Kali Claude Yug Pélieu Express 3

by Pierre Joris · August 25, 2010

Claude Pélieu : KALI YUG EXPRESS

Translated by Mary Beach

(continued…)

HOT LEAD IN THE HEDGE OF STARS

Horizons, arrows, flexible clouds, silent gestures describing the generation that was sitting on the electrified fence, clouds broken by the light breeze, electronic music flattening the wheat, screams poured into the Echo-Death dossier. The primroses and the forget-me-nots have disappeared. Must we tell you that nothing happens just like that, simply? Memories set on fire. Fairyland over Cielo Drive, Highway 1, Route 66, East Side & West Side Highways, New Jersey Turnpike, Spaghetti Junction, and further up SKYLAB, the firmament, and the wind that always chooses silence, like the dead flowers torn from the melodious soil. You can’t survive with someone else’s screams, you can’t survive with the tics and yellow laughter of a generation, you can’t survive with a single ideology or ideas, you can’t survive with a panoply of words, images and sounds.
Back to speed, collage, cut/up, image after image, word for word, sound against sound, a cut/up in the anemic night wrapped in nylon, a poll of false news that fly from mouth to mouth, while silence with a damp cloth wipes away what’s left of the 60s, that’s to say nothing.
Sweet Jane water murmurs and carries comix away, flames follow eyes, and in the wind scattered doodles, in the heart of solitude that advances like an egg in the grey sky — on the back seat of a cloud an angel strums an electric guitar — the wild music germinates around an endless morning.
Horses gallop in alfalfa fields. Blue and green hills hurtle down a silvery trail with white clouds under a black sky. And on the shelf of oblivion Speedway Road, dimly in the rain. The landscape makes its bed in a whirlwind of whispers — under a thin layer of clouds the star studded polygon in the vein tree — solitude smokes in the darkness, lilacs lose themselves. A mint leaf tells me that I’m still alive.

THE
SILENCE
CRACKS
A
DANCER
PLACES
A
KISS
ON
THE
JUKEBOX

Electric Rainbow Hill, 5 am, the purple fog. 5 am, great cold in fire’s deserted
bed. The gold of the rising sun sinks into the pine forest. The frozen pond will be incapable of predicting the future.
The future? Is Today Tomorrow? Ray Johnson wrote this to Ruth Szowie: I
wore my pink wig today? The future? Poetry should be sold like Coca-Cola — the boiling tea steams up the night’s shelter — the purple fog fills my heart. Sinister information, horrible events, light ravages the dying night. Raw winter’s silent spasms, grass flakes on the window panes.
Colors stream, the white cliffs close the march — frost bombards dawn — a parade of trucks shimmer on the highway. Sounds stifled into sandwiches and a few flames straddle the blue spray.
Vitamin C pills address Sweet Williams familiarly. Ann’s here to pick flowers (between two planes) without giving them names.
SKYLAB is saved, the astronauts have returned after 28 days, a spectacular rescue. And during that time the Nixons struggled in the nuclear cramp basin. We chase butterflies, we pick roses, we’re happy in this basket of hair, June’s breezes chew on reality.
Rumors. Vacationed carcasses. Released skeletons. A marmalade of bodies. Allen will be here next week.
Doctor Leary says that the Universe’s perfect, and I think the world’s sordid, to high heaven… we live with or without masks, on the fringe of institutions, and we sometimes speak beside nature, near reality — but, nevertheless we speak a ‘social language’ in the heart of explosions of violence, dominated by our own media, by our own myths, we speak our time, laminated by the most repressive structures. We’re suffocating. It’s ‘this & that’ say some — let’s send them back to back into the old suffocating film — the control machine has become more and more discrete and efficient.
“I’m going to get a tan on your tombs”, murmured James Bond to Dick Tracy and Modesty Blaise, while Tito Vulvo masturbates in the bourgeois columns of The Social Vise.
Our dynamic structures, laden with eternal and alienating values that obsess the sexual proletariat.
Neuron panic.

