We manifest ARTAUD and mandate the BLACK PLAGUE

Artaud and Black Plague equals YOU; other characters include we, I, her, yourselves and an aged Italian woman lighting a candle to St. Simone in 1942. The mise-en-scène starts with plagued sailors whose fleshes are melting; it reverses through a landscape of tolerance and stubborn optimism (the survivor, our shipmistress travels hundreds of years from Europe to El Dorado), then it foreshadows, before actualizing, das Gropenführer’s post truth. This created world is also our own Voltairean world: ideal—we had just started to get the flowers ourselves; yet flawed—the pornpoweraddict impresarios. The plague breaks to upset it, a process that can nonetheless be regarded as healing this is a story that then went down to the sea about how sincerely shut seems to be the verb how the babyfingers comes to ruin our hopes to fix life o life already deemed unfixable given the plague and artaud who fixed it even though he never cared to say sincerely of course he didnt and of course there was no working it out not the least by a brutal insolvent except that we had gotten to wonder can you fit my clothes in a matchbox until we were no longer say

say sincerity ever since chased away from castles and castles ie call egos for better
before reason bugled but how can i bring myself to leave the part in the world where my health is
flower and shines about my face whose physiognomy announces felicity and acceptably
after seasons resolved pondered does simple mean closer to truth thereby leaving the already
totalized old pious lady who knew a thing about proximity even though she was the simpler
without a choice an idea or ears for these had fallen off so cold they were in may thats to say
now in the best of all worlds here are cold ears for sale or sold out and rocks not in pockets
old years rather sheltering freshly used nudes which dudes produce and bold they seem in the light

rattus rattus dont say words leave not an impression youre nogood unsponored you spit you spoil
cant hide behind our fire the well is poisoned the prick pigs thats the rats the roaches emerge from gutters
now on solely feelings form of art rato negro from the gutter onto our dinner you art and youre out
were not angry were dead were not angry were not angry were dead were not angry and our skins pinked
mommy mommy dad is dead were not panicking our prices been halved you spread like godfearers or womenfighters
my home our sweet lives have been sacked antonin teddy bears sweet little zebras bunny white go fuck yourselves
from the fetid bumpy shoe from over the garbage you inhabit what i edify but who am i to speak
who are we its normal to achieve unity destroying the different were not melancholy not anxious not your double
peste plagas you pest on ships in the queens chambers nit mura ader hofn your autoerotic tainted blood on the flag
ایک عام چوہا your tortureinduced piss but the poet sang sang spoke greek saw in the dark like a bat
even phony her verses were good even diseased our affairs felt good and camels fell in love
which is to unsay we survived artaud you almost had us with your cruelty but your nonsense made music
in the minds of the living the young we took your rascality in we survived and the joke was on you
till i grabbed and
said so and was
great and
poetry
dies

D'Freire, 
Theatre Artaud.