theater of cruelty

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 20^th 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