Kali Claude Yug Pélieu Express 8

Claude Pélieu : KALI YUG EXPRESS

Translated by Mary Beach



Some time ago I lent a few slogans to the wind, just for laughs. A Yippie fantasy. We were on the West Coast, in our cabins, speeding on the highways in our Buick, Chrysler, Chevrolet, Pontiac, VW, Cadillac, spending our nights in sailor and truck drivers’ dives, in transvestite bars and psychedelic nightclubs. Some of the men had longhair. Others had short haircuts. Grass was illegal but LSD wasn’t forbidden by the rigors of Law — and now that the rain has washed everything, I’m sitting on that fence, I watch the hills shiver — the wind is sitting down playing jacks… anything alive shudders with pleasure, like sleeping woods… the bubbles of hunger have risked all, and the sky weeps in a hollow. The shadow rises, bleeds a halo. Memory resembles a long flabby lip.
We bump into no-love on all the roads of the world.
Poets have joined together in the center of the mosaic-mandala, electronic and democratic. Old pinball machines are lost in the sky, with the clouds, brand new jukeboxes, and millions of children have died of rage… cats continue to play, birds take their veils off, flying hearts don’t see the trees weep… and writers write, militants militate, video-spheres bleed, newspapers and reviews pile up… I don’t do anything special, I’m about to leave again, America, Canada, Tangier, Cape Town, I don’t know where… so, I’m leaving burns in a shower of sparks — it’s possible to think that all is well, write poems, have “lovely thoughts”, live away from it all, to get really high, talk for the sake of talking, about this or that, in the air… in fact, it’s true, all is well — all’s well for me, that’s important, all’s well for the cats, birds, squirrels, frogs, for sparks, a wood fire never babbles, and cannabis-time flows on the brims of cocks, asses and cunts.
Phony wars, catastrophes, dramas and a thousand miseries, night’s bowl is overflowing, meat comes under the knife, silence — a large block of sun hides behind the TV, all the clocks are ventriloquists, and on the volcano of words catherine wheels swallow rainbow colors. Time capsules are bleeding.
(Strong smell of nothing comes from France. Strange, you’d have to leave by leaps and bounds, variable intervals, further away, but towards what?)… faded smoke… it rises, it relates, and the second soul comes to mind, the zombie is erased, and, of course he returns from time to time, but no longer has any power —  slips into the field of vision, the doors of perception revolve, a blue reflection, a flame, a dance, the ball of figure-shapes and souls. They articulate. Enter. Leave. Here-inside and there-outside. And God put the brakes on… (not so sure, I’m positive of nothing, I’ve got my eyes open, that’s all)… in any case the experience was beneficial. We are now 1973, it’s all over. People have gone away to die very far away, as tourists.
A living world is always dangerous, iniquitous, and no matter where we go we can’t escape violence. That’s how you travel, that’s how you find the sun again, stones, the sky, water, wind, stars, the desert, plants and animals, and that’s how we start to live again, and the soul rejoices. This world belongs to us, it is ours… like the pioneers of the Wild West you’ll just have to recognize each other, contradict each other and communicate, forget certain things, to commit follies by forgetting each other, to dive into the heart of the world and die there… tragedy doesn’t exist here, but back in the cucumber-world of Social Security… For God’s sake! They even regret that fire exists!… obsessions, miseries, hysteria, we make so much of those things, and no-color shudders with pleasure.
Gelatine, cramps, nausea, the raw being advances in blue dew. Wrinkles on top of the hill. The wind reinvents itself all the time, and we can only express ourselves with words, or with something like that. Everything is inscribed in an air of universal imbecility… Poets must be heard now… unknown voices must be followed, like you follow a herd of wild horses in the Great Plains. You must live. Everything must live. Now. Forever.
