Kali Claude Yug Pélieu Express 7

Ray Bremser - Mary Beach - Claude Pélieu Photo: Allen Ginsberg - Cooperstown, NY

Claude Pélieu : KALI YUG EXPRESS

Translated by Mary Beach



A bit of eternity in the pink window.
Blond mountains riddled with poppies and corn-flowers.
(Stones swallow our tears, a lava flow transforms the landscape, on its high heels a tidal wave ravages the West Coast)… we chew our cud in the shade of tall trees, high on the mesa, a smell of burnt toast invades the universe. The stars dance… raisins, nuts, almonds… the wind rips the pages of newspapers and mini skirts… perfume and pearls travel faster than light. Everything quivers in the Velvet Bay, the Illumination Cobalt Blue Bay — paprika accompanies the wind, Cosmic Drag, Donald Duck fucks Mona Lisa, the Masked Lobster sodomizes J. Edgar Hoover — void dances in the margin, sparks rob the Cold Bank… robots impose a violent censorship, and on the blue screen a beautiful flesh-storm, gusts of screams and prayers… gongs and tambourines, we’re in the blue jungle and we risked all for an orange girl with a boy’s ass. The automatic pilot writes in the sky FADED SMOKE,  drifting… flood of alcohol… acid hasn’t been outlawed yet… crazy television sets,  skulls stuffed with multicolored sausages… some say that it’s still too early and roll in greyness, the others arm themselves, to hear and see nothing.
Paradise lost? The fluorescent city’s arms roll on the screen, twisted, broken, they’re the streets and the old films oxidize the young years, flesh cracks as a sign of mourning.
I’m speaking from very far away from today, and from the depths of the 50s and 60s, upside down, in the middle of undecipherable mutations.
Time opens up in capital letters — the Monkey alibi is solid — sono, stereo, lightshow, the video lifelines that we all have within us, like the screams’s test-wall that ticker-machines pour into the files. We weren’t sure we’d speak about this again, in the sewers of Paris, London, New York, Amsterdam and to repaint both sides of the scenery with juicy, stinking shit undeniably French… EXORCISM !!!… unnerved bodies groan… speed, alcohol, barbiturates, H… exorcism to recharge the sweet almonds incrusted in the Blue Kid’s body, moving in an old film. Time’s crockery dissolves in savage shudders. De/collage of every sound-image. We move very fast in time and space & we write over every landscape in neon.

