Kali Claude Yug Pélieu Express 2

Claude Pélieu : KALI YUG EXPRESS

Translated by Mary Beach


And the others? Where are they? They’re stomping somewhere.
Ten years, fifteen years already… everything happens… filmed echoes, morphine, hot bath, I’m raining, and the invisible stains of our generation explode — westerns and technologic counterpoints — a bathtub, an old hotel in Chinatown, a door open or shut… old sneers… North Beach, City Lights, a new world-consciousness, a painful clash, flipped out zazen… a robot can’t recondition himself and flesh refuses to die in the dream’s pocket.
News from the Global Village… Hippyland doesn’t exist anymore. A dim-witted horde of imitators grasps what was written in heaven… like those guys who have never left the country of cheap red wine and checkered handkerchiefs… planetary hicks, Venusian boobs, and now those crazies shoot kids, think for you, and poison the grass that made eyes pop with wonder — we dive into the most distant universe with hallucinogens, our brain, and everyday we draw a map of it, tripping in time and space, and the Life-Poem blooms, people come and go, and limitless powers of speech are carried off by rock ‘n’ roll, ZAPOKALYPSE!!!
Yoga Cut/up, conscience-brain, prosody and bopology, long trajectories. (And, tell me, does any of these things, neither here nor there, have anything to do with the banal stories of drugs? with crime? With the so-called discoveries of the French Underground?)… Hippyland doesn’t exist anymore… the planet’s going to blow up… Ku Klux Klan Kultur is seizing the Universe… and now the sacrament of acid — prisoners leave their ghettos, the sun’s blond guts are in a state of siege — Hippyland doesn’t exist anymore, Woodstock doesn’t exist either, Yippie’s over, diggers crazies and zippies have left, there’s no one on the road, there are no roads anymore, trees march spitting neon, electrified cloud hold hands — how are they going to learn how to live again? With their hearts, with their heads, under the sun, in the wind, how?… void in a ball, a gold-fringed scream in the blue fog, and shadows strip the days that are now counted for us.
I have assembled these notes & tapes at 23 Poets’ Street, today baptized as Gasoline Alley. The arrows of Sagittarius have created light, and shooting stars beg for beautiful tresses.
Cigarette burns explode in empty places.
We were on the road, with millions of eyes, insane dreams molded and rolled visions — the sky rid of its fangs was proud of its freckles — a voice chewed on angelica that the wind and frost had mistreated.
Arrows smeared with honey and Majoun. Arrows shot by the rain passenger, at #23 Poets’ Street, an orange flower-girl who had a boy’s ass — time has blown up my colors, all sails set — time unsheathed that image, this whispering odor-voice, I ENTERED, I LEFT… the ice’s broken, the mirror’s empty, poets bleed on the white keyboard of words — I is finally ME, I shuffled the cards of conceit, and with my foot I reject those thousands of hackneyed, filthy words lying in the dust of Panama City, in the streets of London with the Tantric wave-lengths of consciousness, moving from one end of the earth to another.
Everything happens, all of a sudden things happen, and Willy Lee’s mad laughter falls back onto the dream machine, it’s written in the sky, old words explode at dawn, howling like wolves, a poem digs out vision — dwarfs limp on the screen, fink-computers think for you — we will never pay the tab that we owe the system. Everywhere robots beat, imprison, torture, kill, mutilate, repress, trafficking bodies and souls, brainwashing people. And millions of zombies chuckle, satisfied,  overfed. They chuckle when young people leave the life they never wanted to change. Every day they win a cadaver and are upset if the sick commit the irreparable. Innocent windows inside shooting stars — we descend from water, wind, the sun and Earth, singing along with young light years, we’re alive, we’re breathing, we’ve recovered our health, we’re free, and fairies dance, waves spout  videocassettes setting the sky on fire, lets images speak.