What are they doing? And those? and him? and her?…No one knows, just a guess, we pass by, and that’s right. All our cells emit, high frequency never varies — from the last telex we learn horrible things — the musicians move, shine, slip, electronic targets, blue and gold unfurl, neon dances, the lightshow is within you… music for eyes up there on the mountain… The evening shadow sets fire to a corpse-laden field… The gongs of violence are now quiet  — Let’s not talk about that ever again, boredom wins — we have to move — a drop of dew falls… a tiny sound all in flesh.


May it all start over…
The ruins of an adventurous education of a young man should be prospected. The crazy, vampire youth, so fragile… A fixed idea shining under Sally Harmony’s scalpel, alias Sally Ka-Ka, a fixed idea that devours an old photo inside my “scrapbook”… it’s not necessary to invent words to speak about hell. It’s clear that those odors escape from crumbling flesh.
The gongs of violence cancel that clog and demolish this galaxy.
Doodling-film of a suffering-language, a poet’s ideas polluting the archipelago  of silence, stale words rotting in empty streets with phantoms and specters with ridiculous, atrocious, unbearable scenes.
Planets stirred by totalitarian sounds. Explosions… banks and hospitals, factories and barracks, universities, penitentiaries, cities and suburbs in ruins.. A pink moon vacillates and bombards us with sparks. Slobbering throngs escaping from blond suburbs set on fire by stoned thugs, feed on garbage, carrying out strange rites in vacant fields and parking lots. Human sacrifices, ritual killings, black magic, what do I know?… hallucinating, tele-manipulated cannibals… nightmares ripped from an old film, words torn from robots and technicians overcome by events.
Riot-tattoos, grins, raids, attacks, kidnappings, festivals, police operations, waves of arrests, bloody demonstrations… neon has made a date in your dreams… shards, ruins, atomized panorama, ossuaries, sounds imitating the odors of rainbows and sprays… TV-shards in metallic jungles vomit the bubble-visions of the hanged, strange fruit swinging on the girders of a pylon… a powdery night enveloping mercenaries with chromosomes damaged by the drugs that were distributed to them by the Law and Order computer. The war is over, what does that mean? The clicks of Polaroid cameras in the back-stages of the world. The north wind carries away thousands of objects. Death’s laughter is full of smoke. The pest threatens the ghettoes, old hags from the Third World drown in the color film projected by the Red Dykes.
Ecce Homo… tragic and burlesque the man kneaded in tears and laughter, blood and shit, that’s the way it goes… it’s only in suffering that man perceives reality… reality? Did he invent it because of suffering?… well, they pissed me off enough, men with their arts, with their snide actions, here are some of them in the extraordinary cut/ups, short and tall, fat and thin, crouching in horrible sobs, groaning with joy and pleasure, gobbling like pigs, weeping like whales, polishing their phony prophecies. The women weep also, sneaking away from hiccup to orgasm, they are, of course, obliged to dominate us to save us from any worry… anyway, for the moment, men are the ones who make me mad and who piss me off.
“Damn bastards!”, that’s about all I have to say… those shits fuck my head.
May it all start over, bird brains!…a young man devouring the prospectuses of this galaxy-film. Empty streets wounded by shards of neon. Ghetto-colors feed your dreams.
A clear fixed idea, emerges from the smell of violence.
Stoned hippies in the jungles of the Third World.
“Are you plugged in, fat boor? Well, then serve it up hot, Xerox is in the backstage”… you, and your dreams! Shit!… a porn panorama jostling the illegible given language… Neon scalpel devouring Sally Harmony’s sex… every message springs from between the thighs of the demonstrators… archipelagos of orders rendered stale by reality… sounds of pasteurized planets… everything explodes!… Surreal crowds buzz in vacant lots, stunned in front of the old film engulfed in a flow of garbage, pale tattoos in the eyes of the image-police… the war is over… noises, smoke, cries, cities puke severed fingers and old dentures, nationalist clicks and excrement-smoke clamps, and the wind carries it all away, red plague, the yellow peril and black tide.
“By dint of communicating the guy became an instrument of psychedelic fascism. Kick the flutes of Krishna out, immediately!”
Who is talking like that?