Anti-death lighting.
Here, bubbles & death, why so fast?
Napalm, Coca-Cola, IBM, ITT, myths, operetta toys, soap operas, meditation-chromos, A Festival from Nowhere — the Blue Kid was in Frisco, like a shadow among the guests, like a shadow expelled from sleep… a smoke & sound affair, sucker-images that bodies follow like the fireflies in Cherry Valley sky — lives eaten away by minute-metal, clots of death-TV flung at high speed on the Santa Anna Freeway, a few crumbs attacked by pollution.
I see again the old Black woman in Panama City, and Bilgray’s Tropico, Panama Rose and Ixca, disorder’s bastard asleep, naked on a beach surrounded by tape-recorders.
And Caryl Chessman’s insomnia on the musical chairs of Alcatraz and San Quentin… we inhale the odor of human linen and dead salad…. we know nothing.
A cadaver on the surface of an ocean of beauty spots… mutiny… a duel on the snow.
Toxic images, prisms prisoners of frost, cement-mixer images, swells like the suns, eye-harvest on the gallows, aurora boreales… grass vanishes under the Offset shower, Tabloid Krishna… the weather was fine between curtains of silence, happy cosmogony in the prompter’s box, the old film was blue, the blue of  a generation on a bandstand, and all that cities have seen and heard in broken syringes and old eye-droppers… New York, 1964, the demonic screen… several films, Batman, Flash Gordon, Silver Surfer, Captain Weird… Chinatown, Needle Park, the Bowery… Marx ass-fucks the Pope, Dali sucks an old condom that had belonged to Truman… and that diligent silent humanity puked into the stable of the American Dream… AMPHETAMINE TERROR!!!
Memory’s locomotives blow TV antennas.
I saw the cops strip sick junkies. I saw the Gay Scissor Brigades in the columns of the San Francisco Chronicle with the Beat Generation’s bastards living in  the dawn-weldings, a time for contempt…
MOJO NEWS… the Spade howled, there were 500 coming from Greenwood, Mississippi to lynch him… the Blue Kid cut in the orange of a vision, cut with a blow-torch in the Nerve-sector, outside the scene — blurred dawn, elsewhere with flesh speaking a makeshift slang born of  earth-sweat, living colors hanging onto the tender hills of New England, shadow mounts drowned at Fire Island — we were the survivors of that Electric Season.
Uptown, Indigo Off Station, the Snow Subway — everything’s blurred, we can’t get by anymore, we must push the dirty-finger-curtain aside — A beggar dies on a bench, Avenida Solitario, in black light and stereophonic jolts… the shadow barks, screams tumble with the dirty fingers, the antenna-man murmurs “here, fast, now”… DREAMSCOPE… with which face should we weep now?
Neon-lianas, red thorns stretched under the skin and the colorless veins of your name rot in the bone-pit of time. In the sleeper’s eyes the negative Quai Aux Fleurs — damp earth, jumbled, flaccid, black — extra-terrestrial mechanics, a dialogue between heaven and earth… continents drifting in mist, salty, asbestos Spring, white sun, disturbing pendulum… neon unfurls a tango moon.
The menagerie weeps. Heaps of bones and starfish, tonalities lose their foothold. Nerves yell like cameras. On the branches of laughter gloves consume themselves on the magicians’ hands. I’ve counted the days, the nights, the gaps, the hollows, then blue letters were blurred in the sky’s spittoons, with grass bent by fire, and barrels of sores, and wings fluttering… Alone on the Heart Strand, I understood that the wind wasn’t a ghost. Waves, eddies, signs, clippings, sighs rushing flush with the ground over the Spanish gorse. Target-night, freaky wind, frost bows.
The Golden Gate Bridge wavers, undulates like a plate of spaghetti.
El Paso Motel, Dead Water Valley, don’t wonder if I talk to you from so far away… I hadn’t written a single poem then, speed-funk is indescribable, between spark-fingers the last phosphorescence, slow masturbation in cooling sperm-cisterns. Moving erections, memory-plugged melodies, mopped up by pollution noise that burrows into meat.
A tempest of dry ice. Pinball Machine, peyote chewed by Nueva Barcelona tape-recorders… Indian flowers, snot-nosed peninsulas, a joint opened on incense paper, and flower on a black background, thrown over as the heart wills.
