental in his hand
covert sly puritist
aPlato or a priest or somebodys
face in a cruel
theatrical mirror i think it
matches i think
its matches
5. did i tell you the one about
the electrified
Elephant. demonstration of power ,sd Edison
and
indeed we all love
appreciate the current thrill o it is a rush thru
the brain of
Being this original power the powerCompany he sd it
will be as a
Church of a newGod and i swear it
is. no joke
and i sit before
it here fat melting i sweat with memory
Awesome the agony of unknowing why piteous
poetry of
the poor beast
let me compose a
poem commemorating commendating with tears
or words somehow
adorning adornoing the poor mute
beast
6. a slaughter of innocents in the bible the slaughter of Innocence
as in all great
Books as mutterings of the world. as bloody
mutings of
a world. followed by great gouts of
poetry
luckily an evidential spatter on the
walls this is literature in
shakespeares
language of course the god sells it sells
itself assassin assassinated. and in multiple translations the poor
man executed for blasphemy glorious glorious he lost his
head or was it by fire in somebodys language of course
our kingdom for
great poetry. who sells
atrocity it is thereby
in Literature not
exactly the first pain or original.
what
is original but
night murdering
all its stars in an act of entropy the
universe
could avoid after
all it made itself. a fact of theatric
magic. this
is some squabble
between the stagemanager and the stars.
we
made you the Stars
say enough! explosion
expansion old age
death you go too far for spectacle and then it goes dark
this is a
holocaust of nondisposable things
as such. what they all say. and then it goes dark
7. aVoid this as the
buddha said All is suffering. the other guy
says as the world turns (and the worm and yr casual brain
hooked as a
glimpse of some nude woman standing on a corner in
a dark night she
is nondisposable to yr fantasm. she is illusion
of poetry or its the killer moon
she has a gun
______________________________
1. mr adorno might observe:
this elementary momentous group
as children in a
cafeteria they could be 4 old people playing cards
negotiating on a
battlefield actors dressed up foolishly
in
imitation(invention) of the gods
.or
very important business whatever it deserves.
yr
applause .the unfortune is she must be
arrested in Time
for attempted
murder of yr stuffed dreams
2. stiffed dreams, sd Rimbaud i no longer know how to speak
3. but it was glorious
________________________________
1.artaud is eating a
shitsandwich in the empty auditorium of the
solar system. his earth is not the sole system of manichean
operations in the
universe he speculates. he suffers
2. you are so strange
estranged in an atmosphere our
exhalations
make us what we
are Artaud sucks in the air (in the air
of
a planet as if) it strangles him .this can happen at birth or
he likes to wear
his umbilicus like a businessmans tie cravat of the
poet the hangmans
noose we are all in Time for the
first
breath the electrified elephant i
believe was female,she
did nothing
criminal except protest being treated like an animal
. just a man among men, that is she sucked in the air and
became
radiant. we all want to be treated
as advertised thats
how they light the
match to save the soul to throw the switch to
switch to change theUniverse for you. take it up w/the Power
Co if you feel burnt mr artaud on fire shining exploding
in the void
auditorium of the hotplexus system How you became a
stellar Poet. or in the asylum at least they read yr shit
heArchived
yr doodoo like a
fond mother seizured, all of you .the
sufferings of the
Beast are exemplary
3. in the real world i hunted BigGame thats how i conquered
my fear
of Business sd Rimbaud
.i am just a boy no longer
knows how
to speak Poetry is honest
when it walks away joins the circus rides around the
solarsystem doing
tricks on the enormous lumbering
hallucinated
back of the
sentient Light
4. to pay the electric bill
.she was my mother
5. artaud spits
this is how the world thinks. a
nauseous blob of
poetry on the
street is foul to begin with,& at
the end life
should all be a
Moment of silence for the
muted.
a woman spreads
her legs and howls i make my daughters
chaste as an anus or a priests lifted chalice here i am being
sarcastic of
course or even dangerous a dog lifts
its leg and that
too is an
opinion or Poetry uttered after an
apocalypse
dont tell me the
dog is crude
dont tell me he is
not god backwards
dont tell me she
is not a bitch who howls
6. he suffers he speculates.
