poem written in the style of antonin artaud

I must state that I had anticipated the dream - destruction convergence for some time - if in fact I am awake.
But time is that factor which factors only that which it can control; which led me to ignore the saliency of the situation.
Like a fish out of water given the choice of a boiling kettle as a new home.
Or perhaps a hawk told to eat only oranges as rabbits laugh in field.
When do all these questions converge on us?
Have I any say in my commitment to this process?
To what end is my end now ending?
Is it a flanking maneuver which generals of generality insist upon?
The cockroaches crawling across the chessboard strike my attention! 
In protest I screamed at the postman as he walked past my house.
All the problems which become official once written down; as if in the writing a kind of hateful series of thoughts (shall I mail this poem) then becomes written on the tabula rasa of the universe; this then becoming the touchstone of misunderstanding which so many draw last breath upon.
I am weary of all tangible commitments!
When I am long gone I think a fool will try to echo my thoughts.
Do not encourage him: for he is lost and bruised with tripping on his soul.