Cole Heinowitz
“I Piss on the Machine of Being”: Peter Valente’s Artaud Variations
Peter Valente’s Artaud Variations are not translations in the conventional sense of the word. They emerge from a deeply personal, sustained, and rigorous engagement with Artaud’s corpus, taking the “Interjections,”[1] composed during Artaud’s confinements at Rodez and Ivry-sur-Seine (1946-47), as their immediate point of departure. Like Christopher Logue’s Homer, Paul Schmidt’s Rimbaud, and Stephen Rodefer’s Villon, Valente’s Artaud builds on the Poundian tradition of “criticism by translation,”[2] a practice that demands “an intense penetration of the author’s sense” and “an exact projection of one’s psychic contents,”[3] one that privileges “the fervour of the original”[4] over semantic fidelity. Valente’s poems embody what Haroldo de Campos has called “transcreation,” a strategy of deviation from the literal that aims for “a greater solidarity with the final ‘gestalt’ of the [original] work.”[5] As Jerome Rothenberg phrased it, these poems are at once “commentary,” “extension,” and a “legitimate form of othering.”[6]
Valente’s poems bring us an Artaud who lucidly critiques institutional power in all its overt and insidious manifestations—an Artaud who wages war “against God,” “against reason,” “against classes,” “against the feminine,” “against the masculine,” “against the organism,” “against psychology,” “against language,” and ultimately “against concepts” themselves (AV). They expose how unquestioned submission to authority “makes all men into craven, unscrupulous dogs, begging for alms on stoops and bar stools all over Paris.” They show the destruction witnessed by a man who lived through two World Wars: “1,000,000 dead / by fire, / by water, / by air,” “cities razed to the ground, / the upheaval of cultures, / men against men, / women raped, sodomized,” and “the burning of ships on the sea.” And they reveal the fragmented “self that monitors it- / self in private language” and whose every attempt to assert a coherent identity is invaded by an other: “it’s me, me listen to us artaud / not my / self, you’ll never find us / it is I, Artaud, / artaud is dead you must listen to us.”
From metaphysics to rationalism, from communism to capitalism, and from sexuality to the self, these poems interrogate the full spectrum of power Artaud railed against. Even more significantly, Valente’s poems unmask the fundamental identity of these apparently separate systems. God is never merely God in these poems: he is also Satan. Satan is never merely Satan: he is also the doctor. The doctor is never merely the doctor: he is also the whore. The whore is never merely the whore: she is also the intellect. The intellect is never merely the intellect: it is also the body. Ultimately, the spiritual is no different from the material. God becomes “piss,” Christ becomes “shit,” the Holy Ghost becomes “sperm,” and “[t]he unholy trinity…feeds upon the entrails of Artaud” while “spirit” drains “its shit / at the rim of matter.” Likewise, “philosophy” is no different from “science, religion, politics, etc.,” and the only answer is “TO RAZE THE WHOLE STINKING EDIFICE.” It is not enough to reveal a series of isolated deceptions. In order to defeat “the machine of Being,” all of its avatars and reproductions much be thrown “in the alembic” and distilled together. Beyond their penetration into the travesties of justice, reason, and morality, at their core, these poems are leveled against the very notion of Being.[7]
But how can one bring Being to trial with only its servile minions (consciousness, concepts, representation) at his disposal—if, as Artaud wrote, “All true language / is incomprehensible”?[8] Because “categories, beings, determinations: / “I” “me” “self” / are not facts // but signs // which eat up Facts // to shit out Being,” there is no sign one can use to interrogate Being. “There is a hole in things / that resists classification / and cannot be understood in the terms / that explain it.” The physical body and its organs are equally meretricious, both because they control the function of this thing we call a human being and because they serve as entry points for Being, which “can’t gesture / without a body” and “can’t think without a body.” It is futile to combat Being with its own instruments. Such attempts are merely “the pretentious nonsense / of craven imbeciles who never faced up / to the Fact of the body / but cowered underneath the umbrella of ideas.” Against such “apparitions that drain the vital substance” and lure us “into the pit of ceaseless inquiry,” Valente imagines “a form without form, / a body without organs, / an image without representation.” Faithful to the spirit of Artaud, he is attempting to grasp the actual Fact of experience that ontology conceals.
To uncover this Fact requires a complete unlearning of Being, “a ceaseless evacuation / at the core, EVERYWHERE.” In order “to examine it,” as Valente writes, one must “know nothing about it.” This is an exceedingly difficult task. But if “[t]he body comes before the word, and before the world,” as Stephen Barber has suggested, it may be possible to strike at the root of the problem by rendering the body non-functional, non-productive, impenetrable, and unrecognizable.[9] This is the body that emerges in these poems, a body that rejects the “Father-Mother dyad / so that 0=2 BECOMES 1=1,” an “ABSOLUTE BODY” “without image / or function,” “without sound, // without form, // without depth, // yet HARD. LIKE A ROCK,” a “body that refuse[s] to be penetrated by God,” which gives “nothing to this world / and wants nothing,” which is “A CEASELESS FORCE // AGAINST THE MACHINE OF BEING.” It is the “‘I’ / which is NOT / the ‘I’ of an Other.”
These are deeply disturbing poems. But their power to disturb does not lie in their profanity, grotesque imagery, blasphemy, rage, or splintering of words and syntax. It lies in their uncompromising demand for a body liberated from all constraints and inhibitions, a body that rejects the divisions between subject and object and between representation and reality—a body that is “co- / terminus // with Life.” Such freedom may indeed seem terrifying. It may even look like madness. But Artaud teaches us that what society calls “madness” is in fact a “superior idea of human honor,” and that “a madman” is simply “a man whom society d[oes] not want to hear and whom it want[s] to prevent from uttering certain intolerable truths.”[10]
[1] Antonin Artaud, Suppôts et Supplications, t. XIV, pt. 2. Oeuvres Complètes. Editions Gallimard, 1978.
[2] Ezra Pound, “Date Line,” in Literary Essays of Ezra Pound. New Directions, 1935. p. 74.
[3] Hugh Kenner, Introduction to Ezra Pound’s Translations. Faber and Faber, 1953. pp. 11-12.
[4] Ezra Pound, “Cavalcanti,” in Literary Essays of Ezra Pound. p. 200.
[5] Haroldo de Campos, Novas: Selected Writings. Northwestern UP, 2007. pp. 315-17.
[6] Jerome Rothenberg, personal correspondence. 24 May, 2013.
