Kali Claude Yug Pélieu Express 9

Claude Pélieu. Late fifties, early sixties, Paris, probably.

Claude Pélieu : KALI YUG EXPRESS

Translated by Mary Beach



A felled tree reinvents time — a dirty song in the depths of time — amphetamines have eroded night, we will no longer be alone in this tidal wave of streets, poplars sing, maple trees and hickories nail dew on this mandala, I run after the fog, the fog that offers itself to anybody at all, just like that, without knowing why… I remember those fights with the strands of night over the Golden Gate Bridge…
Blue, solitude buzzes (green eyes in evening gowns, dreaming, blinking), chance-blue in the center of the brain-failure. We’re on the freeway, PACKING UP & GOODBYES, the ruts of the brain feel great love sorrows… a harvest of sparks, just listen to the wind — wood screams on the corner of a shadow — rain and cold have created this calendar, and on the other side of present time space and the little stars that light up in the evening, a Western at the gates of heaven, Cannabis Junction, Snowhill, Primrose Hill, noise rotates infinity — the jaws of dawn on every airwave —  radars, sonars, jumbo jets, tragic effusions, crumpled porcelain in present time’s den bristling with evil dibbuks… rain begets camouflage that mercilessly betrays the daily grind… colics and coughing fits bring us together…those whose hearts are too petty ruminate like emaciated cows — Liberty, white mint, our gazes turn into icicles, those who feel like captives of dreams have no wings, and hear neither one or the other — puns are superimposed indefinitely, prodded by cloud-images… cold colors, sad songs, death visits museums, new flowers pack up jigsaw puzzles and the rain’s punches spare no one.
Water-carrying colors, heavy night nets, silence breaks you apart — cold colors in the rain know that death isn’t favored by nature, and water disguised as tears shouldn’t be mentioned — on an emerald line silence protects pale flowers that twist around the window.
Noise bothers infinity.
Flash-rose sighing under a scarf of fog.
Broken air turns around the airport.
They claim that the situation is complicated, Zim Zum landscape opens up onto a few reflections…
Clouds, traces of salt, a scavenger-sun, alphabets of broken fingers, childhood’s embers die like weeds — a nonchalant eye, a tongue lashing, a string of dreams, a bushy void… all that rules in any kind of wind, until the next shower… colors weren’t hungry behind the clouds.
Horizon-bubbles that my tears swallow, black waves and clamors gag herbs… the sky is decomposing (we felt a tenderness for all things you can’t even imagine)… a pyre-twilight caresses time’s fur… fruit twisted by foam, the hurricane addresses the tides.

A Polaroid rainbow, a prayer full of claws — I bleed noise to feed silence — I’m from everywhere, I’m from nowhere… flakes of stones and jigsaw puzzles… sobs… you might say they holler like the deaf, like eyes inhabited by silence, like the wind carried away by a stream of poisoned saliva.
Corny brains advance slowly and quietly.
Time-table — souls creak — the rest sink into the sewers of gossip… I shit on the balcony of the Consulate, billboards were on fire, and water came from God’s mouth… Kentucky Fried Chicken, Pepsi Cola, Blue Movie, Players, etc…hamburgers bury their dead… THC a safari every day, Neon Park, Zazen Alley… a song, “You’re filthy. But You’re Handsome”… colors have adopted all the flowers, good humor dives into vermillion, and tongues are unwound under a steel sky.
If God regrets nothing, I don’t either — Sad dead people won’t go far and neither will you — the sun has puked a billion snakes, fire has harvested the jukeboxes, scissors salivate, and you have a hard time keeping up with me… the cosmonauts’ empty uniforms leak weights and measures, seaweed applauds sand that refuses to question the stars — the horror-circle closed by the Evil Eye — cosmic signals, publicity gestures, scarlet battery lights up the window… I dance with X-rays, cold scissors salivate, hate babbles… let’s tear the veil… the soft typewriter delivers us to mirages and falls asleep in dust. Robots have ambushed themselves in the DOPE fuse… grass isn’t only washed in laughter and tears… empty mirrors announce the Spring… prisoners of flowers, and on the other bank the clouds jostle each other.


