Foul Underpants Stain

Antonin Artaud speaks. It ain't pretty. In fact it’s hair-raising. Is that you Papa Lazarou? I very much suspect so. Hereunder my version of his poem 'Love':

As for love we’ve got to be rid
of that foul underpants stain
drenching the milky way with its load
of the selfish, slacker gene.

The barrel organ grinding the wind
and a raging sea’s head of steam
are all the soundtrack you’ll get behind
its vague, uneasy dream.

Between her and what soul I have left
our love-in’s on the money,
but who, love, is the more deceived?
O fountain of ignominy:

you in whose bed I idly dream
of escaping my own stale air,
abolish with one dice-throw my shame
and make paradise now and here.