THEORY BEYOND THE CODES
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
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.