When we’re in hollows shadows tie knots with our dreams on sale and our drifting wandering in vacant lots that encircle the technological ossuary, on the way we smile at the flowers jotting everything down, day and night we’re in the domain of songs — displays of meat bleed, frozen foods rot, supermarkets are battle fields like illegible landscapes. Crumpled by speed — stoned, confusing the colors, I write while I chew on cedillas, and I lose myself in the fog, recreating stolen time… well-named unbreakable stars — an island on the moon — Mary Jane sez Happy Xmas, and the weeping flowers follow the wind. They point at you, like blood shed that straddles our words. We’re the masters of waves off shore… obscure stitches on the launching pad of laughter… a rusty tear in the hollow of the vision-wave… we come as we scratch, we repopulate mirrors, snow dazzles us… midnight already, noon already, then frost loses its foothold and babbles, tremors on the window sill — a target that is all of space…
The sky’s spare parts are off on a honeymoon. Prophecies pour out of the jukebox. We’re inside the almond-night… could you be insolent enough to believe the miraculous tricks and lies of the governments of the earth?… one day the Ocean will slit clouds’ throats.
We may have dazzled a generation, and blue tea erases the deletions that yawn in front of the computers of the Brain Police. Robots plunge their fingers in your mouths, the shadow only dreams of azure, never of people…
Hollywood Burbank Airport, flowers dance on the windshield… words squashed in my pockets will land in the ears of the deaf… transmission of thoughts in the back seat of a Buick… (what’s the answer?… The question is a crystal ball, a postage stamp drifting around the Ocean-Planet… who wants to walk on clouds?) —  mauve brunettes blondes draw in the sky — I see the call of seagull incrusted in a cloud… Naked, stars swallow light, and flowers bounce on the ruins of tranquility… Old stones dream on the Great Plains and nothing happens, the wind’s propellers lie down.
Shadows, gusts of wind, rain, blue cigarettes, grey stones crushing the field of vision — heart-world Yi King — images in love with all the windy words, every sign explodes… every electrified minute poses the same question… and thought wounded by Death TV pulls out the hairs of a cloud… Nothing happens. Sometimes childhood catches you in the throat like a wave… a tide of tears… Watered tomorrow.
Dreams for sale, silence within my eyesight. Our secret gardens fight against the density of winter’s raw vibrations, made known to you by the shadow’s torrential neon lights. With a single look discovering the ocean and its foliage, the naked soul, dolmens discovering the silence when the river carries a pyre of bubbles away… we’re here, with our words, libido-typo and a sexy diver’s suit… amphetamines bite into night, phosphorescent clouds… and hail strides across the plains… from rain to rain perfumes feel our faces — robots’ cruel tools set fire to this day’s end grasped by rain — a white stone lies down on a record, grass peeks out of the snow hitting you in the back.
Stoned in the woods… deep inspiration among the branches of eating and drinking, laughing and weeping… erect I interpret a point of the dawn (vertigo has no ulterior motives) foam soiled by snow mourns this mandala.
Sounds in snow-water — Polaroid Blues — the sound of shattered glass tells us that emptiness is ageless — with great speed the sun rises in the sky, and with all its weight the wrinkle-impulse turns the bone-lock of violence and paranoia… hate and political hallucinations blacken dawn… dream-waves within reach, naive souls yield to neon, and once more silence caresses a taxi-cloud as soon as words fall from your lips. Bewitching void music enters every body, A RAINBOW FOREVER —  crumpled seasons, cold chasms — idiotic mouths forcing flowers to fade — we’re inside our bubbles and green wood dries before images do. Naked & stoned in the woods… kilometers of noises… songs live in the streets.