THE COMPUTER LOST IN THE ELECTRONIC HEART OF AN ENGLISH TIBET

Anguish reinforces the consumer’s vanity which is chemically poisoned.
Evil gadgets, flashes, technological conjuring tricks, etc. Time-eaters come from the School-that-Stinks, and tirelessly repeats the Space Opera, sponsored by a brand of soap. We’re on the fringe of profound debility and we’re in space. We’re committed to nothing, and nothing disengages us. We’re the accelerations of conflict. We get all the messages. We are the MESS-AGE — cattle doze in mud, total spectacle — ‘The Flipped Out In The Middle Of Nowhere’, who will smash our last illusions?
Corny meditations, manipulations, provocations, etc. Robots are using their heads. Flesh cracks. The teeth of our minds are chattering. The rest collapses. It ain’t by chance if the infirm are agitated. It ain’t by chance that there are so many sick violent people. We’re entering the Era of Disappearance. And for those who have atomized their brains there isn’t much left of their cerebral crust not even an Electronic Tibet, all that’s left is a message of flickering pain in the grey film of the daily grind. Memory recall tells us that there is only one life, that there is only one world.
A voice in tears, and beyond the reality of freckles calibrated by Springtime, tell us that the Brain Police has no visions.
A spectacle-landscape in the herbarium is in my heart, the bestiary in my head. Supernatural pink silhouettes and the sounds of water — how to describe the white hot rings that sleep in the river’s bed? — words mustn’t complicate the lives of images.
Robots’ syntax is frozen in heavy metal. Mulberry trees hate thistles. Hills invaded by gorse, by blue-bell lamps, by moon flowers — the thousand wonders of fair weather, voluptuous waves, and the songs sinking into our solitude.
I can’t seem to answer such questions.
A claw against the livid sky. An ageless fog. Someone is going to pull his hair out again. Who wants to have his head on his shoulders? We’re rich in laughter, we should be rich in everything, even dollars.
A collision of all the suns — good and bad news — A secret fire, in my image, the Universe is partying, and there are still people who, with weapons in their hands, etc, etc., — those fluorescent morons haven’t yet understood that life gets its source in the bare lips of space. They’re not the only ones.
The episode Vietnam Parking Lot Blues is over, erased. The snows have melted and wander around alone. Fair weather will persist.
We breath in the center of electric mosaics. The film, will be unpleasant, at times, frightening, unbearable.
Forget-me-not telegrams in the hobo’s pocket, realities stripped by ashes and hazes — pearls flow, drip, explode and mix with butterfly wings — everything lives and relives intently, like the sexy telegrams in the wind’s pocket.

VIA SATELLITE

A star dives into the sky’s fur — who dares to write on my back? — the wrong side of a word? The skin of a sob?
What is there to say? (your applause is taped by death TV, The Big Cosmic Pancake). Yesterday, on the beach, a loud scream, followed by a black flame, announced that night will not submit to neon.
Neon beheading the shadow’s spire — time’s traces die on the screen — THE
SKY’S HOWL.
And just at the corner of night, trees in flames shed their skin, colors breathe,
the moon rips the boisterous silk of a pale sky — we start to drink and smoke, we fall asleep beaming, we awaken sick — ultraviolet in flesh and bones drags neon onto the beach. Rainbows meet just on the corner of night. Shadow and light mosaics.
The landscape makes its bed in the watershed of reality. Music. Savage embraces. Shipwrecks. Clouds are unaware of rumors and clamors, good and bad news, the clouds put to sea. Pine cones explode in the fire, laughter crackles in the chimney.
Day is breaking, turbulent. A world glitters in the cry of a seagull, every subject is rolled by slow waters.
Poetry, worlds and erasures, and on the arm of the sun, in one fell swoop, dawn’s golden mouth.
Instant, reality, comix, Polaroid scenery.