An old photo was nothing but a word, — a loss of memory — gongs and transistors mix their lights of falling darkness. Galaxy-scrawls don’t answer anymore… empty streets invaded by crazy Blacks… a Street of total Renunciation… strange rites, unmentionable murders… With its complete mass neon ejaculates odor-shards of sexual hunger, vaporizing anxiety on crowd imprisoned in their bubbles. Polaroid Chromosomes don’t answer either. Howling hags invade the ghettos.
Bubble-stars announce the end of the world. Neon screams in the empty streets. Sand is buried under your feet. Broken images disappear. The sun spatters us. The wind unsticks the horizon’s skin.
Night is torn apart — when you’re nowhere reality isn’t an empty room —  outside branches shuffle the cards, the screams of pollution scorn silence, the last diamonds of conscience decompose under a broken geyser… and this line is the story of THAT death… prisms, rumors, seasons play chess, the elements weave the world’s songs… we came from heaven (we weren’t all born in paradise) — the great North reorganizes light, and on the Seven seas intrepid travelers dance — The story of that death won’t abolish the death of others. Life is now merely an illustration, with words on the side of the shade, and in bright sunlight volumes of nature become visible… huge green prairies calm the intense rage of images… one sign, and you’re in all of reality, far from the dangerous semantic traps… that’s the way it goes, a “trip”. A flower that opens, a blue flame, and it’s all over. What the shadow leaves behind blurs our trajectories.
A smile, a grimace beheads the clouds.
Two blackbirds go through a curtain of rain and vanish among the red pines.
Realities full of charms. The wrinkle-lipped mornings that we have experienced in the merest detail. Daylight. The gears of the daily grind weep in front of the unclimbable walls of thorns and nettles. The wind strips time’s tune.
An event, a violet spot was dyed blond — flowers’ prisms howling to break eardrums with the trees only to say they have no secrets — solitude buzzes… a Western at the gates of heaven.
Emeralds and wild bushes asleep on the granite.
Here’s a syringe full of tears, and there, grass shivers.
Chance sinks straight down. Dew lands on our lips like the sound of a bonfire. Chance lisps, it’s ass between two chairs… as soon as chance stops lisping, grass turns green… the universe is partying, and the dogs run with the wolves in their eyes… blue icicles on the Heart Reef… London beheads silver echoes, and the city, anchored in eternity, begs for a little sand from metronomes and murmurs. Noise is noise. Dawn coughs between the walls of silence. Fire spits on Big Ben’s huge balls… gently night folds over the highway.
London in a dawn-cartridge, in the broken void, leading the wind — this morning the planet/garden was all red, continent-scheme where the wisdom teeth of a generation rot in slow motion — silently frost empties the pond. Pink eucalyptus trees are dying. An immense lack of communication fills the planet, silence unmakes the river bed.

Silence and famine riding a cloud. Landscapes full of tears. Fury and blood from one end of the world to the other. Excrement-language around wrecked men. Toboggan-vision, rot. Animals having no country, a society with neither males nor females. (We can do without anything, from the first page to the last — my goal isn’t to judge the propositions of one and the other, nor on what to drink or eat, nor on the 46 chromosomes of urban guerilla warfare, nor…) — embryos wiggling in the pale winter sun — stars, comets and satellites beyond the broken lines of the horizon, genetic information for all… casually, a computer explodes in the suburbs of Technopolis…
An indifferent face, grey and ageless, having the normal number of chromosomes, a face begins spontaneous division, cut/up which sells life and death to X and Y and Z chromosomes… heterosexual face, girl and boy scale, a contrary face doesn’t have the right to enter, girl-face doesn’t have the right to leave… a redemptive face receives grass as a sacrament… a wave of mud to bless the lineage on its way, muddles by the numerous mutations.