Flower round about midnight, I say you’re immortal, I, me, as white as snow, back to the wall, leaning over that bit of skin — so far away, stoned on the back seat of the Buick, in front of that pink villa, in Mexico, contemplating pebble-samples, petrified in that floating bus, from Tijuana to Mexicali… round about midnight… the shadow of Brocéliande crashed on Acapulco — two very pure notes immobilized over Baja California… Methedrine hitting every cell, dirty tickets melting in the smoke, grey things wrecked in the cold dawn, and Flower crucified on the joint-hedge, crazy tomb!… the docks, knife slashes, shots… musical flushing and entrails placed end to end — Star-gallop in jasper, turquoise and opal stars, Speedfreak on the high seas with the time-tatters, with the Peony Kid, in a faint overdosed, blue anemones caught in cocaine crystals, Montana’s pink cough, fears, escapes, pains, an orgy of solitudes — we’re in the Vomito, crime capitals aren’t romantic. We’re near the cramp basin, in the arrival of bubbles, wandering from pad to robot-kitchen, from Panama City to New York, FLASH!!!… you can say that again!… all that was left were my lips around my teeth, and even then! Then the flash needle, making my veins blossom once again!… I must get out of this, fast, now, and allow music to penetrate the Universe, like the poems drifting in the Bay of San Francisco — silence recorded a little before dawn, the angel tows fog-horns… hookers and drag queens motionless on the sidewalks of Turk Street… sono penetrating the vague moon… sky lit, steamed up shop windows. El Paso, Santa Monica, Sheridan East Corinth, Long Island… rain, interplanetary nightclub, neon lights on the nod in the stones of this continent — and all those who fall pushing their bubbles along… good God! Eyes are made to hear, and nothing is real enough — so I waited, staring at the corner of a Formica table where a cup of tea was cooling, to make my waiting easier I filled the jukebox with quarters, I thought of a face, a shadow hanging onto the vein tree, I  soothed the crabs, I held out cash, and pocketed the sachets… and SPLAAaasssshhhh! The pain’s white capitals were doing the split — and  then, one day, just like that, the nervous systems prodigious memory makes a decision, my cells were in a panic, operation “Let The Shit Go!” then the metabolic wheel started to spin… icy leaks, the great wheels dig into space… a light mist made of grimaces, strangling and spasms… the sickness marries your body — so, to sleep, sleep, sleep, on my knees begging for a last needle… crouched in a corner, shuddering, cramps, covered in sweat — monstrous flowers hit by that white shit, Iron Street, my skin filed by blue cornflowers-puncture-points… my eye flat against my ear panics…a dizzy fall… a horde of red rats attack you, and you wave your arms in the avalanche of cramps… and that comatose sleep on a man’s back, that wool and cotton space-suit, and guts knotted in alphabetic index of agony.
Grass is scorched. White flowers are turned into blazing serpents. The gates open, you are the first to attend the festival of the quick and dead, you’re the switchman of terror. You drive with headlights off, your eyes are unzipped by the ventilators, and meanwhile dharma-skin of the conscience-world is overflowing with blood on the arms of the sun.
We were waiting, bunched together, stinking of sweat and sickness. A guy had just hanged himself in the head. The ruins of this sorry feast were frozen hard. Horrible details ambushed under the doormats. I guessed what the headlines would be that pleased the bosses, Drugs! Big Catch!… you bet!… There will be a lot of sick junkies on Frisco’s aquatic pinball machines said the Examiner… a day like any other, cops track down junkies, dealers do their accounts, the CEOs question their computers, and old hookers are moved to tears… flakes of recycled crowds, hundreds of meters of intestines will ooze out of Subway halls, great bubbles and spatters, and your veins opened by the dawn semaphore… Dawn tells me that from the nerve-drums you must only think of life.

