Kali Claude Yug Pélieu Express 6

Claude Pélieu at 10

Claude Pélieu : KALI YUG EXPRESS

Translated by Mary Beach




I had noted: Nixon spreads skag shit bugs VD & Death, the great news headlines slip along endlessly.
Toboggan-Archive, an echo-photo of another world. This morning the dew liked to bite. Supreme Cosmos sauce… I listen to the propellers riddle my silence.  A mauve sun devours what is left of my sky.
Forests speak that language.
(You don’t go from love to tenderness like that, wind is needed. Especially when roses threaten the stars and want to swallow the Ocean)… pearls dance in cats’ eyes… rain is never careful, it’s no longer in the sky, the moon descends on her silent track.
A few tatters of light play on the walls. Birds defy the hurricane.
(We saw you behind an electric guitar, with an intelligible variable sound). In spurts the coffee pot moans.
Another blue plane high up in the sky.
A blood clot darkens the Ocean.
Faded flowers in the fireplace.
Cymbals, gongs, tambourines.
Twilight’s redness teases the white grass. God is after the slightest information. Traces of winter have remained in the transistors of innocence. A finger of shadows in the grass. Guerilla warfare of nerves and charms.
Somewhat arbitrarily we live in the resonances of yesterday. The dead let themselves be buggered in silence, in front of the mirror, or in an invisible trunk… the others, who keep cool, simper and chatter, charming in their little flowered dresses. Nothing is revolutionized anymore. Radioactive rain falls gently. I have contemplated the stars for a long time, breathing the odor of wild mint, raspberries and strawberries. Owls have settled in the trees around the pond. Wild cats growl on the edge of the path. The forest’s shadow transmits lovely chords — The end of the War of the Roses, a few traces under old stones — worlds unwind, continents collide. An upholsterer’s tack in the planet’s heart. And the wind puts these events in storage… The man from the North lights up in space and time… we express ourselves miraculously, we’re here, with programmed death… no Russian, American or Chinese version, only the livable and unlivable exist… it’s clear and easy to chose… there is only one vision that is opposed to the manipulations of the media. Enemy voices consume as much as we do — we blossom in ossuary-pits — so? To heal the burn, in a showered neon lights, stars and sperm. The brain’s beak is rusty, rotten, things end in cowardly laughter, on the shaky stairway of thought, and I still hear that laughter seizing the ashes of Janis Joplin, Neal Cassidy, Jimi Hendrix, Brian Jones and Jim Morrison… black cold is a great block of colors… the landscape can still change, as well as the whole planet and all of life.
The streams are frozen.
Magicians advance across the fields. There will never be enough music or silence.
No gross simplification. We express ourselves. We communicate so as to better understand our environments and our personal spaces. Often, we don’t know what to do with our freedoms and our powers. If all our subversive or nihilistic action…. the violence of robots and hamburger-beings is responsible for all that… it isn’t by chance that their rages are concentrated on Doctor Leary and pot smokers. Empty streets still pretend to believe in reality… vomit of dirty hands used to bear arms… wind is perhaps the pivot of the plot of all the colors, the televised colors of the global village decapitate every ideology. You will find none of that in either newspapers or books.
Doing nothing, the achievement of all poetry — the sky crackles in children’s eyes — surely you=re not going to live on the finger prints of a generation?
Speech is a green banana, penetrated like a dog on the head cheese canape. Anxious, unstable men manipulate God’s toys… it’s hard to be dead, and it never ends… but it’s difficult indeed to live… the Enchanter has gone by… the electrified verb is in the jukebox.
A pure love contract explodes. Native erections in the Bayous. The trees moved last night, and I saw an eye drown in chewing gum… wood, whiter than snow, crackles in the fireplace, shadows hanging onto distant voices, above phallic peninsulas, a draft of air in the silent majority’s fat ass… your eyes are spattered with mouths glued onto napalm, the Magician guides the tide of black stars.
The White God turns bodies into walls, streets into dumps, and starving seagulls devour Black heavens and the silent traces of these millennia. The airport was empty. A few white roses abandoned on a cart. Men are dozing in the bar. Insomnia wrecks the last words of a landscape that will never breathe again. The  hairs of silence have nothing more to say.

