03 January 2008

Anonin Artaud, "Love"


Love? We must purge ourselves
Of this hereditary slime
In which our stellar vermin
Continue to strut

The organ, the organ that grinds the wind
The undertow of the raging sea
Are like the hollow melody
Of this disconcerting dream

She, we, or this soul
That we seat at the banquet--
Tell us which one is deceived,
O inspirer of the infamous

She who lies in my bed
And shares the air of my room
Can throw dice on the table
The very ceiling of my mind.

(This poem was introduced to me by my friend and housemate Tucker.)


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