[7] As Artaud wrote in September 1947, “There is no greater enemy of the human body than being.” Quoted in Jacques Derrida, Writing and Difference. U of Chicago P, 1978. p. 246.
[8] Antonin Artaud, Here Lies, in Selected Writings. p. 549.
[9] Stephen Barber, Blows and Bombs: Antonin Artaud: the Biography. Creation Books, 2003. p. 17.
[10] Antonin Artaud, Van Gogh, the Man Suicided by Society, in Selected Writings. p. 485.
“I Piss on the Machine of Being”: Peter Valente’s Artaud Variations
Peter Valente’s Artaud Variations are not translations in the conventional sense of the word. They emerge from a deeply personal, sustained, and rigorous engagement with Artaud’s corpus, taking the “Interjections,”[1] composed during Artaud’s confinements at Rodez and Ivry-sur-Seine (1946-47), as their immediate point of departure. Like Christopher Logue’s Homer, Paul Schmidt’s Rimbaud, and Stephen Rodefer’s Villon, Valente’s Artaud builds on the Poundian tradition of “criticism by translation,”[2] a practice that demands “an intense penetration of the author’s sense” and “an exact projection of one’s psychic contents,”[3] one that privileges “the fervour of the original”[4] over semantic fidelity. Valente’s poems embody what Haroldo de Campos has called “transcreation,” a strategy of deviation from the literal that aims for “a greater solidarity with the final ‘gestalt’ of the [original] work.”[5] As Jerome Rothenberg phrased it, these poems are at once “commentary,” “extension,” and a “legitimate form of othering.”[6]
Valente’s poems bring us an Artaud who lucidly critiques institutional power in all its overt and insidious manifestations—an Artaud who wages war “against God,” “against reason,” “against classes,” “against the feminine,” “against the masculine,” “against the organism,” “against psychology,” “against language,” and ultimately “against concepts” themselves (AV). They expose how unquestioned submission to authority “makes all men into craven, unscrupulous dogs, begging for alms on stoops and bar stools all over Paris.” They show the destruction witnessed by a man who lived through two World Wars: “1,000,000 dead / by fire, / by water, / by air,” “cities razed to the ground, / the upheaval of cultures, / men against men, / women raped, sodomized,” and “the burning of ships on the sea.” And they reveal the fragmented “self that monitors it- / self in private language” and whose every attempt to assert a coherent identity is invaded by an other: “it’s me, me listen to us artaud / not my / self, you’ll never find us / it is I, Artaud, / artaud is dead you must listen to us.”
From metaphysics to rationalism, from communism to capitalism, and from sexuality to the self, these poems interrogate the full spectrum of power Artaud railed against. Even more significantly, Valente’s poems unmask the fundamental identity of these apparently separate systems. God is never merely God in these poems: he is also Satan. Satan is never merely Satan: he is also the doctor. The doctor is never merely the doctor: he is also the whore. The whore is never merely the whore: she is also the intellect. The intellect is never merely the intellect: it is also the body. Ultimately, the spiritual is no different from the material. God becomes “piss,” Christ becomes “shit,” the Holy Ghost becomes “sperm,” and “[t]he unholy trinity…feeds upon the entrails of Artaud” while “spirit” drains “its shit / at the rim of matter.” Likewise, “philosophy” is no different from “science, religion, politics, etc.,” and the only answer is “TO RAZE THE WHOLE STINKING EDIFICE.” It is not enough to reveal a series of isolated deceptions. In order to defeat “the machine of Being,” all of its avatars and reproductions much be thrown “in the alembic” and distilled together. Beyond their penetration into the travesties of justice, reason, and morality, at their core, these poems are leveled against the very notion of Being.[7]
But how can one bring Being to trial with only its servile minions (consciousness, concepts, representation) at his disposal—if, as Artaud wrote, “All true language / is incomprehensible”?[8] Because “categories, beings, determinations: / “I” “me” “self” / are not facts // but signs // which eat up Facts // to shit out Being,” there is no sign one can use to interrogate Being. “There is a hole in things / that resists classification / and cannot be understood in the terms / that explain it.” The physical body and its organs are equally meretricious, both because they control the function of this thing we call a human being and because they serve as entry points for Being, which “can’t gesture / without a body” and “can’t think without a body.” It is futile to combat Being with its own instruments. Such attempts are merely “the pretentious nonsense / of craven imbeciles who never faced up / to the Fact of the body / but cowered underneath the umbrella of ideas.” Against such “apparitions that drain the vital substance” and lure us “into the pit of ceaseless inquiry,” Valente imagines “a form without form, / a body without organs, / an image without representation.” Faithful to the spirit of Artaud, he is attempting to grasp the actual Fact of experience that ontology conceals.
To uncover this Fact requires a complete unlearning of Being, “a ceaseless evacuation / at the core, EVERYWHERE.” In order “to examine it,” as Valente writes, one must “know nothing about it.” This is an exceedingly difficult task. But if “[t]he body comes before the word, and before the world,” as Stephen Barber has suggested, it may be possible to strike at the root of the problem by rendering the body non-functional, non-productive, impenetrable, and unrecognizable.[9] This is the body that emerges in these poems, a body that rejects the “Father-Mother dyad / so that 0=2 BECOMES 1=1,” an “ABSOLUTE BODY” “without image / or function,” “without sound, // without form, // without depth, // yet HARD. LIKE A ROCK,” a “body that refuse[s] to be penetrated by God,” which gives “nothing to this world / and wants nothing,” which is “A CEASELESS FORCE // AGAINST THE MACHINE OF BEING.” It is the “‘I’ / which is NOT / the ‘I’ of an Other.”
These are deeply disturbing poems. But their power to disturb does not lie in their profanity, grotesque imagery, blasphemy, rage, or splintering of words and syntax. It lies in their uncompromising demand for a body liberated from all constraints and inhibitions, a body that rejects the divisions between subject and object and between representation and reality—a body that is “co- / terminus // with Life.” Such freedom may indeed seem terrifying. It may even look like madness. But Artaud teaches us that what society calls “madness” is in fact a “superior idea of human honor,” and that “a madman” is simply “a man whom society d[oes] not want to hear and whom it want[s] to prevent from uttering certain intolerable truths.”[10]
[1] Antonin Artaud, Suppôts et Supplications, t. XIV, pt. 2. Oeuvres Complètes. Editions Gallimard, 1978.
[2] Ezra Pound, “Date Line,” in Literary Essays of Ezra Pound. New Directions, 1935. p. 74.