Saving genetic combinations. Don’t play the apprentice sorcerer too often… Crazy Blacks dandified come out of the walls with the cockroaches — extremely putrid odors escape from the ghettoes, footballs and starving rats are released —  Blacks chewing cigarette stubs wait for dark nights with crapper-Chinks, neurotic Poles and recycled chimpanzees… crazy Blacks will blow up more than one stetson  when we will have finished shooting the last ecological Western.
Ecoshit, of money and arms… and Mr. Soul straddling the President, big prick Blacks that we displace with their empty eyes on the Jewish screen in the Bronx… TNT brays for the poor Blacks with napalm and gelatine, the usual procedure of the meat industry, raising decibels, and over there, a bit of grey cloth dripping with grease over Spanish Harlem — we’re there, with our whole words and our cut words, we’re there and we eat our own shit, we’re the emulsion of shit-words.
A camera visa for another time.
Who do you think you are?
Some catatonic hippies demonstrate… a voice: “Your sleeping bags stink! Your hair stinks! And your feet! Your asses! Your cocks! You all stink, bidet scrapings! Crypt-jerks! Pinkos! … You’re entering the Fork-Era, you’re on the Manson-Nixon Pox line, you’re the Digestive Carnival”… screams, jostling… I was the Bilgray’s Tropico ventriloquist, mind-vision, bones and soul, but the old hippies still want to chose their words. Summer will be hot for the losers.
I am the pulpy scenery. I am a pin up and the slamming door. I am you. I am myself. I am that English village sobbing over Miami Beach. I am sitting in the bar, near the nightclub, close to the golf links in Carmel Highlands. I am Malibu Beach. I am Key Largo, Key West. I am that street riot. I am those carbonated tears. I am that showbiz embryo. I am that TV screen and that Comix. I am the record of your own life. Watch out, tadpoles! The Brain Police is everywhere, recruiting its agents in industrial jungles, the underworld, middle class and sexual proletariat. I think that the time has come to cut your hair and to change your uniforms. Horrible, provocative things babble in the dead cities. Filthy colors sparkle through the psychedelic penal-years. There are no more poets. They’re all dead. They continue to speak on the scratched record of happiness merchants… broken lights cruise behind the shacks where hamburgers are sold… masses of obscene noises on the ideological merry-go-round… you’re forewarned, you absurd idiotic jerks… bloody kapok spatter morgue sounds.
You’re forewarned, don’t grease the paw of a one-armed man, because I’m here and I can do without the first page. Embryo-comet breaking down the face of XY of the crazy Black… Landless animals wiggling with embryos in food and drink beyond the pale… Info possesses you, spontaneous division forces you to come and go… cigarette stub chewing Blacks vanish in the Soul Western — Braille TV has produced an excellent afternoon — We devour the sky, and decibels provoke the dead cities using our camera visas at the very first page… cut/up chromosomes and colors cruise in the pale winter sun.
I sell life and death, girls and boys. I am the cosmic dealer. Along the road you’ll find your own skulls devoured by apprentice rats and the crazy Blacks will eat your white livers… Blacks that explode before the end of the shooting of the film… empty arms and eyes, grey industries, guerilla-words… Do you hear? Can you hear them?… ventriloquists’ souls plugged into digestive devices of operetta Chinks.
I’m hot pressure-decor. I’m carbonized sobs. I’m that seedy nightclub, Bork Tropico. I am the right to enter and leave. I am that wall. I’m full darkness and dawn. We’re all here. Everyone and everything/ With our shitty visions and the way we compose words. Rotten sleeping bags above Miami. A Swami-morgue bulls hitting in the subway. I’m that street riot, cutting your own lives and jamming your brain waves.
Nixon and Manson are profiled on that wall. Pink flash imitates their movements.
Neutral words twinkling in the streets of London.
Cut/up scream over Key West.
I am the automatic gate.
Famine-silence at the end of night, a spectral pinball machine swallowing the tears of a generation of stutterers — night falls, flop!!… a little white magic to calm sexual hunger of the working class… crazy Blacks jack off furiously in the back stage of the Crazy Horse Saloon… sexual mosaic ads — where are we? as the pages go we become stale. The visible mutation of the message delivered by the grimace merchant.