Smack explodes in the hard frost. Blistered images held in puddles. Cops, transvestites, hookers, kids, extinguished in the muffled silence… the objective TO BE STONED… just high, that’s enough, nothing more, dangling implacably, Junkie Blues, the bubble fiesta pushed in haste, hauled off shore, a superflash slipping along your veins, time pukes through the organs of pain into the cavern of your neck — the city with the twisted arms, burst veins in the turn, grey dreams rehashed  on  Long Knives Street, flipping out with the sharp whistles of old photos, crouched in the dawn’s locks — that day the sun moved dangerously, lilacs smelled good, the morning star shone, voices within flesh’s reach — the Technicolor Kid deported to the forest of dirty fingers, reanimated in the flowery flows of Old Mexico, two green eyes torpedoed, tracer-bullet eyes searching through 1000s of scripts… or leaning on a bar, an eye on the high seas, scratching myself furiously, and the Sepia Kid, hair floating between the Buick and the Dodge… the mad race of tears in the Mexicali dawn beaten stiff… or stumbling on the docks, the autopsy of a slick face in the hourglass of fluid time.
As soon as you try to find a vein, asshole, the copy of your absence drinks from death’s bottle.

We didn’t die, we’re cured.
LSD revealed to us the whole howling, hilarious thirst of body and soul. We drank from that milk in the eyes of a young fairy. Life goes on submerged in modern drugs, legal ones, drop by drop, and the voice can no longer be heard, smack-metal-minute, the odor of a distant suicide… our society is very oriented towards drugs… IBM land of the arts, I placed my ragged lips on your back surrounding silence — I am healed, it took time, today I’m hanging out like anybody else — a trip to Nagasaki… in his paper-maché sky, the Chinatown angel detaches himself from the  old universe blue-fish-eye, pressing on the sexy thermostat, reading the blue journal of absence. A long silence among so many others took a census of the void, like starving blood, a prisoner of bubbles swallowing colors in one gulp.
Our wing baggage was light.
(I was told that the weather was fine in Mexico City)… and in the rearview mirror neon-sprays, an electronic solo in the Hiroshima-Nagasaki glance… a blood-flash in electrocuted eyes.

Flower-sob, kid with twisted fingers, smoke and reliefs, blood-filled flowers, a kid in ashes, at the end of night time is sucked again — written in the sky at high tide, faded flowers, faded photos, faded knives, faded stars, a dirty dawn crashes on the city subjugated by screams spat out by syringes, atomized screams vibrating on the skin of time. Curdled blood on photo-rumors, and corner of your broken mouth, so blue — sexy fanfares in the streets of the world, drifting Juicy Fruit Kid, I called this West Saga Desesperanto — empty joints, Heartbreak, a rain-death photo in a boy’s ass… Flower is dead, we’ll never know… a Thursday, joint-ville…
He waited on the pier, near the docks.
Claws tattooing his smile… angel or devil? (we’ll never know.)
The facts — gun shots, then the body falling in the black water, and no one knew why… fair and dark skins… rain, he waited.
Chain smoking — in an instant she went out with the other guy… her body swollen, her face tumefied, she knew, I love you — that night she changed beds and assassin.
The acts?
Molecules of hate… that morning I awake in a hollow, in a dawn of piled high with cramps… supersonic turds in the Frisco sky.


Smoke pot in your mother’s womb!…
The purity of their wings, the insolence of their youth… filter-eyes on the always blank page, and a sensual mauve mouth… New York, acts of feeble terrorism and the noise of Import-Export… our revolution’s coming of age… the order of the day “an interesting investment, a spot for the fall of France”… school’s out forever… the planet is losing weight horribly… have you heard about the plot they’re talking about the plot of delinquent intellectuals? (dwarfs invent anything at all)… our revolution is coming of age — do you believe in:
Fresh air, green grass, blue sky, clear & clean water, trees, stars, tribes, crazies, love, peace, electronic democracy, laughter, poetry, freedom?)
If you do it’s okay…
(To write a little every day and we know that rage only exists on earth. Why co-sign the incidents that don’t interest you? A little science-fiction and laser-cameras speak alone)… atoms and some flowers, a little fried music announces a dog’s life in the aquarium… how dawn must suffer! And blue fades… I think of Walt Whitman contemplating the great vegetation of intelligence, blessed are those who chat with millions of gods. Children and sailors will own the skin of insomnia.

I want to live one hundred years
— and more
And purr in the grass

All the radios are covered in frost tonight. It’s late. Odors of wood fires stroll around. Blond tobacco is on the airwaves. Lamps buried in the sand shine with thousands of fires. Scrawny eyes are bloodshot. From now on we’ll be alone, like the gods, always dreaming, in vain, of a universe full of bubbles. Tranquility and silence. Winter’s silence wipes what is left of the 60s with a damp cloth. Parking meters of the Universe groan — Narkophonic Jams… Full Tilt Boogie — waves roll their black wooden eyes, the west wind engulfs the serenity of this beautiful day, I will have to gather all the secrets of next winter.


The neon parade — fire is rising — the planets crack.
Will we escape the violence? (all is possible now)… our wounds are healing, they will go around the world again.
Bodies, blue floats.
Soul, air explodes on the track.
Sex, sperm makes a U-turn.
God, in the air time makes a detour.
Blood, I hate meat.
Bone, the Angel has a hard on and comes.
And we’re going to get fucked on the way.