Ted Berrigan

Seven o’clock in the morning, silence’s broken, spatial music and the wind wound green wood.
Zigzags, broken stars, grab-bags, the mauve haze on Beachy Head recalls things to me. The Universe’s a box of Danish Camembert — lights and neons vacillate over parking lots, telling us that wasted time keeps its secrets — a flame follows my gaze, an instant has stolen the far north from the chance-echo. Erased imprints, absences mistreated by pain, dawns saturated by rain.
The smell of meat attacks the Universe.
Nothing can explain that cloud in the sky — sequences and meditations — a music that cries laughs and sends the world off to pee. A white pen scintillates in the green grass, the Japanese cherry trees do nothing but blossom, dew flows, bursts, swallows the hills, and illuminates empty places.
The Musical Hyena has wrapped up Nixon’s rock in a pop-bag, the rest’s thrown in the sinks along with congealed spermatozoid. The others, tragically repeat themselves or imitate.
We’ve seen it all, we no longer want to communicate in the center of that encirclement and with the growing stupidity. The thief’s wink isn’t one of them, the packaging-space is merely a scenic trick to restore logic and morality of work. We should give nothing more to beings or things.
The red dykes cried out:
“Stand up Hamlet! You faggot! The tide’s rising!”
Like seagulls we must digest things together.
Screams — “Death! Death!”, “Styles and Drag Queens!”, “Proles of the world, caress each other!” “Bomb yourselves with excrement!” “Don’t fight for the last crumbs!”, “The Chinese invented trousers!” — in short, you dig their sort, good vibrations, good karma, nice style, a brotherly hand shake, a big smile in the way proles do… “anyone who has an orgasm’s on the right,” or “proles’ assholes are always filthy”, you know their sort, ugly, very ugly… then the poor guy makes fun of himself, we invoke the anxiety of the uprooted man, the crisis of civilization, the alienating silent majorities are caught in brawn, and my ass reflects all the colors of the rainbow.  Zombies love their antipersonnel death-gadgets… after the psychedelic and electronic genocide… zombies and robots, sad suckers of goiters hanging between their legs, at the hour of socio-cultural braziers.
Sometimes, between two airports, everything’s turned into music, the heavens erupt, the setting of shooting stars on fire as well as sexy messages, thanks to neon. The broadcasting of soft & flabby technologies in the videotheque of the Universe — sex-fiction and horrible convulsions — me, I’m dying of laughter and I’m very healthy, in spite of everything, therefore, I’ve won. I’ve returned with a few flipped out chromosomes.
ACTION — ASSAULT PHASE — we’ve cut our hair, our magnetic reading tables are covered with flowers. Not all stories end well, and people don’t often dance in the streets. We’re not always on the sunny side of the street. While waiting to see Malibu Beach & Hollywood again, we have to wander in space-time. Our audio-tapes are the blue prints for survival for 1984. Operation Capture & Multiply,
Operation Wake Up People! The Dream is Over, operation Ah! The Beautiful Classics!… A Flip-Video under the stars, refrigerated jukeboxes, liquid air, heavy & slow water, and a neon-mirror… The bursting of poetic language and written, spoken, drawn and filmed advertisements… sweet hydrangeas and technology, flake-flowers on the windshield, blueish snow like sperm.
They killed what spun around void.
Avalanche-worlds, soft music, and dried sperm, crucified and an emaciated infinity… foamy stars wafting our sleepless nights, colliding with God, between the seen and the heard.
The tongue doesn’t know what to think. Same with me. Ugliness straddles life. Making fun of oneself in the rain while figuring out the lines of the hand of someone else… Boredom furnishes the Universe’s bunker secrets… Eyes, under ice, eat Swedish matches. A sunbeam fan-pubis containing the whole day… worn out snow, inserted vertigo into these blue landscapes, the wind curls and the flowers of the sea pulverize the poet’s insane speech. The marsh-time-table eats from God’s hand. A panorama was the carnivorous accomplice of time. My nerve’s soul tells you to go to hell!…