[3] Hugh Kenner, Introduction to Ezra Pound’s Translations. Faber and Faber, 1953. pp. 11-12.
[4] Ezra Pound, “Cavalcanti,” in Literary Essays of Ezra Pound. p. 200.
[5] Haroldo de Campos, Novas: Selected Writings. Northwestern UP, 2007. pp. 315-17.
[6] Jerome Rothenberg, personal correspondence. 24 May, 2013.
[7] As Artaud wrote in September 1947, “There is no greater enemy of the human body than being.” Quoted in Jacques Derrida, Writing and Difference. U of Chicago P, 1978. p. 246.
[8] Antonin Artaud, Here Lies, in Selected Writings. p. 549.
[9] Stephen Barber, Blows and Bombs: Antonin Artaud: the Biography. Creation Books, 2003. p. 17.
[10] Antonin Artaud, Van Gogh, the Man Suicided by Society, in Selected Writings. p. 485.
Peter Valente
from The Artaud Variations
I know nothing about it,
that’s why I know how to examine it:
these pores on the head of the shaft,
the meat underneath the nerve of the bone
where I am fucked night and day.
These manifestations scourge the body
which is a mommy-daddy in the sawed-off cunt
from the spinal cord to the base of the neck.
The body is not a home but a penal colony.
Remember Artaud
this Sunday afternoon
December 8, 1946
and my pursuit of the trail of sperm
to the parasitic copulation in the emissions
from the shorn head of the penis.
From this sperm THEY have
made a copy of Artaud, a double
who believes in God whereas I, Artaud,
believe only in this body, me, without image
or function, but an unmediated
FORCE OF WILL.
I must kill this automaton
who places clamps in my eyes,
fixes them to look up at heaven
and insinuates illusions of purity in Artaud
at the same time that a demon materializes out of the dank air
and the clown’s mask of God is torn off
to reveal Satan, grinning as he locks eyes with Artaud.
Should I restore my physical appearance,
lift weights to pump myself up, dress in the current fashion,
smile for the camera, assume an urbane air, NO
THE BODY OF ARTAUD IS NOT FOR SALE.
The physical appearance has no morality.
The face is a grid full of holes,
it’s the anus turned inside out
and the spiritside of things is a loaded gun
that goes off inside the brain
which is a sucker for the un-
hinged CONCEPT
screwed into him
by the spirit-fascinator.
It’s the ignorance of a populace weaned on false ideas of self worth who are vermin really, slavishly beholden to a seedy God who cannot satisfy his hunger on the millions of believers who praise him but seeks Artuad’s ass because it’s the finest in all of Paris. This need for a higher wisdom and authority is the shadowside of all human history, makes all men into craven, unscrupulous dogs, begging for alms on stoops and bar stools all over Paris.
Very soon a time will come
when I, Artaud,
am no longer shackled
to the physical body
of this rotten trinity
of Father Son Ghost
piss shit sperm
distilled in the alembic
will issue a form without form,
a body without organs,
an image without representation,
the inner turned out,
Artaud co-
terminus
with Life.
__________
Electroshock treatment wipes the slate clean.
That is I, Artaud, suffered an OTHER to enter
when my body was drained of will power, helpless,
my face beaten beyond recognition,
more dead than alive.
A split second jolt
and the body receives millions of foreign cells
that duplicate inside the brain
which is OPENED by the finger of God
to allow the spirits to fester and breed.
It is an enormous weight
that compresses the muscles from OUTSIDE,
like the ceaseless pounding of a hammer
or the sudden left hook,
sizing me up.
BUT I’M NO PUSSY.
TAKE THAT!
Anger rises.
Fucks despair in the FACE.
I GRAB THIS BASTARD BY THE NECK
AND LAND A BLOW
AND FUCK HIM UP.
BUT HE CLUTCHES MY HAND
AND PULLS ME DOWN
TO THE EDGE OF THIS STINKING PIT
AND LOOKS AT ME
AND SPITS IN MY FACE
BEFORE VANISHING INTO THE FETID AIR BELOW.
It was hell back there at Rodez.
They locked me up in a filthy cell,
subjected me to the whim of satanic doctors
who monitored my brain while I slept,
secretly inserting pins to receive messages from Lucifer,
who is God’s pimp.
Nothing remains of the old Artaud
but these charred words
wrested from the void.
The sin of Antonin Artaud was to substitute
himself for the Mother
in the Father-Mother dyad
so that 0=2 BECOMES 1=1 and thus Artaud rejects the Mother
to dismantle the machine of being.
This is to shit on the mystery of God who is double
and who stands in judgment before man.
It is the devil’s work
and for this I have been crucified for 1,000 years,
the heart torn from my body.
Thus I was cheated from birth, dealt the wrong cards and downhill from there: hospitalized, abused in my cell, my words used against me, my writings ignored by envious and vile doctor-academics who knew my potential but refused to encourage my progress and infected my thought by insinuating abstraction after abstraction into my mind so that my voice was silenced. These fuckers were only after my ass like the putrid God who sings and is just a dirty bugger. Thus I was put on display, reviled in the flophouse of the asylum where I was electrocuted again and again to keep me from flexing my Will, which is an iron two-pronged sword forged in the bowels of the earth, and is of the air and of fire and water sealed with the 4 talismans of my subterranean daughters. It was given to me by the gnostic christ, not he of the corrupted scriptures, but the christ known as the wanderer in the wild, whose incarnation is imminent, who is this invisible body God imagined he killed forever when he crucified him but is still alive in the laughter of the infant who gave itself to life, his pink body seized and humiliated in the name of the Father, his body eaten alive by this cannibal God. But he is still alive. I, Artaud, am that man crucified in the blood and phlegm of the Father, cast out of this world by the insignia of the Father. I hear christ’s laughter in the blood streaming from life which is the surprise and cruelty of life and he is defiant unto death. I, Artaud, am that man whose real name is Ar-Tau, the wanderer in the wastes, the beast with the name of a man, the child in darkness, the furious christ who shall emerge
victorious in the final apocalypse of the Light. Be done with the judgment of God, who is just a slobbering filthy bastard
WHO DOES NOT EXIST.
I, ARTAUD, AM HE
OF WHOM THE PROPHETS SPEAK
IN THE BOOK OF THE PHOENIX.
I , ARTAUD, HAVE COME
TO BAR THE AUTHORITY OF GOD.
________
Surrealism was a dead end and that pig Breton
ought to have been roasted alive
in one of the antechambers of hell.
