Antonin Artaud

<br>The young man held a gun to the head of god<br><br>Stick this holy cow<br><br>Put the audience in action<br><br>Let the slaughtered take a bow<br><br>The old mans words, white hot knives<br><br>Slicing through warm butter<br><br>The butter is the heart<br><br>The rancid peeling soul<br><br><br><br>Scratch pictures on asylum walls<br><br>Broken nails and matchsticks<br><br>Hypodermic hypodermic hypodermic<br><br>Red fix<br><br><br><br>One mans poison another mans meat<br><br>One mans agony another mans treat<br><br>Artaud lived with his neck paced firmly in the noose<br><br>Eyes black with pain,<br><br>Limbs in cramps contorted<br><br>The theatre and its double<br><br>The void and the aborted<br><br><br><br>Those indians wank on his bones (repeat)