The four veins of the Atlantic have been bled. The Pacific has shaken the sheets of adventure. Motors sleep between the thighs of girls and boys.
Catatonic neon freezes in the middle of that mandala. Blood fluids buried itself in the chimney.
I’m absorbed by doing nothing.
Love given up, civilized hatred… where are you, beautiful children?… God’s madmen are a few heads taller than you, Walden may be at  your heart’s gate but morning glory seeds haven’t extinguished the fires of summer. As the days go by blood’s song rises to the sky, the wind’s mouth swallows the come of computers, all the colors of the rainbow die on the windshield.
Never forget that walls are greedy like the sounds that circulate in the streets of the world. The sun’s flowers stammer and stutter.
TV-Philter, specters, everything is related to table-tennis. Sociologist-sewer cleaners predict the future. We meditate, we play with ourselves, we climb trees, we bark, we babble, we absorb a smile that never leaves us, and we brandish our forks. Today I don’t know the positions of the stars (but, instinctively, I know that the weather will be fine), I contemplate a livable horizon (I know that we won’t all escape violence or injustice), much information broadcast on TV in color floods our brains. Feeling-wise we may be the most poorly equipped of all the animals. Electric and chemical energy program our gestures and our thoughts.


A hideous crowd is moving forward. Thousand of beings are dragging themselves on their asses. The crowd is panhandling souls. Descent into hell… (at times I fume, I flip out, I do foolish things, and it chagrins me)… the drums of memory don’t beat anymore for dead souls, naked souls invent simple music, very inspirational… an arrow carries our tears away. Tonight the trees are weeping. Language mixes up every expression. Your domain like mine is made up of scraps, and I am obliged to use some kind of punctuation, a strict order from my publisher and his henchmen… curdled blood on the windowpane, snots, spatterings of brains, blue and white roses… a dawn ceremony.
We’ll eventually see what they’ll say in the transparencies. Silence caresses their sexual stumps.
The world has taken on a disquieting meaning. God has made a success of it. Heaven thanks you. Souls throw themselves onto Madison Avenue’s psychedelic frying pan. Neon is budding, pukes, Times Square, Piccadilly Circus, The Golden Gate Bridge, Big Sur, and the film unreels… (of course, robots and controllers have their reasons that are beyond our comprehension, do you jerks know what’s going on right before your eyes, backstage? No. Well, of course, you’re fools. Don’t ask the  Biological Crusher Woman nor the Dialectic Slime. Only wild flowers have answers to everything)… Am I here? Surrounded by filthy beings from another planet and the entrails of the earth, man-fiber!… fourteen years, that’s what’s left after the experts, after me, nothing but a desert!… I’m here, a flipped out Spirou, dawn’s saw teeth pull me out of my sleep.

