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Antonin Artaud

The young man held a gun to the head of God

Stick this holy cow

Put the audience in action

Let the slaughtered take a bowThe old man's words, white hot knives

Slicing through warm butter

The butter is the heart

The rancid pealing soulScratch pictures on asylum walls

Broken nails and matchsticks

Hypodermic, hypodermic, hypodermic

Red fixOne man's poison is another mans meat

One man's agony, another mans treat

Artaud living with his neck

Placed firmly in the nooseEyes black with pain

Limbs in cramps, contorted

The theater and its double

The void and the abortedThose Indians wank on his bones

Those Indians wank on his bones

Those Indians wank on his bones

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