Even Now

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They broke his fragile back.

They locked him up with a chair and bread and straw.

They called him mad and sick.

They pitied him.

I will meet him still

under bridges, in the empty train station.

He will put his arm around my shoulder.

Towards morning he starts drilling,

shaking my fibres,

until I scream, Artaud, Artaud.

I see the arteries in his temples

no longer throbbing.

Break the belt of impotence.

Crack the shell of infertility.

My dead greyhound, my ravaged tower,

my bleeding, stillborn,

burnt-out man, Antonin Artaud.

We’ve known it now for centuries,

that the moon is dangling by a thread

attached to heaven, hell or nothing at all.

That the thick blue paint of night

is drooping down into the streets

to wrap around you like a deep blue robe

this evening when you head for home,

dawdling ne’er-do-wells, theatre and recital-goers,

nighthawks, people who are alive,

and that the night will soon be washed away

like cheap blue ink from years ago