Planet Earth doesn’t answer anymore… silence cracks… voices burst behind the clouds.
A sign of life carried away by a voice in tears.
We’re finally leaving dreams and the infinity of cheap junk — we’re always with the times, we’re not in space — we’re here, beaten down by political fiction, and the flowers smile as soon as night loses its footing, then they go away, from void to void, with bent heads.


The astronauts have returned. Psychedelic babies have reached maturity.
The Soviet cosmonauts said:
“We were expecting you. And we were waiting to see what the others had already seen before us. Of course, we’ve read a lot, and, naturally we imagined something, uh, um, well, it turned out differently…”
Outside the space ship the cosmos looks like an abyss, a bottomless well. The earth looks flat, and it was only by looking at the horizon that we could see its spherical shape.
Black cosmic night. Raw stars. Sun — a red disc embedded deep in the blue-black velvet of eternity — remarkable acoustics.
The cosmonaut remaining in the cabin can hear the sound of boots and  hands of the one walking in space against the sides of the spaceship.
From the Earth you can’t imagine anything like it.
Under this black surface they expected to see something rigid in stones, outside the ship, listening to all the worlds. Music with nothing and by no one. And the Earth lost in blueness.
Sounds, flashes, eco-horizons’ bony holiday air, and cosmic stars on a raw gold background.
Seen from the cosmos a twilight eye of black velvet. Fascination. Hallucination. Without false simulation, you can’t imagine anything comparable, and on the radar screen I stared at the order coming from below: RIGHT HERE, WRITE NOW… all worlds are audible… Orange caressed the blue coast, abandoned on the seat of dreams… no real danger, only the exaggerated curve of the eco-horizon.
A camera stabbed by an earthling.
White’s glove slaps the red disc.
Cosmic insolation for the Soviets.
Sky music, air waves, shadow-graphs, murmurs sown by the angels of earth. Landscapes, traces, spots, sounds, and void welded to human movements.
We enter. We leave. We’re inside. We’re outside.
Electric Rainbow, Space Agency Bulletin.
I oscillate inside someone else’s words. Lost, reckless, in a bowl of screams. A little pre-raphaelic fear. A Russo-American cut, and several years between three experiences.
An after-glow pierces dawn. A current of water slow and heavy. Thick, mossy,  stringy, gummy things… a counter-sky belonging to that old Western, American colors… San Francisco… scars burned alive by a laser beam.
Our baggage of wings was light, and I was told the sun shines in Mexico City… I know that the world continues to be wrong, and that the dead ventriloquist hands claim that Nature looks poorly. What’s left of Nature today?
Nerves hesitate. Hearts don’t beat anymore. Ink sticks in your throat. Neon-scissors drown.
A tear in what’s left of blood — huge sobs tinkling like cherries, as if to say adios, as if to tell you adieu with its eyes in Indian summer milk — as if to say that the belly-furrows ought to be named after flowers and fruits.
I regroup the pages of this journal that stirs ten light-years.
A second-nature coma, and ashes squeak between my teeth… reality breaks into dream-folds… so, just think of the huge insignificance of a book… Fuck it all, trash-memories, nervous breakdowns… the eye’s locket bursts!… you find yourself high as a kite, and you don’t know why… you don’t know why you’re healed, you came a long way, that’s all. At times we feel that we’re terrible assassins.
The cold crowd lacerates the sky behind the real world. And me, breathing here at 13,000 meters up with that fruit swollen with milk, born in the heart of a star… absent-mindedly junkies are spewed back by time’s test-tubes… a shadow equinox… “with that mummy submitted  totally to the image,”, Shiva, Kali Ma, Jesus Superstar, etc… full mouths stick up a sign… there’s time to tiptoe out.