we expectorate the stars. as some
mucus of our being
necessary but not. sufficient for what for
what i would like to think something greater than
the greater
glory of yr souls ,artaud spits. a poem glorifies the sidewalk,
expressing some
disease the dis/ease of needing to
spit just like
that. ubiquitous
is it a statement of conviction? (as in prison or
a political
intention or love yr fellow,man for we
are all
spitters )the sputum &the glory. horrifies Poetry is
disgust and you can spread it on yr sandwich
also
think about that
among the cruel stars Artaud
. ubiquitous
7. something glorifies the agonies of inherent Mind i am yr ass
/thoughtless every
day yr brain strides over me doing honest
work. thePope shits the rabbi the prisoner the
whore spit into
like a toilet then
she comes to wipe the toilet for some food
you
dont have my
respect come,shit on
me comrade
a poem glorifies
the sidewalk as spunk,as junk as squat and
write yr name in
black thick ink the signature is not
theThing it
is the release the
relief in the bowels of god
to sign off on
another day of eating the world
(like my naked
torso wrapped up in 2 warm thighs of bread
)
.asTime sd
(no child born
after Death enters the world no Goya after pain is
introduced to the
Mind no thought,shut up, this is what
they all
say to the girls
spread legs after a big fuck )
8. getting back to woman
she stains the sidewalk as a
window
comes to the light
&spits out many colors you never
imagined aCathedral
______________________________
1. time 2.
plenitude 3.i just love words i dont
believe them i
am not an
institution
Artaud skewered up foetal waiting to
be born his (k)nots of constipation Artaud he checked
his watch
sniffed shit
cooking in the cafeteria kitchen
)time ,he sd
reach in w/yr
clawed hands and dig me out
of here,there everywhere they called it,her confinement to
this
mass stew
4. between me&you
Poetry is an afterBirth who can
write Poetry
after birth by Nature,this is what it means go find another
Universe to bitch
in as priests do--.called Religion
women and other
animals eat the afterbirth it makes us strong
4. leave me alone
______________________________
1. i have a memory like an elephant
i went to Mexico in search of Hitler or any god w/out a priest
Topsy her name wuz chained in LunaPark she took out 3men
sometoughbitch he
shoved a lit cigareet up her nose you
dont do
that to a 2timekiller
nothing left to lose fell down
slomo crasht
‘without a trumpet or a groan’ like it quiet that way
i watch you jerk off electricity goes in one end out the
other
2. you are alone a
million a multitude an orgasmd cosmos of it
wont keep you
company .i will not lick yr sad wounds
they will
be published
eventually i am dying dying
but it is not
fire anymore a cold blue passion of bones,remains i see the
rubble as museums
museinations (mushrooms grow there they
see God,people yr mutual Hunger yr cannibalOther o
this is better than
technicolor fuck me eat me ) descend
thru levels of bad actor mannequins fuckd dolls splayed
&
stacked backstage
.the play is departed this is department human
department stored
madly suddenly as if a cataclysm who
made the neutron
bomb not a bad
design
/
rimbaud rode an Elephant into the void
/
i will this to be True
3. there goes the oldWitchflesh melting melting the 800lb
Elephant in the room
a fathomless ocean of pain behind her
whaley eyes windows
into the soul of melting glaciers or her
thoughts being buggered denied by centuries .who wouldnt
stand there and hurt
hurt BigTime
and if she
had fingers like you,a high
technology of rebuttal
vaster than boots on her massive feet
or. perhaps a 20th
c. trunk finessed for suchPoetry
4. she can do it
light the match herself throw the
switch no
my fingers itch ill do it for her
adornoartaud or any
bitch burning w/conviction noPoetry
after hiroshima no
poetry after leviticus no poetry after God
all is atrocity
absorbable nonabsorbable depending on whose
ass is fried the numbers climb to theMoon (i think
Artaud
jerked off his long
orgasm spasm hes 200million jismshot
rockets landed on her
dark side you see it doesnt matter(how
much)in the end if it
all rhymes or the margins are
justified
you wont return poems areAlone
/ no suffering
certifiable after poetry Rimbaud says
/
descend ofMan:
its some
hypnotic elevator down levels of Power & freight
.splattered brains on the walls of weeping hospitals zoos
brothels
thePopes toilette stories of sedimental drygoods of
trueRomance
& relatedcrime
every body have a good time moldy
documents
kitchen sinks Eat yr mutual eprics in our luxurious
ballsroom&
assorted piousArt o
the contemporary melodrama o panemEt
circensus o serious
serial pursuit of justice as yr cuntyHystery
can dish it out can he eat it. What they all say falling
thru space
i built
this damn elevator! blame the
elevator! two!
late!
it wasnt an elevator .fatal
museos visitable on
the way down to the basement where the
bone machines are
parked ashy unloved now some cold
stink of yr history
in the enormous dead garbagetrucksConcrete
cylinders as
monumental thighs holding up the stolid edifice&
there she is shes
lost weight no longer gray a redhead
maybe
got a clever hand
. i dont fit description but one will dream
it is tv now a figure in a trenchcoat cocked a sexy hat a
hate
icecocked in
her fist skinny and metal
it has a gun. w/a
silencer
this is poetry
--barbara mor 1990/2012
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