The world of ideas
is a catalogue of misfires, denunciations,
extractions, denials, confirmations, appropriations,
pontifications, erasures, repressions, ontological
confusions, postures.
It’s a sink of shit for sleepers.
All this precious intellectualism
isn’t worth a strand of hair
from a dead whore’s cunt.
I, Artaud,
am not of these times,
I resist
the intellectual nonsense of the West.
I am engaged in a war
against the spirit,
which is something else
than learned behaviors.
I search the mind of God
NOT these bestial punks
who crawl over the pores of the skin
inhaling blood and semen
from a dead cock
through the anal shaft.
But God is Lucifer in drag,
maintaining his grip
by turning me on and off.
As my anger rises
the spirits convene,
descend from the empyrean
in a whirl of red smoke
and fix upon the body of Artaud,
jerked off for hours,
drained of the vital substance.
I strangle the child
inside myself
which is this tired, useless pump,
a pale, insipid tool for God
and his fairy troop of satanic bachelors
all hungry for Artaud’s ass.
THEY planted a heart
inside Artaud
to keep his rage in check
because it threatened to equal in intensity
the hatred of God.
I, Artaud,
rebuild the body,
this body, this “I”
which is NOT
the “I” of an Other.
It is this “I” that wavers
between consciousness
and unconsciousness
and vanishes into the ass of God
who is an old intellectual cunt
who unleashed a battalion of spirits
at the origin of the world.
THEY ceaselessly impregnate the human,
weakening the pulse of the vital body,
the reality of the absolute BODY.
THEY preoccupy themselves
with what I am thinking
who am only thinking
of that dead cunt in the vanished past
of Artaud who is dead.
Who Artaud?
Me?
Who?
antonin antonin antonin
The inner e
aten up by God,
shat out
by Satan.
Nothing left
but a tomb for little tony.
This cunt inside the mind of God
provokes a violent birth
and the demon awakes.
She was moral, prophetic even,
when she halted at the moment of creation
and to appease God’s hatred for man
established dominion of the Spirit over Matter.
But this Spirit is just a sack of balls
fit for the chopping block. It
signifies nothing
without the body.
The primal whimper acts by a
skrep drim stip blonk kara
blet gris chen jonk chee
It’s the shitsound Being makes because it can’t gesture
without a body,
it can’t think without a body,
thus it needs Artaud,
this Artaud, who rages against the mind.
“I” is unintelligible,
but the body is a fact
of bone and a nervemeter,
and if you tell me I never obeyed the dictation of the spirit or
confessed my sins to God in good faith,
this putrid God who speaks through the body of man,
I’ll tell you that all this
is just shit just the pretentious nonsense
of craven imbeciles who never faced up
to the Fact of the body
but cowered underneath the umbrella of ideas
which are apparitions that drain the vital substance.
They cannot see that their critical élan
is just fodder for demons
who lure them down the fool’s path
into the pit of ceaseless inquiry.
All scholars are pigs of the cancerous West.
If the spirit doesn’t exist then thinking doesn’t exist.
And there is no need to speak in the dead language of ghosts.
I, Artaud, have never been of the spirit,
only a BODY,
without sound,
without form,
without depth,
yet HARD. LIKE A ROCK.
__________
God’s this old sentimental bugger who was never satisfied with
his creation and who sought by black magic to impregnate the old whore of
babalon to erect a more perfect form for man by thus giving birth to being after
being despite countless abortions in the name of the Father and the Son and the
Holy Spirit. Thus an army of spirits was released in the world to do his
imperfect WILL. There’s no difference between young man and old as long as his
putrid existence is justified.
That fucker’s been on my back for as long as I remember.
Once
I NAILED HIM
IN THE AIR
AS HIS SHAPE CHANGED
AND I SAW LUCIFER LAUGHING
ABOVE GOD.
That was long ago and yet I see no end to this rotten business
because Satan won’t leave the people alone
until he gets his fill of their meat,
reducing them to emaciated weaklings
whoring for coin in the street.
And these servile Christians with their puny beliefs
enjoy being fisted by God
to escape the claws of Artaud,
furious and unrepentant.
And then there are these pansy virgin spirits
who don’t get too close.
Their purity makes me vomit.
Their cultured mouths spew shit,
infecting the world with their slave ideology.
These spirits have a fucking monopoly
over the sensations of man,
profiting from him as he sleeps,
unaware of the insidious corruption
of his vital substance.
These spirits, greedy for gain,
won’t stop pestering these imbeciles
until they earn a chair in the rotten council of heaven
by cash payment for their sins and venal delights
while I, Artaud,
unconsoled,
wage a war
night after night
against God
and his angelic orders,
against reason,
against unity,
against anarchy,
against the bourgeoisie,
against classes,
against death,
against race,
against the feminine,
against the masculine,
against the question,
against the solution,
against the cosmos,
against the organism,
against psychology,
against genres,
against the cross,
against Christianity,
against Buddhism,
against Islam,
against Judaism,
against the resurrection,
against language,
against notions,
against concepts,
against ontology,
I, Artaud,
who am only a body,
a force,
centered,
absolute,
WHO WILL NOT BE MOVED.
I, Artaud, am Satan’s vestal, AGAINST NATURE, because the sight of your puerile goodness nauseates me like the rank spirits that drive my unwilling, monstrous cock into a pregnant snatch that shames these decadents polluting the streets of Paris with their impotent, petty sins my curse shall RAPE.
__________
BEINGS enter through the rectum to be born. Against Artaud’s will they perform
surgery on the central cavity of the brain with their long, filthy fingernails
plunged deep in the lobes’ juices, draining the blood,
VAMPIRIC FUCKERS.
It is THEY who speak for the Artaud,
who eat, drink, shit.
BEING feeds on the bone of Artaud,
feeds on itself,
listening through the cracks
In the WALLS.
IT’S A TERRIBLE RACKET
Go ahead, kill yourself
Be a man and fuck me
I, ARTAUD,
You’ll never find us
AM NOBODY’S FOOL
God forgives you and all his angels hate you
I COMMAND YOU
TO SHUT THE FUCK UP
__________
THEY have beaten, eviscerated, pierced, fucked, knifed, burned, cut up and re-
stitched, blown and sucked the body of Artaud
to keep the ABSOLUTE body from being born.
It is a torture without end:
Injections of morphine given by satanic doctors to weaken Artaud through suggestion and addiction which OPENS HIM UP to insect lust and obscenities of spiritmagic performed on him by filthy priests of the abyss whose number is 6.
Thus Artaud is bewitched in the middle brain.