In front of my TVs I open my eyes on what I’ve forgotten since 1970. We’re on the tracks of the Villains of Space. We dream between our walls. We know that there are billions of galaxies in the Universe, and that all the living mechanisms , from the infinitely small to the infinitely large, pass from inanimate to animate. We know that God is the witness to that will. Men created Heaven and Earth.
What are our technical skills?
We are feeble astronomers, and what is left of our good sense remains in suspense, near a planet I used to call NOT TO BE DOUBTED.
Poets are all like their fellow creatures, consumers, dominated by the Brain Police and Sexual Bureaucracy.
Pollution and overpopulation will be stuck in the nuclear cramp basins. For a long time, the password was: NERVOUS DEPRESSION FOREVER. We should be wary of that defect, of disease, of old artistic concepts, of feelings of equality, and properly fix the operation: IT’S ALWAYS SUNDAY.
Polaroid hamburgers over cucumber-cities.
The integral transformation of citizens above suspicion. A pre-selection of ordinary and simple-minded people on the electronic keyboard. The electronic memory of all the televised deaths. Operation FOR MEN WHO ARE MEN — a light touch on social troubles and the psychodramas that ravage the Western paranoid nations — troubles unmaliciously caused by the retarded who haven’t entered the twentieth century emotionally. Operation LET US FINISH OUR DAYS AT EASE.
Equality feelings, the end of prejudice, the abolition of money, fans & pop stars smoke brawn, operation SWEET MAMA — we hold our loved ones dear, don’t we? — We have nerves of steel and the pills that help, our personal objects and instantaneous memories only survive by electronic impulse. Our power (I cannot find another word) doesn’t depend on a minority. Operation SEX DISPLAYED. Under the Florida sky, operation WE’VE GOT CHUTZPAH, and nothing underneath, except for an old sprawling city, unaware of love and hate. A stencil-city saturated with neon, skyscrapers and purple fog. The electronic news on Watermelon Street disappears behind the blond mist that rise from the black streets and along the skyway the headlights of a million cars twinkle. On the side I think that those robots were maybe happy teenagers, high and unthinking. Maybe. Maybe not. It doesn’t matter.
KwammMM! KAPOW! Zonk! Ouch! Zzzziing!
Habit? A murmur? A napkin? A finger-bowl? A pink flesh taxi?
Freak & Funky, inky-dinky parlez-vous… In the purple fog of Metropolis, or in the blue fog of Gun Hill, the last electrified minutes explode one after another… it was yesterday (but what does today mean?), nothing, I guess, absolutely nothing — the global village changes at the speed of light — we’re here, we’re elsewhere, we’re there, we’re not there, we keep silent together.
They talk about Nixon’s genetic characteristics, Kissinger-Folamour & Mao’s chromosome anomalies as well as speed freak Hitler’s as well as the Pentagon and the Kremlin monsters who all came into the world with a pair of abnormal chromosomes. (Like the Villains of Space, like loathsome Beings. And there are many of them. I will introduce you to a few.
The Masked Cucumber, the Venusian Banana, Stinking-Cloud, the Ravaged Nippon, Red Charlotte, the Mad Anti-Semite, the Recycled Wog, Zorba the Schmuck, Hamburger Fart, the Catatonic Hippy, Jew Fart, Jose Bravo, Chopstick Charlie, the Masked lobster, Shit-On-A-Stick, the one-legged Negro, Tinker-toy Papa, the Dumb Structuralism, the Venerable Prick, the poxed Truffle, Johnny Guitar, the Talented Aborigine, the Sophisticated Prole, the Spatial Drawer, the Blue Monkey, the Musical Sleeping-Bag, James Bond, Modesty Blaise, Flesh Gordon, Henry Slap, Lady Punk Queen, the SS in Skirts, the Flying Mama, the Committed Waitress, the Introverted Terrorist, the Shitty Galaxy, the Cosmic Hooker, the Asthmatic Panther, Absolute Gratitude or the Courageous Publisher, the Conclusion Card Shark, Modes Et Travelos, and many others who have crossed the border of ugliness and filled your ashtrays.

Operation CASH FOR TRASH.

TIP OFF THE >CREEP=
OR EAT MY LUNCH CAPTAIN AMERICA
SO WHO OWNS DEATH TV?

Richard Nixon’s cronies are not the heroes of the American conscience. Seen from afar or near those incidents must not recur too often. That’s the opinion of the DICK TRACY TV brain trust.
With the erosion of the dollar, the great counter-revolutionary peace and the Watergate affair, soybean flies away. Bad business for the US that assures 90% of it on the worldwide market. Since then the environmental politics have changed, and only the leftist side of the public believes in the good intentions of one or the other.
Watergate? — a tragedy for Richard Mulhouse Nixon — a catastrophe for the Industrial Military complex. Nixonoids and napalmicans debunked by Congress and the Senate. The future for the republicans is erased for several decades. But is that really a tragedy?
Could it be a scenario imagined by the Villains of Space?
Could it be a bit of science (political) fiction?
Could it be a conspiracy at the service of demoniacal forces of the control powers, of sex and blood?
Could it be the terrorist universe that inspired Televised Death?
Watergate? Could it be a puberty-reaction of Margaret Mitchell’s?
Could it be…
:By God! Kill those Commies! Smash these gooks! Knock out the fags! Fuck the goddamn Blacks!”… We’re on the edge of the precipice.
How can we depopulate the planet?
Can we intervene where the real dangers are shown?
Can we take sides?
Nixon and Brezhnev measure the power of flux and reflux.
A new world. A new peace. A risk to run — a great risk if we dance — businessmen plugged into the dwarfs of space no longer have any visiting cards. You will see them in Palm Beach, on the Champs Elysées and Sunset Strip. You can meet them at Joe Banana’s, at Max’s Kansas City, on Madison Avenue and Withoutjoy Street, you may meet them in the corridors of the Pentagon and the Snow Subway, bump into them here and there, talk to them, touch them, and you’ll notice that they will reveal their scornful audacity.

