Kali Claude Yug Pélieu Express 10

Claude Pélieu: Early Writing Experiments

Claude Pélieu : KALI YUG EXPRESS

Translated by Mary Beach



X ended up by being tired of being someone else and playing the role of no one. X laughs silently with insects licking every centimeter of fresh blood. X is always after an idea, having no prejudices, more or less maniacal. X controls his gestures, like a bleeding hog in his pink cellophane diver’s suit. X takes sun baths and drinks gin and tonic. In Summer, for strange reasons, Whites detest the color of their skin.
Non verbal communications and social pregnancies — computers and cameras think of you, for you, and, of course liberty of action isn’t for every foreigner — pre-future caught among the financial pages, has already taken off from the technological chessboard that helps our sleep… that those who overflow with love may scratch their armpits… an eco-bucolic saga within everyone’s reach… the last mystics roar quite powerless and peel off their faded disguises — puberty time rings in sexual factories, masses of mutants are carried away by an anti-cyclone of shit, a perverse opera and a universal cunt… each environment contains all information, no matter what the political regime is and the value of money… techniques for sale, ideological manipulations, process-and-produce controls — I don’t divulge these messages for commercial gain…
Then the Mediocre Symphony bursts from sleeping mouths, hiccups, moans, pig grunts, farts, belches… thousands of idiots, stunned, crushed, invalid, deformed, mutilated, paralyzed, ravaged, horribly dead and alive — of course, I would like to talk about something else, say and write poems maybe, they way I used to do… I have just returned, from a rather long trip, a lucid flash back… but again images are consuming me, I don’t give them any time of, thousands every day — those images burst every second, crossing space, jostling beings and things — neon-scissors, ready to cause the universe to burst, an electronic saga that gives you the freedom to interpret it any way at all. A few ambiguities, I agree, but how can we take sides if we want to express ourselves and communicate?… the machine has seized (maybe accidentally) power, the machine controls and destroys everything. A few personalities, totally autonomous are ready to leave this planet forever — the world turns, the global village explodes… typewriters and printers crackle, dance, smoke, hypersensitive, plugged into tape-recorders and TV sets, plunging flabbily into blue and pink horizons — coffee-break, a public menace buzzes, filthy, grotesque beings are guided by remote control to demonstrate — quite an appraisal, abominable hiccups, burned eyes, stoned skulls, massacres, echoes of worlds coughing in the morning fog… screams, prayers, supplications, howls, hymns, speeches, bazaar-prophecies, a thick flow of platitudes and absurdities… sleepless nights cut in half by police shards, spaces invaded by men bent on extermination.
The Summer of platitudes, we would like to be exceptions for skin reasons. Computers take off. Action — operetta-mystics in shit factories — the Opera of commercial ends, process-images of consumption — a smothering saga, rationed universe, zombies surface on the Ocean’s shivery skin… Crazy Whites linger on the screen uninvited… non-verbal erections, a mutant’s anterior existence is mixed up by the TV-chessboard, love, grimace and impotence — we’re in the information mold… impotent poets are turned into cankers and insects, the artificial symphony of the prophecy — things burst under the sex scissors that leave you no way to communicate, I agree… the old swami is penitent because of his Brooklyn accent… scissor-things, plugged into every horizon, tragic demonstrations, worlds cough and melt on the shard-screen… an evangelical reality in the crapper at the Guys & Dolls… I hate the social color… puberty hour rings in the middle of chaotic mists vaporized by the anti-cyclone — sales and controls of sexy messages, images of hell torn apart cross my personal space — you may interpret this any way at all, but don’t come near me, there are already quite a few who were unable to return… you follow me? You know what I mean, human brothers… that all loses balance in pink and blue… abominable menaces, say you — thick flows of conclusions and galactic hiccups.