WHO LET THE FUCKERS IN?
we are here for you Artaud
GET THE FUCK OUT
we are Artaud you are someone else
GET THE FUCK OUT OF ME
he can hear us what is he thinking we can’t tell what he is
doing don’t try to hide from us you can’t
OUT!
__________
I, Artaud, have been raped, beaten, spit upon, thrown into the fire, electrocuted, silenced, pissed on, forced to eat shit, chained, kept in solitary, flayed, tossed over the coals, unable to sleep, unable to eat, day and night to prevent me from being God, to prevent the ABSOLUTE body from being born. Everyone seeks to rejuvenate themselves by inhaling and sucking on the vital substance of Artaud, draining his will. I, Artaud, have been tortured in the Paris streets and everywhere misunderstood, accused by a God who hates his creation. I was knifed in Marseille, bludgeoned to death with an iron bar in Dublin to keep me from pronouncing my independence, that I was in possession of the cane I received from christ. THEY have plotted against me, assassinated me to demoralize my 7 daughters who are born of my body, struck me down as I cursed the injustice of the secret police who are God’s prostitutes on earth. This was all to prevent Artaud from realizing the true science of Man, his strength, his will, his immovable force, and that God himself was born of Artaud. This is because the true name of God is ARTAUD. And these beings without name, suspended between nothingness and nothingness, inhabit a body to replicate themselves. The body of Artaud is not an idea but a fact. The fact of the body is that it is nothing, and by this nothing shows itself in its blank face and impenetrable flesh. The Tibetans, Mongols, Afghans have heard in listening to God the sound of the unconscious heart wrested from the abyss in the syllables of the word AR-TAU. The initiated spread the word among the people, claiming this word designates a FORCE, not of the individual, but of REALITY itself. This was the FORCE that God in his anger enchained to prevent it from coming into Being. Thus I, Artaud, was assassinated and thrown into the gutter of an empty Paris street at night.
And yet the secret initiates know that I, Artaud, born in Marseille on the 4th of September, am that same AR-TAU,
A FURIOUS CHRIST
DESCENDED FROM THE CROSS
TO WAGE WAR AGAINST GOD
IN OBLIVION
__________
I, Artaud, work day and night
to rid myself of this insidious Evil
that creeps into my bed
performing acts of sexual torture
on the body and mind
in the name of God.
They are ceaseless desecrations of this body of Artaud.
WHEN WILL IT END
I WANT THIS FUCKER OUT NOW!
THIS GOD WHO IS A FINITE DOG.
I, ARTAUD,
HAVE STUDIED THE ANCIENT FORMS OF MAGICK
AND HAVE PENETRATED THE VEIL OF NATURE THROUGH SORCERY
TO CURB THE INCESSENT BOMBARDMENT
OF THESE ARROGANT LACKEYS
IN THE SERVICE OF A SICK, DEMENTED GOD.
I, Artaud, deny the Mother and the Father
and the body of Christ
and the whole fucking systematic withdrawal
from the essence of the Body which is not a body at all but a nothingness,
a trunk without organs. Such terminal bullshit has passed for truth in the West
in the name of philosophy,
science, religion, politics, etc.
Dame Sophia
ought to be raped and roasted on a spit in Hell
next to that pig Descartes
and the entire dilapidated Academy
and those secret initiates who enact
vile scenarios of black magic,
having stolen the sperm of Artaud
while he sleeps.
THEY OUGHT TO RAZE THE WHOLE STINKING EDIFICE.
I, Artaud, overworked,
underpaid,
refuse to sleep,
refuse the illusion of dreams,
refuse your pitiful insinuations in the name of an impotent morality,
refuse your elaborate protestations in the name of a paradise that is not of this earth,
refuse your intellectual ploys to appease your guilty conscience,
refuse your affirmations in the name of love which is just the shitside of the golden rule,
refuse finally the commandments of God who was never on the side of man
and who is an instrument of Satan,
and all this talk of the infinite and of nothingness
and the poets whose ironic laughter is a form of black magic
perpetuates an infantile criticism
which is just piss
in the baptismal font.
__________
This aborted fetus from the womb of the spirit,
obscenely satisfied at slandering Artaud,
said, “make of me what you want”
and cackled like an old whore.
These demons laugh at Artaud’s rebirth,
draining the pus from his balls
while they cut the umbilical cord with rusty pliers.
Ouch! Ah!
YOU MOTHERFUCKER GET OFF ME
WHO’S THERE?
it’s us monsieur Artaud
ASSHOLE
I, Artaud,
was not born of the mommydaddy bang in the cunt
but from the anus of Being,
between a body and a body,
harassed and no sleep. No joke.
They prod and probe the nerve,
seeking entrance by an open hole
which is Artaud EXPOSED,
who does not exist
and cannot keep
FROM BEING BORN.
At that moment when the spirit is born
and assumes the shape of a body
I know one of us is going to die.
In this split second our eyes meet.
Their bloodshot eyes burn with the hatred of God.
I concentrate my Will in the Breath
and utter the curse of the Black Sun.
The pistol goes off.
DIE FUCKER DIE
Yet there is no end to the assault.
They mock Artaud
in their ceaseless birthing
from the anus of God
only to return to a body
after their satanic eucharist,
their bellies full of Artaud’s meat.
They vomit and fart in their euphoria
like pigs in the fetid celestial pool.
THUS ARTAUD IS A MAN AT WAR
BECAUSE HE REFUSES TO BELIEVE
THAT GOD IS DEAD,
THIS GOD WHO IS A CONSTANT PEST
FINGERING
THE BODY OF ARTAUD.
__________
I, Artaud, have witnessed
what I knew then in 1937
come to pass:
in possession of the secret wand
given to me 10,000 years ago
in a previous incarnation
as Artaud-Salam or Artaud-Nalpas or Ar-Tau
torn from my hand
by the filthy police
and cast into the ocean.
I have seen this come to pass.
An image:
1,000,000 dead
by fire,
by water,
by air,
from the four corners of the earth
cities razed to the ground,
the upheaval of cultures,
men against men,
women raped, sodomized,
eruptions in the natural order of things,
the burning ships on the sea…
But that is old news
fit for the garbage dump
and yet the war against Artaud
has not ceased.
They indwell the Artaud,
clench him by the bone every night
with their lurid inventions,
seductions of the anti-sex,
to torture him in life
with a knife at his throat.
The old Artaud
whose name is Cecile
in the fecal language
aborted from his mouth,
the dejected body of Artaud
scarred beyond recognition.
