Wednesday, January 21, 2009

report to the nova express committee: current status of the artaud expedition

Dear Committee Members,

The number seven appeared to me last night in a dream. It was at first discrete, then transformed itself into the third and fourth beings, further clarified into the complex molecules of the second and first beings, as the third and fourth beings disintegrated finally into simple atoms surrounding the obscene mouth of the parasitic zero. The numbers were a premonition. A root struggled into my unconscious. A mechanical rabbit humped the root. The teeth of the rabbit contained funnels wherein eight aortal cavities lay. I could feel roaring blood beating in the aortal halls. I carried a stone in one hand, a bowl of tongues in the other. There were agonized filaments on the walls of the membranes that surrounded me. I knew without looking down at my feet that a soft calendar of flesh waited for me to fall into the slumber of an exhausted dog. I could feel fleas nearby, belting the ears of lilacs. Then I thought of my life, my family, my friends, my menial position as librarian at a provincial school, the small coffin of my apartment. My spine glowed with a bright infection. The bell of terrible metal rang from my throat, as I found myself standing upon a wasted summit. The river I had crossed to reach this summit now overflowed its banks and began teething upon the spur of a glacial jungle. In the sky, the sacrificial moon rose high and the forest writhed like a circle of rats in the ship's dank interior. I heard music, an angelic choir caught in the throes of slaughtering an innocent lamb. I wept as the lamb shifted its eyes under a cowl where blind hands crawled upward toward dominating violins and tyrannizing cellos. The map! I remembered that before my journey into the mountains I had been given a map by a local shaman. He had drawn the map out of his thin chest by making a single violent arm slash. I searched my pockets frantically for this map. Yes, yes! By the light of the river's edge, I held the map upward. It burst into flame. A virulent, cleansing flame. I saw then my path illuminated clearly, the route winding between amazing shapes and forms engaged in violent acrobatics. Men sprouted immense breasts. Women grew terrifying phalli, which they proceeded to suck hungrily deep into their throats. The night was thick and lay about like a funeral shroud. Then the music stopped, a silence rose like a cooling balm. The period of seven gave way to the era of eight and nine combined. Six stars fused to create a magnificent altar upon which the lamb lay in pieces. The fat ran in spitting streams down the altar toward the field where the corn waited the virgin's arrival. The blood steamed in a white cup. Exhausted I collapsed upon a wild grass. My eyes grew heavy. I slept. In the morning I walked ten miles to the nearest village. No one greeted me or looked me in the eye. I paid two pesos to a blind man, who told a young boy to take me to the city. Two days later I found myself in the Hotel Urania. I am writing this letter to you at a desk on a balcony overlooking a fountain. Last night, a whore was murdered in the hotel. This morning groups of men are gathered below, passionately discussing an important soccer match between the two great national teams. The tension is palpable. I fear riots are imminent. In five days I hope to return home. I feel an urgent need to discuss further, and in the greatest detail, what I saw and heard during my brief visit to the mountains.

I remain your humble servant.


The above appeared under the title 'Afterward' in the chapbook Elote King II by Leon Pinon (Luna Bisonte, 2003).

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