Multicolored smiles on the road. Spaghetti Junction…
A few tears broke against the hedge of lilac trees, with sly images, snow-drops, primroses and violets… many-colored waves in the pale sun gained a little time… a secret smoke in which I drown… rumors, I hear mouths blossom, their fangs in the humid moss — ambushed in a bottle of after-shave a dead man crushes his bones, neon cracks — Nuclear Fuck Bits & Pieces — who is in those empty streets with jets of echoes and ultraviolet ricochets? Who? Death’s disturbed singing strips flowers and petrified souls… rain doesn’t speak that language, nor dead birds abandoned in empty streets… the bizarre creations of silence, seeds gloved with pearls, crowds germinating in dew… I only have a few wrinkles around my eyes, they’re disappearing in smoke… God hatches a dildo on the ashes… and a few days ago I jotted down: and that’s the ultimate on drumming, Lee Crabtree… three days earlier A.G. told me he had committed suicide… death always wants to tell us something — images tremble, robots hand out the roles you must play — inflatable instructions of the assassins of nature who invented the word HYGIENE.
Some voices murmur on history’s table. The game consists of sublimating the last squawk, and the wheel’s music, well, I think it is better to steal the Grand Lama’s oranges than to be a street lamp in Belfast or the idol of youth… and mirror playing (Surrealistic procedures and old lace) of beings who feel like dissolving souls… I find myself in the middle of a red stain — Technology’s fanfares will never replace interdiction to create, to enjoy, to live, and the social filth of every day life has made that flabby music that everyone has in his eyes — silhouettes strangled by rain… the last letters of our alphabets plant their laughter in caramel-images. Anyway, I shone without the help of your fucking sun, the sandman wanted to sell me the shadow that was overpowering him… today the sun is laughing inside an ink spot.
Sleeping Blue Note — heads ripen between heaven and earth — transistor-sexes parade on the outer boulevards… the windowpanes of paradise take a step forward, and the angel murmurs: old desires will be extinguished, then he fumbles  in his skull and between his thighs… a pink razor blade, damp, a large bouquet of void and a budding gaze lashes at the blueness of the sky… boiling water bursts out laughing.
The bad taste of alcohol tingles of suns, speech roosting on its perch bit into a bad smell — gradually we became lost in the rain forest — between heaven and earth and time’s tune.

Let’s play something that isn’t that sick… in a paradise parking lot we turned on rapping with angels … have you forgotten that you might smoke a little bit?… Echoes of silence, a legend as small as dawn… is my head a mattress that jostles everyday? Is it a decoration crammed with perfect symmetries?… I have a lot to do and I will not try to get into your universe — a broken voice, like a dead man’s, the robot’s bla-bla ovation, a robot who meditates on the debris of his own art — don’t listen, daylight is fading… the echo of the civilization of other people… we drink champagne or champagne and whiskey, I light my first cigarette, a danse macabre on the highway… far off the world invents itself (and they never mention sleeping waters) sexual cameras explore time… Paris-Vagina, the universe of the very good is populated by the skinned alive (I think children are right to lie as they breathe, their fingers stretched in the dust, they know they weren’t dreamed up)… Up clear creek or anywhere else are never the same — specters, illusions, day breaks swollen with blood, naked fountains spurting Zim Zum flowers and the heavy breath of darkness… death? a song entertains me away from it: WOPBOPALOOLOPBAMBOOM RUBBER SOUL… I’ve got my mojo working…  A rhapsody of scented leaves… embolism-slogan… other births raining like the knell… we live in the same empty alley in the same heaven.

The earth will mourn the death of blue… all the trees are awakening, dawn registers its first message… for the best and the worst, we don’t really know what the others said, or didn’t say — the important thing is to be seen and heard among the stars with a thousand points on Piccadilly Circus, through the floods of neon lights of New York and Los Angeles — allow the moths in and get lost in the middle of Times Square… a blue star will alight on a water lily and birds will have a press conference… the glints of a virgin forest, nature babbles on the traces of the void in which we live, will we ever reach our destination?
The last roses are dying — and it all invents itself, revolutionizes, is created and unmade and bursts around the environment — in the hail the birches look like the recumbents guarding the entrance to the motionless village. God-skeletons irrigated by barbarity, target-zodiacs of images on a leash.
That’s when the wind pulls away from the game.
Here, two centimeter away from the skull, we’re transcended into horror and shit. The dialogue of spaces dies in the rainbow museum — makeup stabbed by a sigh — lights go out, Instamatic Kodak Polaroid Rolliflex IBM Xerox in the journal of Margins and Herbariums… a twilight of spittle is broken on the waves… awful violence takes the place of liberty.

