Antonin Artaud Theater of Cruelty Or Joie De Vivre Part 3

He was sitting alone in the corner In a little cafe at the painting of Monet And was talking to imaginary friend About thinness opaqueness fear Sensation of heat cold anger despair Cruelty he claimed is the language of reality Not the barren lame poetry with vulgar Metaphors hiding behind empty words Cruelty was the only honest way To open the hidden heavy doors Into suffering human soul and heart And talk about things that matter Through shamanic art of reaching Deep into the guts of true teaching And bringing light to the dark corners That have never been lit before Actors dancing in overpowering way Manikins with terrifying theatrical faces With empty eyes staring at the audience And drilling through their souls Objects of strange proportions Surfacing in a dreamy scenery Of unrecognizable ghostly world Of the modern stage transformed By the means of the theater of cruelty It is the only way to be honest To himself Artaud claimed And believed He was right He sacrificed his life To this idea And died lonely forgotten On the bare floor Next to metal bed That stood at the door He tried to open so hard In a madhouse Where magic of theater Truly belongs