Juju spied the sexy message and forestalled the massage, a vibrant erection in the warmth of the early morning. Ixca grabbed Juju’s prick and sucked it. Juju held Ixca’s head in his hands, stuffing his fingers into his ears… Peter was jacking off in front of the mirror groaning… Juju pushed deeper in Ixca’s mouth, hit his throat, came violently, shaken by the light. A stream of come flowed from Ixca’s nostrils, like lava. The sexy message bombarded thought. In the heart of a sexual jungle, in unknown territory, the invasion of the limbs-anus-vagina-tongue-fingers-mouths machines — the wind shrieked obscenities to the phallic radars that bordered the highway — the massacre of chromosomes on Cielo Drive, a horrible sexual spectacle, parano-schizo… tele-info and cultural animation… a horse-hair glove bristling with electric needles ransacks the old faggot’s ass… carnivorous lotus flowers… the din overshadows and floods reality, phantoms and specters on the move, tele-manipulation by demons — that is how politics quickly turn into a bloody, absurd, unholy mess — a jet of sperm spatters the maps at headquarters… the Head of State takes off his trousers and his briefs… a short cock, knotty, huge flabby balls covered with red hairs… that unbelievable prick vanished between the thighs of the matron of the Soviet Pentagon — we are now in a drugstore on 14th St., a dark-skinned Hispanic crowd… a young Porto Rican unbuckles his belt, a customer smiles stupidly and expertly slicks the young man’s eyebrows… people come and go… the customer slips a nicotine-stained finger into the zipper, the young man was wearing no underwear… the customer manipulates the minuscule sex — an odor of hamburgers and brilliantine mixes with the innocent games of the streets of New York blessed by neon lights — Sperm Hotel on 23rd St… a Black man pushes his cock into the sheath of a young man from Montana, as blond as a nordic ruin… a phony copy of James Dean is immobilized over the bed — The Black man fucks like a madman, the boy ejaculates, groaning, on the bedspread… Tijuana, a sperm transfusion in a Mexican clinic… ignoble dealing in front of the Sperm Bank — junkies selling their blood… the tragedy is described by a thousand different sounds made by men on the city walls and in the subway — diverse and monstrous noises, shocks, murders, rapes, aggressions, scarves of slimy fog caressing the effeminate adolescents… Exhausted by the New York heat, naked on his bed, Ray was leafing through Silver Surfer. Juju and Ixca played cards and smoked. Juju put his hand on Ixca’s rigid sex. Ida and Hermione were taking a shower… groans of pleasure and purring could be heard from the air conditioning vent… Juju smiled, swallowing his smoke. Ixca knelt and buried his head between Juju’s thighs, moistening Juju’s gland with saliva, then he lay down and Juju penetrated him — a vague erection bothered me for a moment, then I fell asleep — Ida and Hermione, naked on the bed, smoking, whispering, giggling… on the tape-machine Little Pointed Head was playing… Hermione was massaging my cock and my balls, I could hear Juju and Ixca moaning… I had a hardon… my prick vibrated under Ida’s cool fingers… Ida licked my balls and plunged her tongue into my ass — Hermione rose like a balloon and squashed her pussy on my mouth, Ida sucked me — a silvery robot burst into the room… a black hood covered his head, a silvery robot shining in the dim light with thin stripes of pink neon surrounding his transitory, abnormally luscious under his electric flesh… Ida manipulated the neon zipper and pulled out his genitals… a complex assemblage of wires and welds ran from the extremity of his penis at the base of his sky-blue kapok balls that disappeared in the metallic carcass — epidermic reactions in the jukebox at the Electric Circus. With Maria Sativa we lead the robot to Allen’s home in the country — Peter and John destroyed all his batteries and his electronic brain when they had the wild idea of putting a broom stick up his ass.
Very early in the morning, Allen and I went to bathe in the pond, on the edge of the forest of charms. We could talk quietly as we swam. Gregory and Ray Bremser were stretched out under a magnificent maple tree, they squabbled and shouted. Miles, in the middle of his electronic equipment, taped and classified fifteen years of oral poetry and bop prosody… Peter was in the bathroom with his pig that he washed three times a day… with Allen and Mary we crossed the fields, crushing wild strawberries, and at night sitting on the top of the hill, we watched the fireflies and the stars.
Allen, fucking a sacred cow, Peter impaled on a stoned shaddu’s prick, Uncle Fudge tracking the young mothers to milk them savagely — elsewhere some extremists of every sort tried to grasp a wavering power — the wounded robot stroked his sex, and managed, just the same, thanks to an emergency radar to get sodomized by about fifty Hells Angels, while John put on his evening gown, stuck an eggplant up his ass… Gregory, sick, drunk, ranted about the misdemeanors of Jewish homosexuality — Back in New York, the Sperm Hotel… evening papers were strewn all over the sidewalks, old Black winos begged — a young ephebe was having his nipples pierced, turquoise rings were placed on them — boys and girls copulated in the swimming pool… Harry, the Magician exhibited himself for the first time in twenty years… women fled screaming — sexual ricochets on the blue screen hanging above the pool at the YMCA… An electronic Raga, Mantra, the gongs of violence were quiet — back in Big Sur, at a star’s house… Sally and Sinbad were fucking, Ixca and Juju were endlessly assfucking, mouths, twats, asses, pricks, that Norman filmed, vibrators hanging off shoulders — night highway and myriads of erections… Allen straddled a monstrous dong, flying over Tangier, Bill Grey chased Arab faggots brandishing his smoking P.38… pornographic pink pages on the highway… neon saw beautiful landscapes transfigured, but the angels barked in the sky, the angels aren’t happy, and this will drag many beings on the path to death, we must send a registered letter to God, right away… dawn in mourning the wind mentions — water dreams as it shoulders the clouds, God jumps out of bed, slips into his cloud-skin briefs, bursts out laughing and has fun — English twilight always drags an old address along.
DEATH ECHO FILES, TAPE YOUR OWN DEATH TV — hi guys! A salute to you, Neal! Good day Kerouac! Hello Ed! Tom Clark! Ted Berrigan! John Wieners! Hi Brautigan! Giorno! Tom Vetch! Gary Snyder! Goodnight Tom Wolfe! Goodnight McClure! Hello Richard Fariña! — echoes and sprays, clouds broken by winters’ double-bass — cold’s eye has gone mad, memory’s cotton burns — Land’s End, The Last Frontier, Big Sur’s fabulous wind and the Great Plains bring us a few rumors, night flowers eat under water.
Fire dances with white birches. Broken moons weep for Fire-Satan. Moloch’s hideous face weighs anchor in the polyester and aluminum streets. Vertical and static cities have signed their death sentences. Blond mist hangs onto sand — High tide digs up the secrets of men — the Planet no longer juggles with the stars.