What is a stranger to the soul and the heart shouldn’t be called vision. As the heart says my days have left to wander. That isn’t the way to settle into solitude.
Pollen, blood, come, sweat, shit, singing our first loves, we’ll all go to heaven…TV antennae dance, death TV sucks every vibration… fuck off! Plunge into the universe’s groin! — time’s circles howl, memory’s cavern is a pig sty, God, flamed banana, doesn’t look back, He hasn’t ordered the massacre of stars — Drunk, stoned, meat loaf… flies plant kisses on history’s fat bums, we’re watching the last western, evening, morning, thanx again, God speed, Motherfuckers!… a wild soul needs no dictionary, the body doesn’t need organization, Western at the Entrance to the Sky, Kali Yug Non-Stop, the pink surf of the jungle strangles neon, last electrified minute ten years later, mauve anemones in my sky… highways don’t know that the sky and earth meet sometimes… children steal a piece of cold wind, shadows aren’t crying out tonight. The blind wind and bad omens tie the dream in knots, and the scream of canned currents turns pink.
I sent you flowing to return you to life… just look at Nixon, that sexual disaster, the great white feast of our malediction… I wouldn’t sell a second hand condom to that guy… he would have to leap towards something else, for him to get a second soul, flowered and surrounded by colorful butterflies — that kind of silence erases the image of the Industry of Death, the storm of colors bursts the abscess of absolute power — the crowds’ gravelly voices pollute your skies and your souls. There is no answer to that… huge things begin to live, honed by cold dawn, no-love shows its claws, mob-consciences recoil… words and songs, filthy dentures straddling thought-vegetables… poetry is a rocket, and a free man’s laughter crashes on the launching pad… next summer’s stones will be American, Nutopia… A vague moon will harpoon lotus-words that angels spit out like clots.
What are the poet’s superior logic? The poet is always right, it’s written in the sky, and it doesn’t matter — the poet is both right and wrong, he likes to do nothing, he takes drugs, if he’s an alcoholic, homosexual, criminal, it’s a lifestyle, and this eliminates the opinions of one and the other with no bleeding. It’s what some very young people understand very quickly, thanks to visual/sound avalanches. They are already high in the sky’s dust-covers. But the fact of hitting 40 suddenly, in the prime of life imprisons us in the “they say”, blood flows, laughs and cries all the way to bedazzlement, and blood has only one goal: PUT AN OBSTACLE IN FRONT OF DEATH AND RETURN YOU TO LIFE.
To go down into the abyss of vision, bothering no one, with the angels, madmen, and children, with the pack of dogs we carry within us — Sing to your heart’s content, nebulous panther — echoes write on tattoo-scapes, the sun weeps under the lemon-squeezer, buildings have put on their white dresses and the manhunt is always open.
Fantômas surrounds himself with climbing furs and dawn resembles a long candle born of a dream and sorrow.

I say anything at all
a cry in water
“gimme shelter!!”
an electronic raga in the open sky —
a cry in water