Operation “LISTEN TO EACH OTHER I AM THE STATE”, or “THE GOSPEL ACCORDING TO YOUR NEIGHBORS”… meanwhile the SKYLAB guys photograph fields of stars, they are expected back tomorrow, Friday afternoon… I think that all this is logical and admirable.
Don’t hang up if you have no collective importance. If you are merely an individual it’s not good form to be listened to.
Watch out! — the Brain Police has read THE GREY AND INVISIBLE GENERATION — operation “MINIMIZE AND SUBDIVIDE…”The agents and dealers of the CIA have also read the invisible generation by inspector Lee of the Nova Police… spy cameras in the video library of the Universe work well. Doctor Leary was the first victim of the MITCHELL-HALDEMAN-DEAN-McCORD-LIDDY & Co. computer … we’ll find them again in the JUKEBOX-TV special edition that has no economic future… thus Nixon takes an additional dimension.
Secret agents, unemployed spies, psychopaths, policemen and agitators prevent the events from being known.
Electronic cameras create a psychological shock that disconcert the voters, ordinary citizens and feeble militants, those cameras erase the sexy message.
STATION ORANGE doesn’t answer anymore.
Super Kool doesn’t have a particular position to defend. Neither does Doctor Strangelove. Sergeant Pepper has taken the Chinese in charge. Captain American is frightened by the cost of operation “WHITE TRASH”, thought up by the members of CREEP. John Dean has promised to tell all next week.
The growth of police power on our planet won’t be interrupted by a new orientation of the US, USSR and Red China, even less by a revolution… there will be no revolution… thinkers and researchers that manipulate nations and masses are liberal, the sexual proletariat, the middle classes and the silent majorities are totalitarian… a few photos, a flash on the screen, turn the page, come in, leave… in eleven years 1984… a new mythology… Apocalypse… John Wayne is surely one of them. And if we don’t watch out we will (consciously or unconsciously) be obliged to obey their suggestions. Children born that day, “the Watergate Generation”, will soon be victims of accidents on the road, legal overdoses and political attacks.
“Hail to anarchy!” cried Senator Cheap. The effect was slimy.
The new way of seeing and hearing has the floor. Now listen to what the Blockade Planet has to say.

The “TRAUMA” team (dissident faction of “Modes Et Travelos”) has infiltrated the sewers of the White House. Jet of infrasonic sperm in the Washington sky. (Dick Gregory writes to Nixon, congratulating him for not having a single Black man in his German Administration.)The President and Perry Mason are going to examine the bi-lateral problems with lasers.
And no flowers for the shit-eating Chinks, Kissinger… you haven’t understood Henry, is that clear?”
“Jawohl, Herr Nixon! Very clear, chief!”
Henry Tinkerer is a flexible person, intelligent, tricky, alert. It’s undeniable…
“Too bad that Bob Dylan and Golda aren’t in on it”, murmured the Medieval Groupie to Modesty Blaise who was distractedly masturbating a catatonic hippie.
“How can we get Doctor Leary out of that shithole?”
“Uh… you know, uh… the tab will be sizable…”

Operation “FLAMBOYANT DEATH” — Nixon and Brezhnev at Camp David, with a few hundred fags in uniform and thousands of call girls in heat — Operation “Salt Peanuts”… Nixon is learning how to use a samovar, after having licked Mao’s twat with chopsticks, nothing could be easier… Brezhnev is impressed, he distributes false passports to all the Jews he bumps into in Disneyland, and Chopstick Charlie becomes a pollster… Pat Nixon smeared with vaginal salve is transferred from one body to the next regardless of American traditions.
Livid Europe (between the pear and the cheese) pursues the hallucinating operation “LETS FLOAT ALONG TOGETHER”.
Since she has been shut in John Mitchell’s gelatin, Martha Muffburger has become schizophrenic. Who wouldn’t be if we take into account what she has been forced to endure. John, Rat-Prick was his false name when he gave the green light to the CREEP conspirators.