Secret militant bodyguards and the 3rd dimension rats sign our declarations of independence — forgers always answer — laughter spreads in time and space.
You should come into the world, avoid the slightest friction with those who look towards the past… you know that death has raised its fees… I talk about that often, like that, in the air, and it’s raining everywhere else, it’s raining on night’s anvil.
DOOMSHOW — a green moon, millennium tears in the Yeti’s eyes, God elbows his way into the machine room — echoes turned off in the foliage… A neon zoo, infinite-laser… there are still guys leaving and returning from Kathmandu… it’s too late to answer you, too late, or too soon… BREATH DEATH & KOZMIC KAPERS ABOVE ME, flowery enigmas in the mummy’s eyes… moths are playing dominos —  blueberries have borrowed gold from the bows of light, and I just fell back into my mind… DEATH WILL DRAFT YOU MOTHERFUCKERS! Twilight wounds over the ruins, supernatural parking meters and stop lights of decapitated colors, evil machines, violence, attacked, death, death, the word is DEAD — Media Video in the streets of the world, Learn Baby, Learn!… the tall trees move and burn the games of solitaire, our roads cross and it isn’t by chance… October Session, the beat goes on, one more time C SHOOT THE NEON! SHOOT THE FUCKING NEON NOW!… whether the water is salty or fresh shit floats… There is no one here… after the deluge?… I check the time, it’s fun & nada… a lobster was licking the soles of my feet, seagulls were drinking skimmed milk, the cats translated Coca Cola into Dutch — an imaginary hemorrhage on the pavements of London, creatures having descended from Olympia — garden-side skulls, sexes under glass, handyman death… missiles bark, the just fall, the others get up — despair does gymnastics on the screen, silence has signed a pact with neon, and neon with violence… a tear erases not the shadow of a smile — snow imprisons the wind and seduces wild honey… Great Balls of Fire For A Pornographic Budgie…
Electric night in the lurch, the 33 record is scratched, and then the others are left in the flames, drinking blood, and the reality, unique, dead to the world, and the poets= known affirmations, a soul for me, fools!… never could read a single line, nor remember a word, an image… cosmic snots cajoled by the hicks of space, skulls trapped in porthole sounds of parking lots sprinkled with blue roses — action-images gas-stations puking hilarious stories… blues are easily written and hold themselves back because they are pure emotion… humid mists escape from the guts of neon lights, and dawn against the night in any country nailing sadness and melancholia to the turquoise curtain that Cochise placed on the horizon — crazy megapoles and atomic jukeboxes…

A busted moon smeared with night…
(Fate, said the poet who only has you… talking just for talking that insurgency is a public concert, beyond all fiction, rejecting demons, robots, bad vibrations, dibbuks, allegorical violence… fate no one will answer) … let the wild flowers dance as well as the grass, the shadow-sound reaches the sea and laughs at abysses… knock it off, poets!… intrepid travelers stick to the wheels of void and life — a deep  turning — we’re still on a background of night, between it exists and it doesn’t exist… we’re still embarrassed by silence and apocalyptic creakings — a little bit of hell in these pages — and I vanish in the arms of the wind, the customer is king, and God is always right.
A door ajar (honeysuckle trembles)… a black candle in vinegar… in clouds flesh stumbles… A torrid Hit Parade, the sunflower dies in the Pop Music arena —  porcelain-slumber as light as foam enchants the cats — war, death, curses — a broken dream enters the lying thighs of the universe…
COSMIC Whore, Polaroid Blues … cities shout and vomit heavy metal…
An extinguished flame under a lotus flower — a hateful glance slips over our poor daydreams — a cop goes by… a flood of debris and shit… cul-de-sac vision… the sky dilates, and that elsewhere can still enchant us… the Brain Police was born with that cracking… sequences for strobe poets — we can say anything now, particularly, the truth — night weeps quietly, only the earth makes fists… at the bedside of a cloud smoking blue pot to conjure the politics that bore the galaxy.
Visa for a bone sky, the earth is emptying out… silos of tears… war and peace… minaret-explosions… I embark on that fuse while God wastes His time doing crossword puzzles…
Sex-shards planted in neon…
Blue explosions in the pool halls of Assfuck City…
And behind the clouds trees sob in the golden twilight… dream-echo rising to the sky… I light another cigarette, the stars stumble…
smoke vandalizes what I was going to say…
So many things happen —
so many words…
(And there are so many people who become real)
a handkerchief on the sea…
multicolored branch-visions —
fire provokes the mountains…
Sexual totems and the world empties out…
Sun-stripes over the industrial suburbs — a cramp wears a hole in the forest… flowers in the windows of the sky — our world forever irresolute, do you hear, you who were born adults?…
Irresolute, but all the way to the end described on the lining of silence.