Blood repaints that plump, goitrous landscape. The sky is a wart. Kitchen folklore makes history’s bed. And I, one by one, I pull out language’s ass hairs — City hysteria reaches its paroxysm, let’s not talk about the suburbs’ — Operation “Bad Trip”…  We jacked off too often with that revolution idea, Raw Winter blisters drag along and a few flake-screams come down to earth. Circus dogs learn to live in supermarkets… sea foam smothers volcano fires, water flows over words, like a soft nail file on London on a rainy day… The intrepid traveler and the solitary one can’t escape from the landscapes that we created, nor their violence. The robots saw nothing. I won’t make a wish this evening… Who can dream on the traces of fluid time?
London, a rainy day. Time’s tannin tickles the banks of the Thames, silence is ripped open like a tube of toothpaste.
Smoke hesitates between two worlds.
The flame-throwers of Total Censorship control everything, even sexual energy. Censorship causes the propellers of the marvelous to turn pale… the birthmark of a vision… the democratic electronic ear gives you back the songs of a generation… Operation John Cage, “Happy New Ears!”… What can we say? Press the button, pull the chain… they have changed my song… shit-lit stutters in the prompter’s box… Pop-bag misery, today’s tube is awful… TV-dinner knocked, fucked up and zapped in, I like that… Ivy falls in love with old things, and I go on writing to various people, I take walks, discretely I’m bored, I avoid all sorts of people, I hang out, I’m high, I trip, I travel, I don’t make a dime with what I write, others invent words on time;s back.
Operation “Pepsi”, “Beat Your Meat”, good and bad news — catastrophes, bombings, genocides — insects, ghettos, rats, killers, plotters, enzymes, cockroaches, all this comes before man… Which survival projects are you talking about?… The tickets haven’t been reimbursed, they exploded, and God opens His eye, ignoring your prayers… then the Indians lit great fires, burning the words that polluted the Great Plains, the Great Lakes and the shores of the Pacific… Words decimated the Celts, poets and the unstable, but the great patterns of their laughter will break the supersonic sounds that hurt the heavens…
Windows in flames this morning.
Silence — death makes its bed.
Time’s gold is devalued.
The scent of flames listens to what habit says, and it’s midnight, night’s bowl is overflowing.
Death must shut up.
The morning operetta seduces cherries covered with shitty light. It’s Spring. Empty forests pivot on clouds — I know those landscapes very well, they are brutally invaded by sadness — shadows hang onto flowers, weighed down by songs.
Jefferson Airplane a long time ago, Nevada, Colorado… a faded pain sleeps in the sands of the West.
THE SEXY MESSAGE BUZZED IN THE TREE OF SILENCE. Paranoid Blues, pendulum of explosions.
There’s a clock that doesn’t chime, an accumulation of errors, an extraordinary push forward. The masses aren’t against it anymore, they follow as they shit. The incurable backwardness of words doesn’t seem to affect the hopeless revolutionary without a revolution… Zippies and Yippies face each other, that was yesterday… Psychedelic Fascism considers itself in silence, like a period in history… the masses don’t understand that parties and ideologies have no reason for being — the rest sheds its skin, every day technological advances solve our problems — false information shakes the Planet, the universe shudders, freckles disappear… Blue Grass, language can’t foresee the variations/mutations, the body doesn’t reject the vision that sometimes ignores it at times… Chorus of information… On the way things change, and yet everything was very clear, to produce, consume, govern, conserve — flesh pivots on reality — music invades the sky where stars are extinguished.
What are we doing on Earth today?
We’re doing a lot of jacking off. Flakes and flowers disembark. Sketches frozen in the “they say”, the sketch of the drama, of the world.
Time flies and makes you cry.
Pendulum of explosions — blue wounds the shadow — wood enters the fray, unravels the knots of given space, on the way back the signs of the times… An axe posted on the heart of the Punk Zodiac… dice roll on the mirror… the other side is closed forever — nights tighten up, the pliers of the wind whine, you can become familiar with God, neon bleeds night — dawn will be…banana-shadow.
A streak of abstractions pinches the universe. God is having fun. A bisexual God smokes hash. God takes a fix, clasps the blue ropes spouting from the hi-fi channel, bites his nine-string guitar, busts his electric organ… then the catastrophes? Wars?… soundlessly night opens its wings, a slight tremor… the straw man and the man of the street straddled a supersonic turd, patrolling the sky. The survivors don’t carry away any image of that world.