The US assures 90% of the views on the science of blood.
Is it some kind of reaction?
“Kill those lousy Commies!”… they’re known, classified, registered… a new world of businessmen in the halls of scorn.
They will, of course be obliged to die.
NEIGHBORS?
IMPERIAL POLICE… Fiction-Police… supplementary dimension of the Nova Police SUBDIVIDED by electronic cameras.
ORANGE ANSWERS STATION STRANGELOVE.
TRASH frightened people a long time ago.
Totalitarian development.
Will surely be obliged to die, like most of the poor children. We’re on the same page.
“Viva TRAUMA!”… a new way of being in the sky… “and no flowers! Is that clear?”… jack-off tab and fictitious name impressing the hallucinating left winger.
Soy and dollars fly away… the villains of space and the nixonoids haven’t changed… Could it be… Sex and Power?… a great risk in dancing — devilish visiting cards — Televised Death reveals its unimportant audaciousness in the middle of those fields of stars. INSPECTOR UNIVERSE’S GOSPEL… From now on Lee will sort out events and sexy messages.
STATION WHITE is to be defended, that’s obvious. Promises to tell all. New orientation. The prolratprick was in on it?
1984… on our guard.
Road accidents.
White-House overdoses.
Legal attacks.
Chinese smiles between the shoulders.
Planet-Blockade has the floor.

Bilateral jets of sperm have you understood me, “Too bad that Bob and Blaise weren’t at Camp David”… “and Leary?”… SALT PEANUTS… Nix-Mao from one body to the other, livid, swallowing my breakfast with chopsticks. An environmental matter, catastrophe, scenario imagined by the force of death. Mitchell started it all.
The Americans watch. We’re on the edge of perhaps…
Brezhnev, a great risk.
One and the other, grey, invisible. They photograph you as you speak.
“So, what about the future for the grey and invisible generation?”
“Rat-Prick won’t change the face of the world…”
Agitators won’t erase my particular position.
Operation “CREEP”, John Dean interrupts me through my pages, we will parachute him into the W. C. Fields= Museum… in eleven years John Wayne will have expired, a victim of his own slimy effects.
Now, listen to the White House.
We’re going to examine Kissinger’s shit. Henry Tinkerer is a flamboyant groupie, “Fashion And Call Girls”… it was a matter of kidnaping extremist leaders and to sequester the clowns of the Democratic Convention “SUCK MIAMI’S TWAT”. Martha, Pat, John and “The Screaming Faggot” on the world market.
TIP OFF THE CREEP AND DON’T BUG ME, HONEY… Milhouse Nixon in the heart of the tragedy. A terrorist universe where silence is essential.
“Smash those gooks! Kill that dirty Black! Twice! Thrice! He’s the one, by God! And he squeals a lot!”
How to depopulate that slimy zone?
A new peace imagined and programmed by the Pentagon runts. They can be heard plugged into the British asshole, operation “DON’T HANG UP, DON’T SHAKE THE COCONUT TREE!”… could anyone take sides!
CIA brain read the other edition.
Hidden camera for the cops.
Super Kool was tough. The cost of the operation? A revolution… a few photos and you obey their suggestions.
The Senator fine-combs the CREEP members into the sewers of Washington. The Chinks eaters of bosses have disguised themselves into catatonic faggots, nuts up to their ears, chewing on little balls of Vietnamese opium. Chopstick Charlie imprisoned since the beginning by the conspirators who put sneezing powder in Nixon’s samovar.
US soybean-erosion, 90% of the sexual affair on the world market. And in full view the Nixonoids make a forced landing on Archibald Cox’s table.
GOD BLESS AMERICA… even John Wayne who’s in the sewers of heaven.
Big Jake, The Duke, an orange shock on the page.
Is it a mistake?
A political-fiction affair?
Blood here and there, is it Pentagon-audacity?
“LISTEN TO YOUR LUCKY STARS…”
“DON’T ADMIT A THING EVER…”
Televised Death in the special edition of SUPER KOOL.
EAT MY LUNCH, TIP OFF THE BRAIN POLICE, LISTEN TO YOUR NEIGHBORS.
A great risk in running. The computer always retains the sexy message. The global village disappears in the green fog ventilated by New York. Sally Harmony vanishes, carried away by a jet of infrasonic sperm.