The anchored spirit,
screwed into me
by the psycho-
of the sky
is the one who thinks
o dada orzoura
o dou zoura
a dada skizi
o kaya pontoura
It’s the penetral spider veil,
the female onor fur
of either or the sail,
the anal plate of anayor.
(You lift nothing from it, god,
because it’s me.
You never lifted anything of this order from me.
I’m writing it here for the first time,
I’m finding it for the first time.)
Not the membrane of the chasm,
nor the member omitted from this jism,
issued from a depredation,
but an old bag,
outside of there where it’s hard or soft.
B’now passed through the hard and soft,
spread out this old bag in palm,
pulled, stretched like a palm
bloodless from keeping rigid,
from stretching to soft.
But what then in the end, you, the madman?
This tongue between four gums,
this meat between two knees,
this piece of hole
Yet precisely not for madmen.
For respectable men,
whom a delirium to belch everywhere planes,
and who from this belch
made the leaf,
made the leaf
of the beginning of generations
in the palmate old bag of my holes,
Which holes, holes of what?
Of soul, of spirit, of me and of being;
but in the place where no one gives a shit,
father, mother, Atraud, artoo.
In the humus of the plot with wheels,
in the breathing humus of the plot
of this void,
between hard and soft.
and that’s all
Which means that there is a bone,
sat down on the poet,
in order to sack the ingestion
of his lines,
like the head farts
that he wheedles out of him through his cunt,
that he would wheedle out of him from the bottom of the ages,
down to the bottom of his cunt hole,
and it’s not a cunt prank
that he plays on him in this way,
it’s the prank of the whole earth
against whoever has balls
in his cunt.
And if you don’t get the image
-and that’s what I hear you saying
in a circle,
that you don’t get the image
which is at the bottom
of my cunt hole,-
it’s because you don’t know the bottom,
not of things,
but of my cunt,
although since the bottom of the ages
you’ve all been lapping there in a circle
as if badmouthing an alienage,
plotting an incarnation to death.
ge re ghi
Between the ass and the shirt,
between the gism and the under-bet,
between the member and the let down,
between the membrane and the blade,
betweeen the slat and the ceiling,
between the sperm and the explosion,
‚tween the fishbone and ‚tween the slime,
between the ass and everyone’s
of the high-pressure trap
of an ejaculation death rattle
is neither a point
nor a stone
burst dead at the foot of a bound
nor the severed member of a soul
(the soul is no more than an old saw)
but the terrifying suspension
of a breath of alienation
raped, clipped, completely sucked off
by all the insolent riff-raff
of all the turd-buggered
who had no other grub
in order to live
than to gobble
there, where one can fuck sooner
and the other get hard higher
if he has taken care to put his head
on the curvature of that bone
located between anus and sex,
of that hoed bone that I say
in the filth
of a paradise
whose first dupe on earth
was not father nor mother
who diddled you in this den
screwed into my madness.
And what seized hold of me
that I too rolled my life there?
I am there,
and it is life
that rolls its obscene palm there.
The old Artaud
in the chimney hole
he owes to his cold gum
to the day when he was killed!
He is this unframed hole
that life wanted to frame.
Because he is not a hole
but a nose
that always knew all too well to sniff
the wind of the apocalyptic
which they suck on his clenched ass,
and that Artaud’s ass is good
for pimps in Miserere.
And you too you have your gum,
your right gum buried,
you too your gum is cold
for an infinity of years
since you sent me your innate ass
to see if I was going to be born
since the time you were waiting for me
while scraping my absentee belly.
o marchti rombi
ta urchpt orchpt
ta tro taurch
ko ti aunch
a ti aunch
ANTONIN ARTAUD // Edited and Translated by Clayton Eshleman with Bernard Bador // Watchfiends & Rack Screams: Works from the Final Period ©Exact Change Press