Julio Navarro invert your field of gravity, top secret”… we sniff danger from a distance. Psycho-explosion, operation SUCK, and sparks spurt from our fingers.
WUUUuuuu! Whup! WrrrRRRoooOOOO! Phut! Thock!
The forces of evil go wild. Signal and posters all over the place : “Mason-Nixon Line”, “Amor Club Buncha Fags”, “No Blacks allowed”… I feel that something is wrong… with the doses we’ve ingested we can never remain on this planet…  submerged by three billion Wogs, asphyxiated your own garbage and our cataracts of words and images.
Splat! Szatatt! Yech! Kapow!… an electric sign, “Fuck the Pope! Central Office Building”, Izzy Michel and Ziggy Stardust hiccupped… Thwipp!… a comet is needed to catch up with those yo-yos.
The bomb will explode in a few seconds, and the world will know that we are the most powerful team of transvestites of all times. Obviously the thing is more serious than predicted. But we insist on doing our job, and it won’t be a smell of apocalypse that will stop us… we find ourselves in front of a bay window with walking cadavers, Izzy Michel still has the strength to weep and play the clown. Modesty Blaise, wants to be toyed with by an extraterrestrial above all. How can we go through these walls?… it will be necessary to kill time’s shadow… Izzy Michel was a victim of his own arrogance, he wanted to go to heaven. A panic film has already disfigured him.
Joe Verminex composed the music of “The Young Girl With The Parasol” in front of the sink. Oblivion’s scream drifting in the streets of a dead city, A Land of Wonders, “The Solid Bourgeois Cooking”, and another tango in Paris — my nerves’ soul and the same old electric typewriter — words twinkle DESTINY, POSTERITY,
FUTURE — inertia, boredom has welded the live world, as soon as someone remembers someone or something it means he has not loved well — as soon as a being is animated and loved he discovers insubordination, that’s when circumstances take revenge. Images, fantasies, frozen intersections, tragic autobiographies, etc… and events that become the objects of passionate, idiotic comments. Is any of that necessary? Possible? If yes or no, then why? Dreamed of Warhol and Truman Capote… “Mr. “C” what is man’s basic drama?”… neurotic perspective over Brighton, operation “The Tadpole And the Foetus”…those amalgams of information don’t impress me, my necktie yields to the loud-speaker, an unknown pleasure of someone who has never been able to express himself publicly. The Assassin’s Tango… the victim’s blood reddening the horizon… the dead gods rush into the void.
Fire-spitting clouds. The heavens discolored by cosmic delights.
Joe Verminex plays dead wrapped in silence.
Rumor-blocs and events, born yesterday to fill today and tomorrow. The spectators feed on social placenta, no one wants to untie the knots, no one wants to cross the margin-frontiers, operation “Slimy Alexandrines & Dumb Sonnets.”
We’re in this domain of typewriters and computers. We’re on earth, prisoners
of mental reservations and sentiments. More and more fools according to the laws of chance. The visibility explodes. The raw sounds of cities are ambushed in Willie Lee’s hat. Specters blubber. The astronauts soar in the huge sky. The cosmic ship is an angelic flower.
Operation “Blood & Gold.” The sexual proletariat’s ambitions are changing.
The sexual message is a talking clock, a time zone, a gadget you may even find in heaven. Anyway, if you are on board a cloud, don’t unscrew the time capsule.
Operation “No Objective and no Foundation”. The lonely throngs are having sexual hunger pangs. It’s hard to measure the danger. Those slimy throngs are on the side of the alliance of sentences. Operation “Sperm and White Gloves”, Joe Verminex, the Sea Greyhound insures his bone head for a few million dollars. Operation “It’s Poetic but Expensive,” Operation “God Knows who!” — we’re plugged in and we bark, blood circulated in the echo room, we’re in straight jackets, and the writing-wonder goes back to work. We won’t be able to resist the crossbreeding of words. We already have grey times — torn figures and broken lines of association.
And death that takes all will not return…
The unbearably devastating daily grind, the mechanical ballet, the electronic legend, death-TV, the spontaneity of technological ideologies and everything in the sewer… contradictions don’t astonish me anymore, I have other dreams to live through… we have to do, as if we were alone in the world, do and undo, acting in favor of solitude — we’re haunted by the question of truth, it’s often ugly and ragged — nausea and grief, despair, indifference, stupor. No abstraction can be made of them.
The weather is fine. Day is breaking. Flowers are waving at me. Birds and squirrels are playing dominos.
The weather is fine. Daylight locks us in.
The sick screen is flushed with color, crackles, we see Nixon, Pompidou, Brezhnev, Asshole & Co… a flat, livid face rehashed yesterday’s and today’s news… a state of supreme indifference dominates, we find our goods all over.
In every scream there is a taste of sky.