Yet out of this NOTHINGNESS
which is an excruciating pain
in the core of Artaud’s skull,
a shitthought out the Godanus
under blows so vast
I, Artaud, thunder a curse
which is a sound
torn from the void of God,
a single syllable,
A BOMB.
THE TOTAL DIMENSION OF MAN
WILL BE REALIZED
WHEN THE INFINITE IS REDUCED
TO THE SIZE OF HIS WILL
from The Artaud Variations
I know nothing about it,
that’s why I know how to examine it:
these pores on the head of the shaft,
the meat underneath the nerve of the bone
where I am fucked night and day.
These manifestations scourge the body
which is a mommy-daddy in the sawed-off cunt
from the spinal cord to the base of the neck.
The body is not a home but a penal colony.
Remember Artaud
this Sunday afternoon
December 8, 1946
and my pursuit of the trail of sperm
to the parasitic copulation in the emissions
from the shorn head of the penis.
From this sperm THEY have
made a copy of Artaud, a double
who believes in God whereas I, Artaud,
believe only in this body, me, without image
or function, but an unmediated
FORCE OF WILL.
I must kill this automaton
who places clamps in my eyes,
fixes them to look up at heaven
and insinuates illusions of purity in Artaud
at the same time that a demon materializes out of the dank air
and the clown’s mask of God is torn off
to reveal Satan, grinning as he locks eyes with Artaud.
Should I restore my physical appearance,
lift weights to pump myself up, dress in the current fashion,
smile for the camera, assume an urbane air, NO
THE BODY OF ARTAUD IS NOT FOR SALE.
The physical appearance has no morality.
The face is a grid full of holes,
it’s the anus turned inside out
and the spiritside of things is a loaded gun
that goes off inside the brain
which is a sucker for the un-
hinged CONCEPT
screwed into him
by the spirit-fascinator.
It’s the ignorance of a populace weaned on false ideas of self worth who are vermin really, slavishly beholden to a seedy God who cannot satisfy his hunger on the millions of believers who praise him but seeks Artuad’s ass because it’s the finest in all of Paris. This need for a higher wisdom and authority is the shadowside of all human history, makes all men into craven, unscrupulous dogs, begging for alms on stoops and bar stools all over Paris.
Very soon a time will come
when I, Artaud,
am no longer shackled
to the physical body
of this rotten trinity
of Father Son Ghost
piss shit sperm
distilled in the alembic
will issue a form without form,
a body without organs,
an image without representation,
the inner turned out,
Artaud co-
terminus
with Life.
__________
Electroshock treatment wipes the slate clean.
That is I, Artaud, suffered an OTHER to enter
when my body was drained of will power, helpless,
my face beaten beyond recognition,
more dead than alive.
A split second jolt
and the body receives millions of foreign cells
that duplicate inside the brain
which is OPENED by the finger of God
to allow the spirits to fester and breed.
It is an enormous weight
that compresses the muscles from OUTSIDE,
like the ceaseless pounding of a hammer
or the sudden left hook,
sizing me up.
BUT I’M NO PUSSY.
TAKE THAT!
Anger rises.
Fucks despair in the FACE.
I GRAB THIS BASTARD BY THE NECK
AND LAND A BLOW
AND FUCK HIM UP.
BUT HE CLUTCHES MY HAND
AND PULLS ME DOWN
TO THE EDGE OF THIS STINKING PIT
AND LOOKS AT ME
AND SPITS IN MY FACE
BEFORE VANISHING INTO THE FETID AIR BELOW.
It was hell back there at Rodez.
They locked me up in a filthy cell,
subjected me to the whim of satanic doctors
who monitored my brain while I slept,
secretly inserting pins to receive messages from Lucifer,
who is God’s pimp.
Nothing remains of the old Artaud
but these charred words
wrested from the void.
The sin of Antonin Artaud was to substitute
himself for the Mother
in the Father-Mother dyad
so that 0=2 BECOMES 1=1 and thus Artaud rejects the Mother
to dismantle the machine of being.
This is to shit on the mystery of God who is double
and who stands in judgment before man.
It is the devil’s work
and for this I have been crucified for 1,000 years,
the heart torn from my body.
Thus I was cheated from birth, dealt the wrong cards and downhill from there: hospitalized, abused in my cell, my words used against me, my writings ignored by envious and vile doctor-academics who knew my potential but refused to encourage my progress and infected my thought by insinuating abstraction after abstraction into my mind so that my voice was silenced. These fuckers were only after my ass like the putrid God who sings and is just a dirty bugger. Thus I was put on display, reviled in the flophouse of the asylum where I was electrocuted again and again to keep me from flexing my Will, which is an iron two-pronged sword forged in the bowels of the earth, and is of the air and of fire and water sealed with the 4 talismans of my subterranean daughters. It was given to me by the gnostic christ, not he of the corrupted scriptures, but the christ known as the wanderer in the wild, whose incarnation is imminent, who is this invisible body God imagined he killed forever when he crucified him but is still alive in the laughter of the infant who gave itself to life, his pink body seized and humiliated in the name of the Father, his body eaten alive by this cannibal God. But he is still alive. I, Artaud, am that man crucified in the blood and phlegm of the Father, cast out of this world by the insignia of the Father. I hear christ’s laughter in the blood streaming from life which is the surprise and cruelty of life and he is defiant unto death. I, Artaud, am that man whose real name is Ar-Tau, the wanderer in the wastes, the beast with the name of a man, the child in darkness, the furious christ who shall emerge
victorious in the final apocalypse of the Light. Be done with the judgment of God, who is just a slobbering filthy bastard
WHO DOES NOT EXIST.
I, ARTAUD, AM HE
OF WHOM THE PROPHETS SPEAK
IN THE BOOK OF THE PHOENIX.
I , ARTAUD, HAVE COME
TO BAR THE AUTHORITY OF GOD.
________
Surrealism was a dead end and that pig Breton
ought to have been roasted alive
in one of the antechambers of hell.
The world of ideas
is a catalogue of misfires, denunciations,
extractions, denials, confirmations, appropriations,
pontifications, erasures, repressions, ontological
confusions, postures.
It’s a sink of shit for sleepers.
All this precious intellectualism
isn’t worth a strand of hair
from a dead whore’s cunt.
I, Artaud,
am not of these times,
I resist
the intellectual nonsense of the West.
I am engaged in a war
against the spirit,
which is something else
than learned behaviors.
