Antonin Artaud Theater of Cruelty Or Joie De Vivre Part 1
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Paris then was a place
Where new ideas were
Brewing in the intellectual
And art communities
And new ones were
Emerging everyday
Some brilliant some not
Time will make it clear
What is what
But then it was an exciting
Paris of the time of Artaud
Andre Breton the leader of surrealist
The movement became a communist
He got lost in the world of confusion
Recycling old ideas of revolution
Remastered in the writings of Marx
in to new world to be born in fusion
Of paradise on the earth emerging
From the corpses of the old civilization
Saluting new born red nation
A plaque devouring Europe’s
Exhausted soul and body
Antonin Artaud did not like this
He cut off umbilical cord
With bleeding surrealism
That he used to belong to
And chose a different path
Traveled much less
Leading away from the mess
That world was immersed
Deeply in those confusing days
In Europe of terrible change
He went to Mexico instead
And encountered a shamanic world
He experienced unbelievable things
And when he came back to Paris
He was not sure if it happened for real
Or was it only his vivid dream
He was taught a peyote dance
By a shaman with a bird’s glance
And dark face with high cheeks
Smiling at him all the time
His name was Don Juan
He taught Artaud to fly
Up high in the midnight sky
Like a black soaring crow
See the world from above
Spread wide in brilliant
Shiny starry moonlight
He was sitting in a dark cave
Surrounded by a local tribe
A magical pipe was passed by
And white smoke sealed his eyes
He saw images and dark shapes
Dancing around him in shades
With hands raised up to the sky
They were chanting magical words
That he could not understand
But he felt a pull in his heart
And saw a line being drawn
Of a new sharp design
That he had never seen before
It was pulling him out of
His vivid lucid dreams and
Pushing away melancholic
Hold of the demon inside
Coyote devouring him alive
He felt light and elevated
Dancing around a bright fire
He saw stars falling from the sky
And showering his naked soul
That was hung on the old tree
Next to the water pool
He saw women soaking it
Like a dirty laundry in the creek
Then rinsing in waters deep
And hanging it to be bleached
In the bright full moonlight
And dried by the North winds
In the hot sun the next day at noon
Then suddenly he realized
He was wide awake for a while
Holding his soul in his hands
It smelled like sun and wind
And looked fresh and alive
Copyright © Ruta Skendeliene | Year Posted 2016
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