steve dalachinsky

ARTAUD Le Momo

mother earth mother there is always one that cannot be saved mother earth

dying mother earth dead mother momo suckling her young

CIGURI CIGURI - the true man before god destroyed him

ciguri oh foolish fool of fools treated with such shocking disgrace poet poet poet

electrically shocked & twisted rearranged for the satisfaction of others

ded mama momo antonin on toes i lean on toes artaud

i shout & cry & scream tip toe momo

skin wrapped tight in desperation

god father christ yourself the mother sister phallus actor whore

puta puta peyote faced puta opiated puta momo mom

bad boy rugged handsome prominence

ciguri momo excreted skin

syrupy muscle soul

separately fused one atop the other

crawling with too much life

& the alien stickiness of it.

a system of justice tragic figure bent stooping upright aged so old before your time

fingers mingling your mind reflected in glassbook descriptions

desert on the end table seeds of Ciguri stirring in your stomach

circling forever the soul the man the mother the momo the fingers

the nails driven home

tylenol #3 w/ codeine

3 #3's melting my inflamed bone

& hopefully making bearable this unbearable pulse

of dying tooth falling into itself in the mouth of its creator

i stare stiffly at the brave lines of cocteau

that dance from adam's apple to masculine chin

turned shape smart doubling lines singular lips thick tongue's blunt blade

stuck question in torment of no answer

the teeth alone hurt nose drawn around itself

3D flattened sharpness inhaled with the blowing of another's breath

thru straws the eye held upward an overseeing dead flat beacon

projected from 2 quick unsure lines connected by 1 brave black dot

where i should rest no socket the eye itself its center

& my teeth still in their creator oval black & flat from which

is strung & swung 6 strong lines of suffering

swinging 6 small drops of 1 small drop of each at every end

connectly disconnected tears

eternal that they turn around & out but always inward turn again

return shed never dropped but always spinning flying flung

banderillas with no place to be planted

bullets from the soldier's bandeleer

with no place to be planted just turning always turning

to return like the child's bandelore wound up strung out

sprung back turning upward to somewhere for no reason

3 #3's & my mouth still in shock

this persistent untouchable yet unreachable pain

smooth drawn lines at the bottom of the left side

turning around themselves

bathed in the throat

radiating outward & returning to the root

with the nerve of a wreckless star

plunging thru its SOURCE.

for Irene Schweitzer - 1989

the bassoon player has a peace sign etched into her bassoon

the drummer's always rough

we take from others

then become ourselves

they in turn take from us

become us themselves

& then become themselves

again

there are trees not far from here

that lie still green in their death

& those many days away

that are burnt or barren or gone

a new seed

sprouts from the old

& the old renews itself

in the young

we come to this planet

as visitors

determined to spread the gospel

of the flesh

we come out of progress

& back into death

there is no price on the beginning

& only wagers on the end

her bassoon has a peace sign etched into the dark wood

& the sound is hoarse & excited

she may have arrived at this point rudely

out of some psychedelic dream

the animals wear scripture

around their necks

they have arrived at this point

or are going toward a new beginning

we bang each other on the head until the puppeteer stops us

& out there in the cold decisions have to be made

there is a crackle in the air suddenly an old man lets out a yawn.