I search the mind of God
NOT these bestial punks
who crawl over the pores of the skin
inhaling blood and semen
from a dead cock
through the anal shaft.
But God is Lucifer in drag,
maintaining his grip
by turning me on and off.
As my anger rises
the spirits convene,
descend from the empyrean
in a whirl of red smoke
and fix upon the body of Artaud,
jerked off for hours,
drained of the vital substance.
I strangle the child
inside myself
which is this tired, useless pump,
a pale, insipid tool for God
and his fairy troop of satanic bachelors
all hungry for Artaud’s ass.
THEY planted a heart
inside Artaud
to keep his rage in check
because it threatened to equal in intensity
the hatred of God.
I, Artaud,
rebuild the body,
this body, this “I”
which is NOT
the “I” of an Other.
It is this “I” that wavers
between consciousness
and unconsciousness
and vanishes into the ass of God
who is an old intellectual cunt
who unleashed a battalion of spirits
at the origin of the world.
THEY ceaselessly impregnate the human,
weakening the pulse of the vital body,
the reality of the absolute BODY.
THEY preoccupy themselves
with what I am thinking
who am only thinking
of that dead cunt in the vanished past
of Artaud who is dead.
Who Artaud?
Me?
Who?
antonin antonin antonin
The inner e
aten up by God,
shat out
by Satan.
Nothing left
but a tomb for little tony.
This cunt inside the mind of God
provokes a violent birth
and the demon awakes.
She was moral, prophetic even,
when she halted at the moment of creation
and to appease God’s hatred for man
established dominion of the Spirit over Matter.
But this Spirit is just a sack of balls
fit for the chopping block. It
signifies nothing
without the body.
The primal whimper acts by a
skrep drim stip blonk kara
blet gris chen jonk chee
It’s the shitsound Being makes because it can’t gesture
without a body,
it can’t think without a body,
thus it needs Artaud,
this Artaud, who rages against the mind.
“I” is unintelligible,
but the body is a fact
of bone and a nervemeter,
and if you tell me I never obeyed the dictation of the spirit or
confessed my sins to God in good faith,
this putrid God who speaks through the body of man,
I’ll tell you that all this
is just shit just the pretentious nonsense
of craven imbeciles who never faced up
to the Fact of the body
but cowered underneath the umbrella of ideas
which are apparitions that drain the vital substance.
They cannot see that their critical élan
is just fodder for demons
who lure them down the fool’s path
into the pit of ceaseless inquiry.
All scholars are pigs of the cancerous West.
If the spirit doesn’t exist then thinking doesn’t exist.
And there is no need to speak in the dead language of ghosts.
I, Artaud, have never been of the spirit,
only a BODY,
without sound,
without form,
without depth,
yet HARD. LIKE A ROCK.
__________
God’s this old sentimental bugger who was never satisfied with
his creation and who sought by black magic to impregnate the old whore of
babalon to erect a more perfect form for man by thus giving birth to being after
being despite countless abortions in the name of the Father and the Son and the
Holy Spirit. Thus an army of spirits was released in the world to do his
imperfect WILL. There’s no difference between young man and old as long as his
putrid existence is justified.
That fucker’s been on my back for as long as I remember.
Once
I NAILED HIM
IN THE AIR
AS HIS SHAPE CHANGED
AND I SAW LUCIFER LAUGHING
ABOVE GOD.
That was long ago and yet I see no end to this rotten business
because Satan won’t leave the people alone
until he gets his fill of their meat,
reducing them to emaciated weaklings
whoring for coin in the street.
And these servile Christians with their puny beliefs
enjoy being fisted by God
to escape the claws of Artaud,
furious and unrepentant.
And then there are these pansy virgin spirits
who don’t get too close.
Their purity makes me vomit.
Their cultured mouths spew shit,
infecting the world with their slave ideology.
These spirits have a fucking monopoly
over the sensations of man,
profiting from him as he sleeps,
unaware of the insidious corruption
of his vital substance.
These spirits, greedy for gain,
won’t stop pestering these imbeciles
until they earn a chair in the rotten council of heaven
by cash payment for their sins and venal delights
while I, Artaud,
unconsoled,
wage a war
night after night
against God
and his angelic orders,
against reason,
against unity,
against anarchy,
against the bourgeoisie,
against classes,
against death,
against race,
against the feminine,
against the masculine,
against the question,
against the solution,
against the cosmos,
against the organism,
against psychology,
against genres,
against the cross,
against Christianity,
against Buddhism,
against Islam,
against Judaism,
against the resurrection,
against language,
against notions,
against concepts,
against ontology,
I, Artaud,
who am only a body,
a force,
centered,
absolute,
WHO WILL NOT BE MOVED.
I, Artaud, am Satan’s vestal, AGAINST NATURE, because the sight of your puerile goodness nauseates me like the rank spirits that drive my unwilling, monstrous cock into a pregnant snatch that shames these decadents polluting the streets of Paris with their impotent, petty sins my curse shall RAPE.
__________
BEINGS enter through the rectum to be born. Against Artaud’s will they perform
surgery on the central cavity of the brain with their long, filthy fingernails
plunged deep in the lobes’ juices, draining the blood,
VAMPIRIC FUCKERS.
It is THEY who speak for the Artaud,
who eat, drink, shit.
BEING feeds on the bone of Artaud,
feeds on itself,
listening through the cracks
In the WALLS.
IT’S A TERRIBLE RACKET
Go ahead, kill yourself
Be a man and fuck me
I, ARTAUD,
You’ll never find us
AM NOBODY’S FOOL
God forgives you and all his angels hate you
I COMMAND YOU
TO SHUT THE FUCK UP
__________
THEY have beaten, eviscerated, pierced, fucked, knifed, burned, cut up and re-
stitched, blown and sucked the body of Artaud
to keep the ABSOLUTE body from being born.
It is a torture without end:
Injections of morphine given by satanic doctors to weaken Artaud through suggestion and addiction which OPENS HIM UP to insect lust and obscenities of spiritmagic performed on him by filthy priests of the abyss whose number is 6.
Thus Artaud is bewitched in the middle brain.
WHO LET THE FUCKERS IN?
we are here for you Artaud
GET THE FUCK OUT
we are Artaud you are someone else
GET THE FUCK OUT OF ME
he can hear us what is he thinking we can’t tell what he is
doing don’t try to hide from us you can’t
OUT!
