THEORY BEYOND THE CODES
theater of cruelty
Barbara Mor
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
unquenched, it was hot in there poets )
4. there was poetry after theInquisition and during theInquisition
enduring theInquisition i think witches 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 fie 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 theatrical 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 inLunaPark she took out 3men
sometoughbitch he shoved a lit cigareet up her nose you dont do
that 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 dyiing 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
1990/2012
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Barbara Mor is author of The First God, retitled & printed by HarperCollins as The Great Cosmic Mother (1987, 1991). Her recent book The Blue Rental (Oliver Open Press April 2010) contains 7 pieces first published on CTheory (8/4/05; 12/15/05; 4/12/06; 4/3/08; 12/3/08; 10/20/09; 9/30/10). A recent text, .theInquisitor, appeared on CTheory 2/28/12. When NYC & hurricaned environs get reliably replugged-in, a new Oliver website, http://www.bluddlefilth.net will contain previous Mor work from out-of-print journals, current online sites; & work by Adam Engel, its Editor; plus writers from everywhere if they survive the bluddlefilthy field of battle.