Tea blooms in springtime battles… like drugs… that’s the way pot vanishes, and the black lysergic revelation… old brain-transfers you’re forewarned — tear-covers and faded bellflowers, dawn, dawn-recipient — the tears of a generation evacuate the cool child… they all wept, even the astronauts wept… everything evaporates, even the conscience/world in the image-sound jungle…  postal dust, synchronized visions, and a fire-tattooed Atlantic mixes its voice with the sands of the Gobi desert, silence escapes, survival lines are visible.
The cameras scan the cosmic void.
Our ocean-planet is blue. We’re tuned into the worlds. Stars on a black background, antennae erected at twilight.
The shadow defrocks proverbs and scream bindings.
Defunct April stabs the rain.
Black and Jewish skins on display.
American colors. November, Kennedy is assassinated. Owsley makes LSD for humanities greatest good. Right here, write now. Snoopy flipped out, the lotus-eater doesn’t answer anymore…
(Paris-Match, June 30th 1973, “Skylab: 28 days in the beyond”, an Article by Raymond Cartier. THE ASTRONAUTS HAVE RETURNED.)
At the speed of light this is my version that is torn in flight. We were really forced to act that way, six hundred Japanese hoped so… international salt-shakers in the cabin of the burst satellite… American nerves wakening the base-sounds, adventurers gravitating around fields of stars. The three photo-men seemed to be asleep. Toilets and word lists, the destinies of electronic champions, camera-shears from Missouri.
Doctor Montezuma’s Hymn to the Ventilator… you’ll know the universe and the gods… French cleaning ladies in suspension, bathing in pots of cold cream… indispensable for a few days, heightening their voices, sucking cosmic rays.
Vacuums climbing ultraviolet urban zones. Sky 73 in the harmony of spheres, forming a whole, Conrad, Kirwin, Weitz… an experimental menagerie, tainted objects, demolition on earth — Captain Sun is responsible for food and water — will soon be dead, vaporizing euthanasia Texas, with no help from weight, congealed, like Lexington in vinegar… wants to know if the hallucinating traveler of no return has something to say — guinea pigs determining the weight of their organs, circumstantial sketches, spacial information… the astronauts inventory the final phases… Phase 1: recognizing space, degree zero, quite formless — avid crews, embrace the whole thing.
Do you remember? Three Russians, a mechanical technical accident, or?…433 kilometers of distress… Houston Stormfury at the time of catastrophes, the fall of old dreams in a urine analysis. Three centimeters of Skylab, Hurricane NATO… the eye searches the earth, sometimes reaching ecology… an intensely visible planet.
The Geography of the Universe, phase 2: a permanent acquisition for humanity… 29 anomalies to combat every year… snow and rain men… the sun pumping excrements in fusion… future men will be the masters of the energy of matter… an avalanche of time — ears volatilized by experience, America’s distress turned into stars — ocean-cubes in the atmosphere, order abolished in the true Cosmos… the astronauts have returned… bip-bip of the old dream… incredible visions, two and a half billion dollars saved in extremis by Sweet Missouri… an ultraviolet rainbow, operation “Cold Cream” — the astronauts were pieces of bread, Karwin and Weitz transparent, eating with straws, dollars floating in fields of stars — a cosmos with no language doesn’t know itself yet… who knows who will be energy?
Skylab adventurer are intrepid travelers. Astronaut-bases, wide awake men, interchangeable photos, mental space cameras sucking ultraviolet voices… recognizing the three dead Russians in Stormfury … probe-crews… grapefruits made in space, out of cut/ups, tarn in flight, gravitating into Missouri’s ultraviolet rainbow… will die because of those circumstances — leisure of the future — Phase  Orange a focal conscience-catastrophe — Zone doesn’t answer anymore — swirls of excrement, distress-energy… the NASA eye searches America turned into a true cosmos… bip bip bip bip… ultraviolet toothpaste quite hallucinatory… 600 Japanese cutting American nerves in Houston… the call of the sky… the future will teach us. The astronauts have returned.