The Universe is starved for life. We’re here, in front of the video library of the Universe, in the middle of flames and flowers. The Brain Police has invaded every cerebral territory. We’re thoughtlessly confronting the reasons that permit us to exist, where the dead gods were sitting… vibrations and the harmonies are rooted in environment-space and program the management of cerebral territories.
Operation “The Future of Mankind.” Political manipulations, appropriate propaganda, bureaucratic and technological dictatorship, all this exceeding  the left or the right, relics of the XIXth century, slime made up of slogans, archetypes and cliches, televised smears.
If we want to survive we only have two choices.
And it may all depend on mutations caused by Sexual Affairs.
A few half-witted hippies swim in the Vision Ditch, it’s always the same story, the Gospel According to Your Neighbors or to each His Own Truth, Beards and Hair, etc… operation “To Not Mow The Lawn…” That is the firing of a writer… it’s not a question of landing in Venice with a cardboard suitcase… The technician writes the word DEATH on the screen… Rumors from the city tell us nothing at all. The madness of mankind is mentioned a lot, “drugs” and sexuality, they mix everything up, and only the blind repression that strikes us is the same.
Cold or passionate, the technician knows what talking means in police language. We’re in Orange Studio and we send sexy messages to distant galaxies.
There’s no doubt, all these messages come from space, and we’re here, in time, we’re not in space. We’re all old Death TV.

Black lianas, coppery anemones… vertigo… the letter and the spirit of the law… it was yesterday… I disappear in a burst of laughter. “Linguistic Divorce SVP.” Extra-divine version of the historic nightmare. The event, man, chance, necessity, the global village, television turned into an outcry, vision, the soul.
We yield very quickly, we listen to space.
The old world is behind us, maybe, maybe not.
We’re going to write in lights, in radio-waves, in radar-waves, and we’ll leave time. I get on my ergonomic bicycle, and free-wheeling I race to the House of Sausage. I benefit by a general impression. The SS in skirts organize the operation “Renewal of the dialogue We’re Going to Free the Lawn And Chop Off The Balls of Faggots,” in fact it concerns operation “Soup A La Grimace”… on the moving sidewalks, mute, stunned, thousand of diplomaed citizens, recessed, give themselves up to work, GIVE THEMSELVES UP, what an expression!… what promiscuity… they advance, stumble, gesticulate, fight, crawl, and they endure that silence because they are all alike. Ugly smiles of several generations. And the rest emerges, as if by magic.
A taxi crammed with dwarfs rushes towards the subway entrance.
That was yesterday.