The final flash will be presented in an underground parking.
We are what we don’t know and what we don’t think.
Shaw said that the most extreme form of censorship was assassination — The Himalaya of calumny or the head of a judge? — Here they don’t rebel, they submit, sleep, live, die, and seagulls devour an old mattress, skeletal neons twinkle, here, no one waits for anyone or anything, they recoil, the arbitrary illuminates the time-interval… I’m alive, I’m writing this book to tell you that I’m alive , and so are you… red and blue vibrations against time’s mirages.
Such and such, this and that.
Reality throws us back onto the sounds of chance.
Computers use our sounds. We flood the resonant structures.
LSD sequence, so as not to cry I decapitate and eviscerate my teddy bear… the sandwichman jacks off … inside/outside break ins… radio Gnome Flip-Flap, a wide door is about to open… we remember tomorrow as if it were yesterday.
Sequence abyss-photo — the simplest things mix with fiction — eroded wild mint, forget-me-nots erased by frost, landscapes and houses of cards, and the spontaneous song of waves, Frisco Bay in filigree as open as a sound… the electric mosaic of Penzance, St-Ives and the Los Angeles airport as open as noises crushing silence.
News terrifies, compromises, news spatters you, you can’t react personally.
I don’t read the newspapers. I don’t touch crowds, I’m indifferent, uncommitted. God insists on silly songs… is that why every weekend is sad? (who wants to drag the sounds of this decade along?)… dancing matinees, distant pasty voices… flakes of men and landscapes, flakes of sex… volumes of unedited jungles… voice-explosions… high flames play on the walls… it’s late, it’s early…what is it?… this is what I see, and now I want to see something else. TV-Ass turns to stone.

A burn resembling a thud.
Dead and stiff on the highway, an old dog was still chewing gum… TV viewers are furious… video… shit-hole… a reunion of town councils, social problems, discussions… well it’s the furthest from my thought, and I don’t think I’m wrong… are you interested in knowing if I worry about refugees and if I consider that — I turn to stone too, and I hold my hands toward the flames that illuminate Uptight City, Dog town and Bottleneck Grove — we want to laugh, laugh to the end of the day with simple words like lightning, laugh about poets’ prison life and commercial trips as prophesied… and, of course, for some, the last word for God — perhaps — anyway, there is nothing tragic in that.
To break the solitude of a mole hole-vision, strident hysteria, collective paranoia, insane grimaces, meaty-horizons, reality’s phony vertigos spit in your faces, and the rats weep with emotion… we wait, we’ll never stop waiting, fire between our shoulders… the canoe of emotion tips over… I swear that it will be colder tomorrow… also, I’ve never seen you!… bubbles hollowing life, and time — stereo world unclenches its teeth, grey death chews on a bubble — I push mine along with a frozen crackle, I travel in the wind’s outside pockets… Electric Zoo… a statue is shattered, an orgy of silence in the debris of time.
The Earth’s spirit marks us with a swift line.
Festivals demolished by death thinking out loud. We’re inside walls and nothing can take our place. West winds don’t know where to put their laughter.


Coca Neon, I’ve got those deep river blues.
Under the sand a tearful rose, “Blue suede shoes, gorrillaman”, and me, outside, outside, that’s to say at 100 km/h, the wind is shooting arrows.
Neon strangles itself.
Flowers died on the mirror — we’re in the wind’s hands — we have no definitive goals and yet there are two small flowers in your eyes that mock the wind’s haystacks.
Transistors, panoramas of consciousness, echo dust of the whole world, silent sparks green wood tortures your desires. In full sunlight, lying on colors, splashing the mirror, neon strangles itself. Violates silence and flees like a torpedo, a gust of Cornflakes smothers the sleepless night.