At that very moment American colors and Soviet colors were in space…
The suburb eyes of Los Angeles mixed with vertigoes, to mobs of posters and billboards, to flashing signs, pushing sexes to the end of their ropes. The great sexual hunger landed on the Oakland Ghetto, crouching under the Bay Bridge… A zoo of bitterness, poverty, hate, violence and idiocy… a narrow world where tenderness survives even though eroded by the spiral of the system.
Voodoo night — the dead dance on the city of twisted arms — Old movie and burlesque tickets carried away by the wind. A Californian leper-colony… televised mirages, taxi-shards, a sexual heat wave… I see them all in a flashback on the luminous posters, in sexy cotton balls, in the inventory of dead skins.
A few trips… El Paso, Santa Monica, Frisco, Seattle, Vancouver… tears as blue as the wild iris of Big Sur… Pulverized images inside the show, or in a song I had heard at the El Panama Hotel… personal screams and messages, and the light songs of Police alarms… a tailspin into nerve-mold — words scattered under a microscope… Times Square, the Strip, Avenues B & C, blue prints of Grant Avenue — I think it’s time to talk about the astronaut’s mental equilibrium, brutally mutated in an unknown milieu… what bothers us, what does a man feel like at more than 28,000 feet up?… and what to think about the extraordinary reticence of Leonov and White exactly when they put their spacial cells on?
Was a question of the natural greyness of the man who, body and soul, were participating in a fabulous world premiere?
What to think of the converted and of those who became unhooked?
According to White McDivitt he felt a kind of drunkenness… A distant voice, endlessly repeats, WAR IS A HUMAN THING, WAR IS A HUMAN THING… sprays of neon light on the windshield, an electronic solo in the gazes of Hiroshima- Nagasaki… the spurt of blood in the electrocuted eyes begging for a meager orgasm… painful fragments, emotion retires from the poster.
ACTION — death in a corolla is ambushed on the corner of a street… brief sequences… nothing would have happened if… heavens streaked with black bile… Panama Rose said: We have no time to waste with these gentlemen… Joe Verminex  was ordered to watch over them from afar, from a suburb of frozen fingers occupied by the sexual proletariat.
They came back, alleluia!..
“God is absent”, said one of them.
“Hang up, Rosenberg! You horny viper!”…@ answered the other one.
A fantasy that others had imagined tuned into all the worlds… someone came to buy back His Father’s Kingdom — bright circles grasp Leonov’s hands, who then leaves his seat at the wrong moment, outside the cabin he’s dazzled, as if someone next to him was welding — Lightly, Leonov presses his hands on the side of the ship that moves exactly the way he does, but in the opposite direction… of course, he swears in Russian… swearing in this extraordinary moment… that all the clowns of the Supreme Soviet State are cocksuckers, that the comrades are starting to piss him off… and Belaiev heard it all.
There were a few difficulties for Leonev, (a few worries), when he wanted to return to his spaceship. And he knew how impatient the people on earth were waiting for the end of the experiment. He must have moved a lot in a very short time, with the merest push the space-ship moved away from him, and the KGB bastards, the red spooks got closer.
Leonov and Belaiev saw the red stars, they didn’t see God. McDivitt and White saw the stars on the American flag.
Leonov watched the somber side of the sky through the rays of the sun, pale, very pale — it seemed as if someone had sown black and gold stars — the lenses of the cameras heard it all, the Houston ear sees everything… the immense opacity blushes… in the cabin you had to do everything, you had to come in and go out, go out and in.
You’ll wait forever in the brightness of that light.
Watch out, words die at the slightest pressure…
Leonov leaves his seat and watches the dark side of someone who is welding. How pale he was!… The sides of the spaceship are attacked by pieces of stars.
Scanning the emptiness of the cosmos (that well of hardships) lost in the luminescence, against the clock, returning to the blue-orange, at the appointed time… on earth the CIA and the KGB carved time into propaganda units… brief precise orders… the punks become lyrical… against the sky B & L wiped their hands on a sunbeam — others had already seen that, while speaking to God a long time ago — the cosmonaut’s very slow movements felt the  alienation, and yet they heard the spaceship… no mention, in their reports of the sexual hunger in space… once again, the sky glimpsed through the rays of the sun.