Some claim that traveling is useless — I don’t claim a thing, I don’t even take sides — I have no solution to propose to you, not even a suggestion, just complete indifference… you wander in a forest of fists with no hands, with phantoms… Operation “Nitty Gritty Dirt Band”… a thorny question… to create another paranoia, an antisocial, unadapted schizophrenic being, by affirming that your reality is the only reality… metabolism reversed, sabotaged, muddles and firedamp explosions … Operation speed freak… I press on the handle held together by nylon threads and I open fire on the dwarfs and the sexual proletariat, and all those dressed in their Tarzan costumes.
“Watch Out! To your stations!…we’re going to change galaxies.”
“We’re in our own bubble, we’re entering sub-space, lower your heads and fasten your belts…”
WHAP! ZONK! SLOOoooosssh!
“You look sad.”
“I dread catastrophe, the ecoshit, you know?”
“I only dread that the duo love…”
“Good Lord! That voice…”
“Get lost! Shut up, punk! Crapman was here…”
“Silence, amigo, if you feel like laughing, tickle yourself…”
“Flash Gordon! You, here!!!”
“You miserable cocksucker! What can your power do against the Controller’s?”
“Eat shit, you motherfucking cunt!”
Fasten your seatbelts! According to my calculations the planet we’re looking for is straight ahead…”
“Tough shit! Gosh!”
Operation “Night of the drums”, rendezvous at Pompano Piazza, keep left please. Operation “Fascist Follies”…  “We’re almost there, unfasten you seatbelts”…
CRASH! TWANG! THOK! VRRRrrrroooooooooo!…

I’m drowning in a secret smoke. Neon cracks as soon as you stir the metabolic ashes of the planet. Neon strangles itself. NEON-GALLOWS IN THE STREETS OF THE WORLD.
(I’m not comfortable in Van Gogh’s shoes, nor Anne Frank’s and those of Pope Jeanne’s. I’ve never felt comfortable in the shoes of others — that was yesterday… today it’s a matter of coming to the surface… I don’t feel comfortable in the middle of these spurts of community living. In truth, I don’t feel comfortable anywhere, except here at times, and in Big Sur. But there are the shit-makers…I don’t have to explain, but I’m willing to exchange a future fag for a heartbreaker.
A firing-squad festival, also a psychiatric hospital one, concentration camps too, model prisons and pilot factories… an orthodox brain, an autonomous prick and a cosmic grimace… it’s a matter of fertilizing space, of getting away from the walls where we dreamed for such a long time. Kilometers of noises. The songs are heard all over. The sky’s spare parts have gone on a honeymoon. Prophecies come out of the jukebox and sing inside the almond-night. Neon has lost its strength.
There were many of us on the cotton reef.
John Deeper doesn’t answer anymore.
Flash-echoes in the streets of the world.


The Cosmic Hooker, frustrated and joyless, accepted to meet the Unknown Banana. She exchanged a few practical details concerning the operation”We’re not shy at all.”
The Electric Phantom of Technopolis, paradise and battlefield, as I’ve already mentioned… On the walls, or on a wall of pink paper roses, between two blizzards,
during that black spring, deploying the Polaroid rainbow over the reality-pit… there where musicians land, in the scream of a needle… jostling the cop-excrement.
A billboard, COCA NEON, and you find yourself in total reality.
Semantic traps are dangerous. You can always ask — A flower, a blue flame, a trip and it’s over, you come back or not. It’s happened — we’re inside our own bubbles, irresponsible, and frequency-souls howl, and the Cosmic Hooker standing in front of the pinball machines of the past seduces the co-pilot… I see it all from the interior, towards the unknown… and the gentle typewriter yells: SAUVE QUI PEUT!!!…  Images of cities burning on an ordinary pillow, there where a whole generation was sitting. Death TV is new skin.
The naked and the dead, frozen on the background of a dazzling cipher, life, between two worlds, you could be mistaken… language stairways, Mexico, so white, between two silences… we hand you VCRs and the riddled arms, we know that you have nothing to live for, that you’re frozen, wandering in this old world, closed, voiceless, it was yesterday, DESESPERANTO… suffering installs it’s transistors.
Who is talking here?
The electrocuted articulate one or the colorless length of a scream?
I went through someone in the disorder of skins.