Neon-Gallows — scarlet cassettes cross the screen — thousands of tears overflow with the light, mouths palpitate like comic strips, a light voice made of milk and honey moves stones and color-sounds… the sun sat on a dolmen… compasses drown, and I’m dazzled, and I say to myself it’s still yesterday — silence axes clocks, and fear harnessed to night bleeds a false note.
A glance on the bloody gloves of the Birdman, the planet’s sexual fear is on the side of the political horror.
TV-Pork Chop, the breach is stained with dried brains — we’re innocent — the fire’s wrecked, the wind carries away our secret tears. TV closes its wings on the wild flowers.
The Death Of The Great Spirit — poetry that must be, that is, that will be anything at all, and more, anybody in the singular/plural, a cabin in the sky… A century has gone by between our legs, in a tube of black light… the automatic pilot comes out of himself, and images scale someone else’s consciousness.
Some visitor, some message.
Fuck the world! FUCK THE WORLD NOW! This is your last chance…
The sun revolves around a sad song — spray turns toxic behind that curtain of trees, the wind howls in the streets on fire… marsh-words, wounded bodies, separated from their souls… the heavens filled with screams, white rumors of apocalypse, and the wind dashes onto the rocks — the sea stirs its colors, the horizon’s floating — those who predict stink, look!… a seagull’s huge cry startles the photographer.
Coca Neon Polaroid Rainbow — the quivering moaning flesh of the rain forest moves people like a dog run over on the universe’s dance floor — the hills sparkle,
“Blue Grass”, rain has washed it all, the tide’s ebbing, wind’s rising — what happened? Nothing… nothing, no… really nothing… God has taken the habit of masturbating… here the threat of all writing, literature, a hideous effort, awful sadness, feeble magic — the landscape is a brazier, an echo of every language, and this continent is inhaled like a huge sob, chance lands on the back of a hand… bits of words… the sky trembles as soon as death plays with life, and in the dark flames bend like wild flowers, aware of what is happening to them, weren’t able, like me,
to think themselves dead.
Dawn is publishing this special edition, and we spend our time sorting out bits of words.
Nerves torn by neon I’ll have you know that smoke runs over this page.
What is deep in your eyes?
Nothing. I know it. I’ve received too many people influenced by fear.
Invisible tattoos, punches swollen with blood — it was the end of life — NEON WILL CRACK!!!

I see Warhol again caught between a yellow ticket and a fore-runner sign, like a blood clot… this world is empty sometimes, and popcorn sings, the deaf have no modesty… water’s sound flowing among fluorescent flowers, red lights drowned in ginger ale, and silver clouds — art gives you a little kick, new art IS big business, just remember that, look at Marilyn, an icon, in the firmament, lost, rolled around by mandibles made of Hollywood foam — Marilyn wanted to see the colors of her lips, and now in the video-recording sky the mourning of a smile…
A triple murder, a few rumors, a distressing suicide, two drowning on Fire Island… I hang on to the wind… false news licks the black and blue sky… the universe floats planting its pastel dyes on the reef-highway — rainy tickets exchanged for this discolored world — ten a.m., a flesh taxi explodes… the wind barred like a check by lightning and rain howling in the empty streets…
Brain Police! Zipper Puke! Coca Neon! The Next Flush!… a grenade of vitamins on the wrong side of media video spaces — the smell of snow dies out on a stone, mountains derail, and me and me and me… directed towards charm, horror, from silence to silence with the flowers.
It’s not by chance that starving glances turn into snow. Night is waning — cinema-verite of another age — a new kind of toothpaste, an electric banana, isolated tears are reborn in a dream.
The fire is dying — the bottles are empty — the cats don’t recognize each other anymore, and that music announces something new, tempest of flowers…
The wind mistreats the head metal. Behind bars the soul starts a hunger strike — We might say to God: I don’t love you, I prefer you — winter vacations for the shadow sounds… we’re safe and sound, we find ourselves again in the ogive-skulls of launching pads, with passing reflections, lamp-stars, silken images… what are the stakes of your death?
Morning Song, morning evening, thanks again home-galaxy… snow inhaling all the colors of illuminated journals… nights ravaged by frost, indelible dialogues of rain and fair weather — and me, in a forest of sounds and images, popcorn & spastic bananas… the universe is a fried egg — dead birds carry the last echoes away.
Every day the dead idea kills real life, bubbles dominate actuality, flux and reflux — they’re repainting trash cans of history at minimum, they swallow the sky’s jacks.

What to do this morning?
Cut some wood, roll a few cigarettes, refuse to be wrong, to be right, not to be bored stiff, jump into a plane.
What can we do in a bread crumb sky?

