A Cry

The little celestial poet Opens the shutters of his heart. The heavens clash. Oblivion Uproots the symphony.
Stableman the wild house That has you guard wolves Does not suspect the wraths Smouldering beneath the big alcove Of the vault that hangs above us.
Hence silence and darkness Muzzle all impurity The sky strides forward At the crossroad of sounds.
The star is eating. The oblique sky Is opening its flight toward the heights Night sweeps away the scraps Of the meal that contented us.
On earth walks a slug Which is greeted by ten thousand white hands A slug is crawling There where the earth vanished.
Angels whom no obscenity summons Were homeward bound in peace When rose the real voice Of the spirit that called them.
The sun lower than the daylight Volatilized all the sea. A stange but clear dream Was born on the clean earth.
The lost little poet Leaves his heavenly post With an unearthly idea Pressed upon his hairy heart.
Two traditions met. But our padlocked thoughts Lacked the place required, Experiment to be tried again.

-Antonin Artaud

HERE LIES
" I, Antonin Artaud, am my son, my father, my mother, my self; leveller of the imbecile periplum rooted to the family tree: "