Light images are imprisoned in bubbles, the felt pen has become an outlaw. The media have manufactured everything. The sexy message buzzes in the silence-tree. The scenery collapsed. The ideological services were overwhelmed. Armed bands looted the supermarkets, attacking passers-by savagely, raping young girls, sodomizing boys, set schools on fire, dynamiting subway entrances at rush hour, hordes of dwarfs were setting the world on fire, millions of Chinese children are born between the pear and the cheese… a recapturing of those old harmonies on the screen… The Evil Eye weaves the vines of time.
Bureaucracy believes it’s time to rectify. A flood of precision. The world, seen from Washington, from Paris, London, Moscow, Peking, is entangled in a complex game of war and peace, negotiations, recycling, absorptions… Our Lady of the Snows, an island on the moon and an American flag… I won’t take back what I have said, nor retrace my steps, nor take back what I have not said…
The secret meaning of words lands on the dunes, escaping from the given or received language. I go through the looking-glass whistling a popular tune.
Drunk, God paints the hills and caresses the forests. Blue speeds, without a license, on the highway. Thousands of youngsters flee the grey suburbs only to land in other places, and I’m going to shit as soon as I can.  There, that’s how heaven is destroyed, how flowers are poisoned.
Such tatters have built the world.
Operation “Reel Fucks Real!”… hell in the city — a tear engulfed in a surplus of signs in a bone sky — the great tear-basin, Fuji-Mojo, Yin Yang-Tidal Wave, flowers, seeds, fruit, wild animals… the audition is positive… the wind splits in half too, no pun intended… the music of West winds rains in my head, look, look at yourselves, look here and there, for an instant, a little inside and there outside, fast, now, God asks you to live in the raw flesh of consciousness. A poet’s soul enters childhood without knocking, then it wanders, it can’t tune into its birth date, nor in its civil status, nor even to the color of its eyes.
Tonight, near the pond, tenderness overflows. It’s already spring. Everything comes from the trees, flowers, odors, the cries of birds, songs, music and dancing — honey drips into milk — the blue of the sky drinks of pure joy.
Can you hear the public complain? Wind-tears say no comment. Anything heard starts to live according to your nerves. That’s what creation is all about —  shooting stars rain down, smiling — A brain turd takes off. Sunflowers breathe and sing. It’s raining.
Mist envelops the hills. The sun is shining. I only have one pack of Camels left, a half bottle of gin, two or three joints, and God never announces His visit)… intervals, zigzags, puzzles, the wind’s hoarse voice seems in a hurry to end it all among the dolmens and menhirs, the fresh wind and its throng of nudes enchants us.
All the landscapes dance in my heads, like the face-to-face that devours us.  Elderberry marrow in the honeyed milk, a sun bubble inhales a shadow. I hope it lasts a long time… so, now your slogans?… the Universe must dig it!… The scream swallows itself… blood-orange on a cloud — a rose in the desert, and death, dumb, gaga, hangs out on Earth — blue flashes go bananas and sew up the clouds, and what does it matter whether you’re in New York or Frisco, or in London, Kabul or Amsterdam?… Electrodes spit, and God sees… but will He know what happened on this planet one day?
Blue and orange vapor — a slow shock, soft, deep, liquid, a tingle, a set of geysers, an excess of silence in this quagmire of shadows — God said to me: Man, I would like to die far away from here… Soprano-dick in the English sky… romances, the cosmic prix-fixe and a studio-sneeze… this book of hours was an amalgam of variations, improvisations, tapes and scraps… An island on the moon called Solitude.
It’s red, it’s blue. Music flows under your feet, an image wiggles its hips — St. Ives, Land’s End, Beachy Head, Big Sur, Muir Beach, Mount Bay, Bodega Bay, dispersed beaches and canyons — rocks console each other, images strip in front of the waves.
Operation “Feed Your Head! Make Your Move!” — poem! Mercy! Shanti! Satori! Hi-han! That I am?… every morning wind-bark cries out, sadness collides with you, and misery — just see the star-studded wrinkles of those who have wept so much, just look at the hamburger-mugs of the squares and the militants who have hated too much, look at the average joe, the parvenus, the seedy, look at the lotus murmuring on the lips of those who have loved too much — poets always do several things at once, they dominate speed and slowness, and they are often wrong to play politics… I hear the song of the poor sufferers, I hear the masses of slaves coughing in the dark… Grass takes refuge in the shadow-target. Night shakes itself in front of the TV.

(to be continued…)

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