The flowers are breaking apart. Eyes full of love vanish without crying to be careful. Landscape-faces in American colors — when all goes well tomorrow daylight will come — bachelor sun digs forever, we settle down in heaven very quickly… are those people stretched out on cold metal doomed?… see, a forgetful Ocean, savage, realistic, sweeps away the vanity of chatter… there are very few words capable of resisting the powerful vacuum of chit chat… we absorb ourselves freely as we plant our laughter on the window panes. Musical comedy of the elusive Belle Époque. Instinctively we go towards the meaning of revolt — we’re abandoned, our backs to the wall, we went by too fast, without realizing that the air and foam circulate with intrepid travelers… well, it’s not the right time to hit on my marshmallow… there’s nothing to say, we’re in front of the Sperm Bank, a zest of a grimace occupies the world.
Beauty institutions are on fire.
And you, pygmies, arrive too late, with old addresses and bad vibrations.
Cameras rush into the darkness and give themselves to computers.
Lovely off-handedness taking the word to throw shit at the media allowing the green planet’s colors to escape.
The war industry and techno structures of violence spit a bit of vomit — to be continued is the password of every author at the same publisher’s place — later a rainbow of me so as not to live in a whisper, one dies howling and drinking ink… death is our business, and business is good… do you hear, you wild civilized creeps, a vision has no opinions… you will never be poets — sound-effect children, phosphorescent wrinkles — the Cartesian ectoplasm has gone by, the man without a country has shit in his pants, ex-nihil cleaner than a drop of napalm… superjerks enter the fifth dimension… robots gesticulate in neon reflections… airports surrounded by darkness… people always live hanging onto death.
We’re here, nowhere at the boiling point, at their rope’s end, we’re bursting for the greater good of a piranha humanity… We’re here, in streets that used to be full of people we don’t mention them anymore… we split in neons and we’re stronger than Xerox and IBM, but we can’t store the flood of information manipulated by the hideous jaws of reality.
Snow buries silence.
Diagram Planet, photo sphere. In heaven trees stroll around and the rain sings, laden with shadows — the sun rises over a pile of dirty laundry, a fibrous break goes out with a bit of time — a flowers covers the screen, death buzzes and makes language inarticulate… we vanish leaving no traces… the fauna of space vaporizes lethal gases. Imagination shits in a strangely true note. Cavemen militants flip out. They were unable to break the barriers of the head with sexy grass. There are some revolts that are allowed and you mouth waters. Hare Krishna Scumbags!… Shut up! You’re not even in the furthest universes of the brain… memories speak more softly… robots and diskjockeys don’t remember in the same way… a fluorescent index searches through a lapping of muscles… the third eye, and one out of three adults in England has no more teeth — a paranoid crackling, hysteria, evil lighting — we’re on board the Sperm ship, images scream in the dark, crammed into a grenade of rain.
A scream tears the earth apart, broken images, death recoils. A scream and the blue monkey penetrates another body, engraving the word illness on the end of a blackened spoon. A scream, rush hour of the hero-ember agony, and a sad song stuck onto the shadows… Memphis Blues, Sweet Jane in the bayous of Louisiana — an ancient voice bitten by the fruits of insomnia — twilight, a branchless night crushes the cliffs of flesh, an explosion full of frost, and dawn once again… icebergs changed into hands, telephones lost at sea… Hamburger planet cracks and breaks the windows — neon waves its black flag — my hurricane-lamp looks nice… I’m here, I was there, elsewhere nowhere… Maryland, New York, Los Angeles, San Fran, London, Paris, who cares?… infinity doesn’t cause death to overflow.