Dumped with all the bubbles, steamed, with seaweed faces and old photos, along with invisible intersections.
A corner of blue sky… the dream abyss.
Were you ever in the Sperm Hotel? in contact with the cold… a cure, don’t you think?… to eat at night with a rootless drifting body, with embryo goiters…
Operation “The Vice Of Living”. Space maneuvers in a swimming pool — orange mist, TV antennae shine on the musical urinal — sexual odors on the windshield, distant explosions, sexual hostages… our world is swaying with dimmers (one day, you’ll understand what atomized means)… On the screen, burned faces and colorless toys.
The dwarf wanted the floor. We sent them a specter. Then cameras let the toxic gases out.
Assemblages of something… Operation “What’s Said About It”… a dumb smile between your legs… jumbles, dreams, all sorts of worlds to vomit, KARMA TANTRIC DIABLO. Black and red ants unite… the invisible insurrection of millions of brains of the Grey Generation.
Some dwarfs dressed in blisters patrolled the streets.
It was yesterday. It was tomorrow.
It was obvious.
The blue of the earth filled the screen.
The astronauts are very calm.
The planet’s sex, turns over by itself. An alarm signal whistles at the void — on the arm of absence that lightshow widens consciousness — yesterday, the dream was erased, the war was over… today you are the heads of the publicity of your paranoia… WORDS AMONG THE IMAGES, IMAGES AGAINST WORDS… doers, imitators, woodlice, these are our successors… they crawl in puddles, in the juice of what is left of 60s — let’s light another cigarette, pour ourselves a pint of dark beer, two fingers of whiskey, and lets jack off among the burning images.
A physical and verbal truth that Death TV reveals to us.
The planet is about to explode!!!
We don’t have much time left, that’s obvious, or isn’t, but where are we? We’re at the spacial disco, we’re in time, we’re not in space. Operation “Solitude It’s Always Sunday”… we’re here, gelatinous rats, fascinated by tricks and games… neon-bodies and impulsions, we’re going to decode the sexy message.
We’re here, with our words, near the shadow, in bright sunlight, in the wind, with volumes of visible nature, running across green pastures, velvety, facing the intense rage of images.

The seeds are thirsty.
Silence is about to bleed the loving teeth of stardust white. Here, landscapes tell that nothing is easy, everything is pathetic, the whole earth’s visible in a body, and that’s logical. Robots yell at death, the others do it too, dwarfs and degenerates dream of sailing for Utopia.
Violence, violence, violence… hideous young people play with death in the Snow Subway.
Terrifying, I agree, it’s terrifying, like that jungle of shanties and suburbs full of steel and trash cans. Girls and boys seek a little bit of warmth, a little bit of love —  then militants and moralizers appear, closely followed by evil genies and their poison pens, they rummage though young bodies, and the notion of sin takes the upper hand — bloodthirsty greys open fire on the flock.
A direst experience for the being along with Cowboy Alpha.
Swirls, multicolored streaks, strings of fears and stamping… whenever you wish… don’t hold back… don’t beg for an orgasm from empty statues — all the signals circle reality — empty transparencies the curtain is torn before your very eyes. Opal with her million eyes reappears in a bone sky.
The Cancer Promenade, Multicolored Death, Death TV, The Vampire State Building, NASA’ orange-blue views, raw meat cities… it was yesterday… a trapeze artist on the wire hurries to sabotage the merry-go-round. The planet’s menagerie doesn’t have much time left.
What have you gotten from dictionaries?
Your name? X, unadapted idler, well, it’s still better than no one!…
Laughing eyes tell you that almost nothing is left.
You’re still lacking two magic eyes to illuminated that brilliant speech.
It’s raining, hailing, nothing is counter-nature. Nothing is true. All is permitted. I’m not even up to appreciate this or that. ALL IS TRUE, NOTHING IS PERMITTED  — eco-catastrophe (the ecstasy of blue on wild strikes) frost drowns my projects, the fire is spreading — what a great silence today!
I’m sitting in the afternoon’s flame, an organ-shaped mouth is qualified as the most somber, a bouquet of twats around the xylophones, fire spreads in the firmament. A drop of sky in a song…


