The Return of Artaud, The Mômo co-translated with Bernard Bador from the longer poem "Artaud the Mômo" from Watchfiends & Rack Screams: Works from the Final Period, Exact Change Press, 1995. The anchored spirit, screwed into me by the psycho- lubricious thrust of the sky is the one who thinks every temptation, every desire, every inhibition. o dedi o dada orzoura o dou zoura a dada skizi o kaya o kaya pontoura o ponoura a pena poni It's the penetral spider veil, the female onor fur of either or the sail, the anal plate of anayor. (You lift nothing from it, god, because it's me. You never lifted anything of this order from me. I'm writing it here for the first time, I'm finding it for the first time.) Not the membrane of the chasm, nor the member omitted from this jism, issued from a depredation, but an old bag, outside membrane, outside of there where it's hard or soft. B'now passed through the hard and soft, spread out this old bag in palm, pulled, stretched like a palm of hand bloodless from keeping rigid, black, violet from stretching to soft. But what then in the end, you, the madman? Me? This tongue between four gums, this meat between two knees, this piece of hole for madmen. Yet precisely not for madmen. For respectable men, whom a delirium to belch everywhere planes, and who from this belch made the leaf, listen closely: made the leaf of the beginning of generations in the palmate old bag of my holes, mine. Which holes, holes of what? Of soul, of spirit, of me and of being; but in the place where no one gives a shit, father, mother, Atraud, artoo. In the humus of the plot with wheels, in the breathing humus of the plot of this void, between hard and soft. Black, violet, rigid, recreant and that's all Which means that there is a bone, where god sat down on the poet, in order to sack the ingestion of his lines, like the head farts that he wheedles out of him through his cunt, that he would wheedle out of him from the bottom of the ages, down to the bottom of his cunt hole, and it's not a cunt prank that he plays on him in this way, it's the prank of the whole earth against whoever has balls in his cunt. And if you don't get the image -and that's what I hear you saying in a circle, that you don't get the image which is at the bottom of my cunt hole,- it's because you don't know the bottom, not of things, but of my cunt, mine, although since the bottom of the ages you've all been lapping there in a circle as if badmouthing an alienage, plotting an incarnation to death. ge re ghi regheghi geghena e reghena a gegha riri Between the ass and the shirt, between the gism and the under-bet, between the member and the let down, between the membrane and the blade, betweeen the slat and the ceiling, between the sperm and the explosion, 'tween the fishbone and 'tween the slime, between the ass and everyone's seizure of the high-pressure trap of an ejaculation death rattle is neither a point nor a stone burst dead at the foot of a bound nor the severed member of a soul (the soul is no more than an old saw) but the terrifying suspension of a breath of alienation raped, clipped, completely sucked off by all the insolent riff-raff of all the turd-buggered who had no other grub in order to live than to gobble Artaud mômo there, where one can fuck sooner than me and the other get hard higher than me in myself if he has taken care to put his head on the curvature of that bone located between anus and sex, of that hoed bone that I say in the filth of a paradise whose first dupe on earth was not father nor mother who diddled you in this den but I screwed into my madness. And what seized hold of me that I too rolled my life there? ME, NOTHING, nothing. Because I, I am there, I'm there and it is life that rolls its obscene palm there. Ok. And afterward? Afterward? Afterward? The old Artaud is buried in the chimney hole he owes to his cold gum to the day when he was killed! And afterward? Afterward? Afterward! He is this unframed hole that life wanted to frame. Because he is not a hole but a nose that always knew all too well to sniff the wind of the apocalyptic head which they suck on his clenched ass, and that Artaud's ass is good for pimps in Miserere. And you too you have your gum, your right gum buried, god, you too your gum is cold for an infinity of years since you sent me your innate ass to see if I was going to be born at last since the time you were waiting for me while scraping my absentee belly. menendi anenbi embenda tarch inemptle o marchti rombi tarch paiolt a tinemptle orch pendui o patendi a merchit orch torrpch ta urchpt orchpt ta tro taurch campli ko ti aunch a ti aunch aungbli