Fear, drifting, fresh paint on the fat balls of actuality… via satellite in the golden dawn vandalized by a generation of piranhas who have taken on a hip air to excuse themselves… the magic conception of a given world, in spite of everything, seems to win over the scientific conception of criminals who crowd this planet — everything is obviously dumb — the myth of the machine, metaphysical dimensions, managed societies, ideological services, avant-garde art etc… chicken shit submerges innocence… deprostrated poeticiens speak to us of primitive mentality, socialism, wild thoughts, the infinite trash… robots and the fuzz are at our service day and night… total war, racial, religious, planetary… psychedelic genocide, ecological genocide, electronic genocide — we may be the only ones who don’t want to impose another way of life on others, let’s leave that business to the baboons of the Fourth Dimension… worlds will be neither better nor worse, but surely different, livable… there is no words to describe those bewitching spells…
Infraction-life, boa-desire, laughter, grab bags.. We’ve seen the sun’s flowers… God sips the spinal fluid of His electors in the videos of the Universe — we’re here, where we can breathe, inside and outside — we’re here nowhere overall the landscapes, electrified thistles sign the light.
It was through icy knives of the Lower East Side, and we made the flowers dance — Death TV’s antennae sucked the sky — conscience/comet and a sexy message on the arm of a shooting star… the wind made the lines in a hand… dawn, dead-water, rain, old photos splash the clouds, those dawn drowned people.
So well so that earth blue and scarlet silence — skipping words so well that so that — tension on every air-wave, screen-dog, SOS OD, Billy the Moccasin and Long John Silver killed an Indian for Nixon… a vaudeville of mouths and micro-taxis… chipped peninsula, wog neon, poisoned antennae and electric Camembert… laughter is reality, touristic comic strips, bites, Vietnamese streets of the planetary suburb, mad men and amnesiac bananas, cold brings a dead image back to you… a rainbow in that flesh store… events ending up in catastrophe, made into an image by the pancake-landscape — ossuary-sauna tattooed by rain.
God has no lips, snow is always dirty… barricades of words, hot fudge sundaes, balls with a view of the mother — have I been heard clearly? — hallucinatory images will bear the skin of beautiful language — here’s the man who is astonished by silence… images ambushed in sewers, equinoxes of filth, a tidal wave of shit, super-jacked off cucumbers, candid cannibals gorged with effort… one day God created Switzerland, then Belgium, you know the rest… had to allow us to exist — the sun’s prick bashed in the window, the psychedelic melon made its entrance into the universe, Hare Krishna, knot-head!…
Well, I do remember a quick trip in France… discovering the sweat of the 60s, erected into a cultural spire, popcorn underground, cream tarts, imported dropouts… “You’ll see when you grow up”, well, now we’re grown up… have you seen something? Or someone?… amoebas howl with joy… Old Westerns and songs, sexual doodling, odor-plan… scissor-waves spit fire — what misery! — death is crouched motionless in the middle of shit…1 Let’s allow the dibbuks invade our souls… visions, puzzles, vacations… not to mince our words… the Tierce of the century, the Festival of Squares… that’s how we sacrifices certain principles profiting efficiency… ecological activity in crappers — who succumbs to charm these days?… The Universe loses weight, colors devour LP-smiles — a little sun on the sand, a few commas to displace, a coded message, a good contact, and the war is over…

Life is empty.
The street is empty.
Odor-show. Socio-bah!… photos drowned in time’s lightshows… life’s a street, life’s death-odor, Zodiac Punk… a corolla-mouth, and a hideous voice on the night-road imitating a real noise, bossa nada, bamba mambo… On the back of the ocean snow sings, a block of live flesh sodomizes the window of language — a wild cat growls on the edge of the path — an unreal scream jostles the airwaves. And once again void makes a paragraph.
Wrinkles and foreskins on the calendar — we made this night — militants enter on all fours into the crappers of history grunting like pigs.
I put all that on the tab poetry owes me, nana scratch, stupidity, simile-mourner, show and gut, an ideological hangover, throngs molded into the spectacle — alarm-man evicted from heaven, the voids of a cold summer still ring — a savage cry swallows heather… media-visions, ageless suburbs… I fall asleep on the tracings of every landscape.
The roses survives the first frost. Grass trembles on the top of the hill, with cradle-clouds. Disemboweled dawn, dynamo-sex, the immensity of it changes skin — and you, dealers of changes of life — rain strolls around crushing a generation, the other one… cramps puking a little green smoke over Heathrow Airport… the jumbo jet takes off… London-NY non-stop… the control tower vacillates… the jet disappears in the blue night.
Snow, crystal, elastic islands. Whiskey, cigarettes, old Westerns… wind and dust carry the javelins away and millions of stars escape over New York City… silence’s velvet back… a stolen instant puts on an air of passing-time, light beats us up.