American colors — someone sowed stars… they heard voices… the laborers of space didn’t see the stars scattered by the CIA and the KGB — the cameras came, red phosphorescent orgasms outside the ship, and the earth scratched by blue… coming and going…  Seen from the cosmos the black and blue velvet leaves the air’s seat — emitting from mouth to mouth, that the welder hears on the sly — can you imagine anything deader and sadder than a flag?… luminous signals disintegrate the jukebox… Space Opera… the uninterrupted enjoyment of the camera registering future emptiness.
Chunks of stars, solar oranges…


Who dies on that road, in a black Cadillac, repeating I want to pick it up…?
A legend threading its way with colorless blood through the walls of the city.
Violence. Mystery.
Died on the road, on that little dirt path, Cielo Drive, in the middle of boreal trash, facing the assemblage-horizon of an uncertain decade, searing, desperate, breaking silences and words.
It’s early. I must shave, take a shower, dress, have lunch. The first televised news lands in the bathroom, a distant suicide makes me shudder… daylight weaves a veil of blood around the buildings — a blurred film breathes in the empty margin — nothing has changed, operation “For Who Wishes To Hear…”So, let’s wake up abandoning another piece of life, I ask myself “what makes them write?”
There have been many festivals, the one of Pure Idiocy, the one of Spitefulness, there were huge gatherings, Celebrating Promiscuity, Word Echo Solstice… let’s put aside phrases and historic words, agents, spies, terrorists, agitators, hitmen and extra-terrestrials… dreaming I was cut in tatters of immaturity and limit, and my multiple lives were reduced to zero by destiny… they carved my tele-mechanical sex when I decided to write, then I crashed into the wall of Beat and Hip stupidity… so then I left, flashy in someone else’s clothes, avoiding the polluted air-capsules of revolutionary figures — I was the man with the short hair, the man in the grey flannel suit — The Standard of Being Stoned worked day and night (and I never could connect and soar with them) in spite of the insistence of the Psychedelic Fascist Agency… Yesterday’s dream of today in the frayed afternoon… a bomb in the crapper at the Guys & Dolls a week later… the Cosmo fiendish Agency against the Drugstore of Heaven… strange automobile accidents, defamatory murmurs, curious overdoses, sinister communes and permanent harassment… I left, and when I spy them in the windshield I feel sick… I was the target, I still am, even though all my books have been published… Trinket Brigade, Amulets and Dirty Fingernails collapse on the pile of rags of this decade.
Historic festivals in the windowless sink.
My lives decided to write themselves in the time capsules I’ve been collecting for such a long time.
Who dies through those walls in middle of psychedelic trash? Who died so uncertain while he was shaving, thunder-struck by the fool conforming to the rules’ feeble message?
A suicide’s first televised journal and the word that escapes you. Pure idiocy and public mores in the fuzzy clothes encircling the edge of an electrified minute,  between Honolulu and San Francisco — in a dream reduced with the collapsed figures of operation “Day And Night” — dirty nails murmuring to the second underground skin… the junkies of the 50s and 60s had fallen asleep on the already written pages, a shower of cold and burning points breathing close to my body. A blurred film faced the silence and brouhaha of people coming into the city —  unexplainable , distant spitefulness… let us leave aside the words, the narks, the followers, the ragged men, the losers — someone else avoiding what makes them write on the walls of the city… I was the man in the grey flannel suit, the Ragged Agency beat sex to death under pretext of liberty, and God knows what colorless liberation… died on the road, dead, the victim of an overdose, dead under the influence of LSD… I dress, a veil of blood masks the top of the mountain, the Amphetamine Cowboy lunches in the bathroom, the enemy is ambushed in the empty margin, protected by sono and a purple fog of incense and cooking oil — in the distance a black Cadillac, and a gathering of horizon-consciences.

(to be continued…)

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