Sometimes rage dozes on a sheet of water. Death oozes out of your eye. A crooked laugh strokes the mirror — and there’s nothing important that’s worth mentioning, at least not now — I am free, therefore neutral, & you?… The road is ash-colored. The world’s full of questions and answers, & after-diner tricks. Don’t apologize. And never explain yourself… Almond green on white silk… I’m high… a spurt of silence — a flash of shade on the hills, and a few flakes of snow — the sky’s on alert. Pollution has disfigured my landscapes, and you, lovely slaves, inhale it on these spaces bloated with stones… a bird perches on a branch, the greenness of the pine-grove fills the emptiness, a child’s clear gaze casts away its parents’ scowls. At the death of myths flowers survive. Small bites in the margins, little cuts… Oh! The great cultural pregnancy! Hey! Here come the photographers!… the cloudy stream of wonderment, DEATH ECHO FILES… a cold, sour wind flattens the wild grasses that have survived. It was yesterday…
Whirlwinds. Myriads of elves and goblins. The earth thinks it’s completely naked. So we must tell all and reject extreme misery… notes and smoke… images skip rope over the void. A perfectly human silence can serve language, but Spring brings back monsters that have barely left childhood. Immaturity is one of the reactions of expression.
Kapok guts, hamburgers mixed by electric hands, furtive gestures, bloody neon rots on the highway… children gathered cuttlefish, water-drop baubles, turbulent mandalas — the miracle’s red core, and still more awareness, where nothing exists — I step aside, you’re floundering… pure joy in the desert, an image of Big Sur, an image of Cherry Valley, hills covered with flowers, and the photographs develop howling.
The pale sun washes the city walls. Wind-battered stones squeak and recover their speech. I blow my own bubbles because one must scream in front of those doors. An old Christmas tree creaks in the shadow. Sleeping trees are no longer asleep — after silence, rain — it was yesterday … in a bottleneck of bumpers the Blue kid dreamed of tomorrow, perhaps… it was a Frisco rag mimeoed by cocaine crystals… since then I’ve had my share of fun. PARANOIA Warehouse is closed, like the Drugstore of the Sky — an enormous slice of blue dripping with grafts and screams, back-things uttered out loud, each silence possesses the world.
A white sound occupies the landscape and the night club of the Universe.
France in the world is like water in gas, the country of no return, TV-Mescaline, visions, planets, dawn bells, smokes, white whiskey, X-ray bullets, rock ‘n’ roll — I met Toscanini and St. Jerome (a very simple musical conversation) — mauve jukeboxes behind the hedge of dirty laundry, white roses caught with impassible, unmatchable rumors. The wind’s got my tongue.
Indifference is the same all over. An immense collective isolation I won’t complain about. Silence and music are busy. Nothing can  annihilate my personal space. Water flows over comics, with unreadable poetry, pink pornography, with body and soul.  We danced in the center of the mandala, on the toboggan of mad laughter.
So, where are the elements of the announced answer?
I hear Jimi Hendrix he’s a man and a guitar, a rainbow forever — a rainbow-man — Johnny Winter, Janis Joplin in the solar antechamber of Texas… the sun was coming to their mouths… Dead gods and Criminal Industries feed on carrion, fanfares stumble on blood-soaked fields. SATIVA, Heaven’s Candy Store, Sidi Hidi dominates the throng, he contemplates wounded galaxies.
Smoke-filled heads and high seasons mumble, the déjà vu vanishes into thin air, the Universe’s tears are forever linked to laughter’s metal alloys — everything should be in flower, at high volume — pebbles snore and turn towards the light, the coffee is boiling hot, Senior Service, H, the windows are wide open, it’s very cold, a pink sun… DIG IT! DIG IT! DIG IT!, without end… children’s smiles make their way among grey, dirty words like burst tennis balls, real words, fat, stupid & filthy… Children are always dazzled, it’s natural as they are innocent… then, suddenly, they die… cookbooks and newspapers close over them, they swallow a moral pill and land on the banks of adulthood. Like you and me. That’s how we all became idiotic, absolutely! Regularly we watch childhood burn, and no one cares.
Fiction, fiction — the recent literary platitudes and the distribution of wild meat and beef bouillon have proved this for us — FICTION? The Tuberculous Fairy handcuffs our inner eyes, and if I can believe the trace-instants that furnish our lives… now we must go, leave with the Universe’s echoes… barely seen God hangs up, you made a collect call, Buddha is at the end of the line, he shuts up… Moloch Drosera, Kali Yug are listening. And we barely fill the planetary stage with our petty mental garbage.

(to be continued…)

© copyright 2009 by the estates of Claude Pélieu and Mary Beach
All rights reserved.

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