Space, listening post, blue song, an ever-missed meeting, drunkenness. The bursting of myriad skulls. The great shudder drinks something other than water. Pebbles throw themselves into the sea — blackened cliffs, stars and missiles like us submitting to inferior values — the West winds decapitate sand to defend themselves, and muscles with a bone base cut the skin-linen.
Masters and slaves, assholes at half north/south, never east/west, excluded with patriotic passions and season mourners… the cosmic underworld seizes the Grimace Galaxy… sparks put on their seven league boots, speed exploits their findings, nerves are happy to flee, pricks pointing forward.
Flakes of fear, fear hemorrhages — screens crackle, a collision of pink waves, giant dominos cross the field of echo-claws — minarets, merry-go-rounds, decals, geysers of laughter-light, gobbledy gook-Wog, erasures, we’re on the chain hi-fi of eternity. And it’s electrified!… televised wind blows from the Great Wall of China… wrinkled jungles… morning dew seduces a cargo of buckwheat… by the way, tell me, are you at ease with people who know what they want? (Those whose ideas never change)… I’m in the Arab-echo of the motionless village — I hear the sea — the moon crosses outside the crosswalk, fire on snow works unawares, crazy blacks cry: Shake the Pumpkin, Baby! Shake! Shake!… Today’s already yesterday, and the beat goes on, the beat goes on and on!… megafuck! Shit! Groovy!… shake! Shake! SHAKE!…
So there —a movement of the crowd, an attack, an electoral season, a few troubles here and there, subjects we absolutely don’t want to talk about, the end or the beginning of a war, for example the ugliness of the IRA or Vietnam, booby trapped letters, the taking of hostages, the bursts of machine guns and the bombs… all that’s unimportant, all that didn’t make the history of a Spring… and yet the facts, but what facts?… no one will have excuses for your freedom, your indifference, those facts have excluded us from history, and we throw ourselves into the pre-future, and you sit there on your asses, bloated with mediocrity. Barricades of cucumbers where heroes die, ruminating on their foreskins — signals of a little smoke here and there, they claim that there isn’t enough nature for everyone… and the sexual proletariat unclogs into murmured time… fire tears the blue jungles, televised news doesn’t tell you anything at all, disease spreads over the global village… no illusions when words are concerned, you’ll continue to write, write to each other, without crying out, in French superwog negotiations, like pygmies, well it ain’t my affair… all is unwinding, and so much the better… it’s all turning into slobber, into rancid come, and colors shit language — sometimes the wind eats thunder, its song possesses all that it represents. Reality moves or it doesn’t move. A mentholated shock, a draft of air — silence refuses to nourish the survivors, the murmur of the morning dew lives truth like a passion, the rest is unimportant…
For a long time silence has left the desperate and stupid tropical slowness. We’re illuminated from inside. We’re plowing fields of waves. Shoulder and casting away those who refuse to freeze in the veins of someone else, quickly, a drama with nothing and no one, where we can hear the colors… Full Tilt Boogie… Your censorship has had no effect, it will never clear the silence that lives in us — Factual comic strips and video lines against pathology and politics, against cultural narks… all that will only last an instant op-op frozen, congealed — audiovisual solitude, a green glint cuts into the sky, a great white streak of lightning, and the film unrolls — the studio explodes, then all the lights go out… three or four dimensions to mix people up… a sound of water in the pipes of time.
The swami has vomited his hamburger that he’d eaten the day before, on the sly.
Sexy messages at auction on TV-ass. Porn photos pinned onto every lip.
Belotte players disappear with strands of red hot iron and blue waves in front of the Sky Bank.
A diffused message in every language: we’ll be free when we’ll be rich, rich and free, free and rich, we’ll be rich when we’re free, free and rich…
Violated neon… the wind’s knives puke your howls, starving brain techniques by the city-sounds… Riots in the tubes of time.
Transistorized nipples, imagery-bodies, trembling the waves disperse — death live on the screen, North Carolina collage — crazy Blacks jack off furiously onto the windshield… empty clothing abandoned… even the headlines of daily newspapers have lost their power, no one was able to do away with violence… soon the milkman will deliver the paper in a cassette, and the big green snake will play the flute — the televised flash breaks down every barrier, we’re born with commercials and comic strips — and sometimes the shadow of indifference is like the rain, a huge fist.
(to be continued…)

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