__________
I, Artaud, have been raped, beaten, spit upon, thrown into the fire, electrocuted, silenced, pissed on, forced to eat shit, chained, kept in solitary, flayed, tossed over the coals, unable to sleep, unable to eat, day and night to prevent me from being God, to prevent the ABSOLUTE body from being born. Everyone seeks to rejuvenate themselves by inhaling and sucking on the vital substance of Artaud, draining his will. I, Artaud, have been tortured in the Paris streets and everywhere misunderstood, accused by a God who hates his creation. I was knifed in Marseille, bludgeoned to death with an iron bar in Dublin to keep me from pronouncing my independence, that I was in possession of the cane I received from christ. THEY have plotted against me, assassinated me to demoralize my 7 daughters who are born of my body, struck me down as I cursed the injustice of the secret police who are God’s prostitutes on earth. This was all to prevent Artaud from realizing the true science of Man, his strength, his will, his immovable force, and that God himself was born of Artaud. This is because the true name of God is ARTAUD. And these beings without name, suspended between nothingness and nothingness, inhabit a body to replicate themselves. The body of Artaud is not an idea but a fact. The fact of the body is that it is nothing, and by this nothing shows itself in its blank face and impenetrable flesh. The Tibetans, Mongols, Afghans have heard in listening to God the sound of the unconscious heart wrested from the abyss in the syllables of the word AR-TAU. The initiated spread the word among the people, claiming this word designates a FORCE, not of the individual, but of REALITY itself. This was the FORCE that God in his anger enchained to prevent it from coming into Being. Thus I, Artaud, was assassinated and thrown into the gutter of an empty Paris street at night.
And yet the secret initiates know that I, Artaud, born in Marseille on the 4th of September, am that same AR-TAU,
A FURIOUS CHRIST
DESCENDED FROM THE CROSS
TO WAGE WAR AGAINST GOD
IN OBLIVION
__________
I, Artaud, work day and night
to rid myself of this insidious Evil
that creeps into my bed
performing acts of sexual torture
on the body and mind
in the name of God.
They are ceaseless desecrations of this body of Artaud.
WHEN WILL IT END
I WANT THIS FUCKER OUT NOW!
THIS GOD WHO IS A FINITE DOG.
I, ARTAUD,
HAVE STUDIED THE ANCIENT FORMS OF MAGICK
AND HAVE PENETRATED THE VEIL OF NATURE THROUGH SORCERY
TO CURB THE INCESSENT BOMBARDMENT
OF THESE ARROGANT LACKEYS
IN THE SERVICE OF A SICK, DEMENTED GOD.
I, Artaud, deny the Mother and the Father
and the body of Christ
and the whole fucking systematic withdrawal
from the essence of the Body which is not a body at all but a nothingness,
a trunk without organs. Such terminal bullshit has passed for truth in the West
in the name of philosophy,
science, religion, politics, etc.
Dame Sophia
ought to be raped and roasted on a spit in Hell
next to that pig Descartes
and the entire dilapidated Academy
and those secret initiates who enact
vile scenarios of black magic,
having stolen the sperm of Artaud
while he sleeps.
THEY OUGHT TO RAZE THE WHOLE STINKING EDIFICE.
I, Artaud, overworked,
underpaid,
refuse to sleep,
refuse the illusion of dreams,
refuse your pitiful insinuations in the name of an impotent morality,
refuse your elaborate protestations in the name of a paradise that is not of this earth,
refuse your intellectual ploys to appease your guilty conscience,
refuse your affirmations in the name of love which is just the shitside of the golden rule,
refuse finally the commandments of God who was never on the side of man
and who is an instrument of Satan,
and all this talk of the infinite and of nothingness
and the poets whose ironic laughter is a form of black magic
perpetuates an infantile criticism
which is just piss
in the baptismal font.
__________
This aborted fetus from the womb of the spirit,
obscenely satisfied at slandering Artaud,
said, “make of me what you want”
and cackled like an old whore.
These demons laugh at Artaud’s rebirth,
draining the pus from his balls
while they cut the umbilical cord with rusty pliers.
Ouch! Ah!
YOU MOTHERFUCKER GET OFF ME
WHO’S THERE?
it’s us monsieur Artaud
ASSHOLE
I, Artaud,
was not born of the mommydaddy bang in the cunt
but from the anus of Being,
between a body and a body,
harassed and no sleep. No joke.
They prod and probe the nerve,
seeking entrance by an open hole
which is Artaud EXPOSED,
who does not exist
and cannot keep
FROM BEING BORN.
At that moment when the spirit is born
and assumes the shape of a body
I know one of us is going to die.
In this split second our eyes meet.
Their bloodshot eyes burn with the hatred of God.
I concentrate my Will in the Breath
and utter the curse of the Black Sun.
The pistol goes off.
DIE FUCKER DIE
Yet there is no end to the assault.
They mock Artaud
in their ceaseless birthing
from the anus of God
only to return to a body
after their satanic eucharist,
their bellies full of Artaud’s meat.
They vomit and fart in their euphoria
like pigs in the fetid celestial pool.
THUS ARTAUD IS A MAN AT WAR
BECAUSE HE REFUSES TO BELIEVE
THAT GOD IS DEAD,
THIS GOD WHO IS A CONSTANT PEST
FINGERING
THE BODY OF ARTAUD.
__________
I, Artaud, have witnessed
what I knew then in 1937
come to pass:
in possession of the secret wand
given to me 10,000 years ago
in a previous incarnation
as Artaud-Salam or Artaud-Nalpas or Ar-Tau
torn from my hand
by the filthy police
and cast into the ocean.
I have seen this come to pass.
An image:
1,000,000 dead
by fire,
by water,
by air,
from the four corners of the earth
cities razed to the ground,
the upheaval of cultures,
men against men,
women raped, sodomized,
eruptions in the natural order of things,
the burning ships on the sea…
But that is old news
fit for the garbage dump
and yet the war against Artaud
has not ceased.
They indwell the Artaud,
clench him by the bone every night
with their lurid inventions,
seductions of the anti-sex,
to torture him in life
with a knife at his throat.
The old Artaud
whose name is Cecile
in the fecal language
aborted from his mouth,
the dejected body of Artaud
scarred beyond recognition.
Yet out of this NOTHINGNESS
which is an excruciating pain
in the core of Artaud’s skull,
a shitthought out the Godanus
under blows so vast
I, Artaud, thunder a curse
which is a sound
torn from the void of God,
a single syllable,
A BOMB.
THE TOTAL DIMENSION OF MAN
WILL BE REALIZED
WHEN THE INFINITE IS REDUCED
TO THE SIZE OF HIS WILL