The word’s hurricane-lamps holds back its tears…
Silent figure, bloody wood sighs, all this never ends… cries, rasps and tears that we comb, dress like songs composes during the summer, that we make up like refrains carried away on dead waters… “Getting soft Rocking Man, Insurrection Of A Million Minds”, starched clouds weaving a neon-souvenir, a pink smile in the blue sky, it’s really simple… the weather is fine… the river’s waters are clear, period.
A white wave looking like a shadow. I’m not going to complicate something so simple. I enter the Universe shattered. Operation “Here’s something To Jog The Molecules, Zip’s PUZZLE DEATH, the new porn — the earth has painted her lips, and oranges venture behind the horizon, here, a faded violet, there, an open book — a star dances on a fresh mint geyser, the sky is gloved with hail.
The poet doesn’t live in another world. The shadow doesn’t speak about its flirtations. I only listen to the void turning, beyond silence… flowers scatter their secrets… I have no regrets at all. What about you?… What a silence in the abyss-margin!
Why are you so sad? (sounds of voices thrown out by reality) — anecdotes are nourished by scrawny cold, dew murmurs — bees follow the path of herbs, and everything that has been said can be expressed differently. Why are you so sad?
Hawthorns want to laugh. On the edge of the path, among the wild roses, naked squirrels dance, silence laps the mauve of the hills. Hokusai and his waves don’t know where to go anymore — a crumpled sun, frozen spray on the mirror —  snow embroiders on landscape-skin, target clouds dance on black ice.
A hole in the forest, grass forges its beast-thought.
A cigarette in which one hundred flowers swing.
Hawks haven’t heard the sky’s lace groan — the weather is fine, with his finger in his eye the militant stomps the flowers — I’m not one of YOUR compatriots… oh! Shit!  A guy who invents sentences, and all nature chuckles… Yes and no, a show that shouldn’t be missed — busting your balls is a trump card in life, all the same… a drop of sky in a song, I am a fan of my own fantasies… neon flesh growing like virginia-creeper.
Spirals. Inflation. Back-stage discussions. Secret negotiations. Rumors of hot or cold wars. With a closed mouth the light breeze sets fire to the mirror.
I offered a tri-colored Tampax to Miss America with a fire-cracker inside, then the flowers deployed their songs, and all the women in the world shook in the rowboat of my heart… brutes, punks, sprites on the chessboard — true silence built those cliffs and rocks, dawn’s stones announce the deluge — silvery waves, fire lines in the gumdrop sky, the Universe grinds its teeth, thunder buzzes on the snow. Broken images, engulfed by night, a forerunner sign jostles the hurricane lamp, I close my eyes… time is brutally beaten by a blue cigarette… Unknown colors in the watershed of light.
Should space remain cold the world will be entirely put to music and into spoken archives.
We spoke for everyone and I tremble as I re-read the journal of my life, the colors warm me, silence spreads, time-slobber — what is happening in my life? In yours? Uh-um in a cloud turned ugly. I’ve planted thousands of flowers, and all those seeds were buried. Spring spits in the air and deplores its terrible fantasies. The wind has cool hands. Rain jumps over the dunes. Music grows a mountain flower that signs dawn. Blond streets were glassed in by the laughter if bulldozers. A mechanical piano is burning in the moonlight — laughter gets its fill of tears — the day is made endless by a hedge of voices…
“Stoned dreams” — a bouquet of sparks sobers the red robin… the cat gives up smiling… a little dew on the screen. God doesn’t have any luck. I guess, in the long run, that nothing is easy — sitting idle, the shadow plays among the branches of the Japanese cherry tree — all this excites thinking… a cold bomb weeps on the blank page… God will be the historian of flowers, and I will be enchanted to become those two drops of water… this doesn’t explain that… toasted bread absorbs honey and butter… the consumer spits in his own ear — a crescent moon in the sky, fog plants its thorns on the mauve hills (we’ve known moments when the situation seemed desperate, and you can be sure of one thing, this doesn’t explain that)…
Chains of words and images unconditioned the word.
Blunders of DEATH TV, and with that form of life the head is first.
The sky, barely reddened, opens up with fiery songs.
Day is breaking.
Blond fields streaked with quick-silver.
A grimace takes the place of TV news.
The sun’s mane has nailed a cloud on imagination. The world breathes. We breathe. A minute of silence in the wake of images — beautiful emeralds in the empty alleys — day is breaking, gold streams onto the lawns…  It’s hard to trap a moment, poets know this all too well… the sidewalks of King’s Road blossom, huge neon stars drink the city’s tears… bombs, explosions, murders, fights, aggressions, the Industry of Death tricks life and ventilates great puffs of hate — robots close their eyes on reality, the four seasons wear no panties… the sky’s mouth hits the white of the eye and devours my comix.
EARTH!!! EXIT FROM DREAMS — (written crossing fields)…
Horizon-pages, 6 am…
The weatherman said visibility would be difficult — rain, wind, and time going by so fast… the wind weeps above the black wheat and floods the heart-mirror of this morning — the wind invade the slumber of my cats, and between its fingers it does a somersault.
Poplars look as if they are taking a walk.
The mist is trying to blur the landscape.
Laughing, tiny details collapse in front of the flowers.
— a neuro-psychiatrist was running in the grass, etc., etc…. an odor has already joined the immensity — and that is where I sat down in the fresh grass…

(to be continued…)

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