The enemy is the word.
Joe Staccato blinked in the metallic crackling welded to android haze that hangs over Miami Beach.
A spy’s face screen, sex toys, a panoply of pitmen… Joe vanishes in the nucleus of night with no passion, clumsy and stupid… operation “Love is the Law” — living death in the dungeons of censorship — spies stuck to authentic monthly salaries of the Villains of Space… extremists disguised as Christmas trees, fat, paranoid cops, and all the people self-made (and whom we can’t fool)… the Scandal kid, Joe Verminex, this is the mad hogs’ times.
Operation “I Play My Last Card” — the extremely reduced appearance of the evening editions — heart-rending themes and social neuroses we can capture by chance with general information… themes that contain the tame signs of the living and the dead. Language frenzy. Images in six colors, coded and crossing the tantric puke of several generations…
Our instructions are compressed in the transitory sex of the law and order robot. The international assassin totally exploits the themes of love and social progress — like an idiot he was repatriated into the sexual and torrid afternoon of the coldest summer — those ladies mock us and it’s really too bad, but let me smile when you speak about the sexual revolution — liberation movements are like so many cream tarts frustrated by the press… Suzy Creamcheese and Bébert Hallucinex track the hangers on in the porn movie houses of Piccadilly Circus and Las Vegas.
Joe Verminex is at the head of the pack, he forgot his birth date in the post office box of the sexual proletariat, vanished during the showing of a horror film…
The enemy is everywhere, invisible, grey, sneaky, rapid, unbreakable, mixing everything up, conversations and rose perfumes, social neuroses and delirious interpretations… the dead are ambitious, like the old toothbrushes found in the crappers of Skid Row… obviously I think of all that along with marriage contracts, death certificates, secret reports, because the Wimpy Monkey ordered me to write another book — well, I’m bringing you along and give it to you at random — we talk day and night, worlds crack gently, sometimes the world trembles, and images hit one after the other by poets, don’t sell at all. I’m pleased. What poem has lit up a head since?… for ever… none I suppose… the enemy is the word that survived — so, tough titty, let’s write since the Wimpy Monkey wants us to and that he’s ready to pay, what logic — And there are fools who say that when we get published we have a hand, an arm, two of them in the gears… assholes!… drift-cameras show you the way… you’re the flat calm, you’re the neutral objectives, you’re the words and the images.
The enemy isn’t Joe Staccato over Miami, they claim that in the nucleus “Love” Esperanza is stuck to the spy of space. Paranoid extremists. Operation “More Fear Than Evil”… And working hard the rabid hogs climb every social ladder… platitudes extremely reduced, caught by chance with the image-signs of six generations… the international idiot mocks you, that creamy hanger-on fiddles with Verminex’s sex forgetting the unbreakable prole… social neuroses to go… of course, another book, at random, let’s talk earth, poets have survived on flat calm…
Grey but the word babbling — screen-face in a night without passion — “The Law”, a living dead man disguised as a tree, the people who hung onto the Scandal kid and Joe Operation… “I Play With The Evening News,” a little late though… general information going through codes and boiled instructions… law and order in the afternoon, it’s really too bad, Suzy Creamcheese’s movements are our birth dates, sometimes invisible, ambitious conversations in the Monkey’s crapper. Oh, with all that I take you away day and night beyond the worlds, with images puked by logic… happy, I guess — have what we write in our hands, a hand, an arm, neutral drifting you are the words.
Clumsy sexual mist and Joe vanishes in the censorship dungeon. Vicious fat cops work for the Ugly Organization, Verminex Hallucinex, international puke… operation “Promiscuity Forbidden”… I hear the ladies crack in Las Vegas, near my grey mail box, I sniff the perfume of roses and old toothbrushes — ordered me to write — feeble monkey… gently cracking the soft word… idiots in the gears… you’re the images.


Please, get Krishna’s crabs out of my soul…
Please take your dirty socks off my heart, plus your morbid political gadgets…
Please, don’t invade my personal spaces… I’m here for no one… fuck off!…
And, tell me who’s fighting whom? And why?
The modesty of the social picture is found in the underworld of society — I can’t stand the smell of laundry — what do you want? A molecular revolution  in Japanese sewers? The dirty dishes of the dead?… your absence has nothing to do with science-fiction.
An energy crisis, a loss of speed and an emotional question — please, get these gurus out of here with their grey teeth, swamis and other cocksuckers, get these inferior consciences out of here, get these maniacs and CIA agents out of here too — may the sound waves erase the stupid babbling of poets who haven’t entered the XXth century emotionally yet — that’s enough!… who’s fighting whom? And why?
Erase the cops, paranoid physicians, informers, Chiefs of State, philosophers allergic to life, errand boys and pest dealers… erase the jerks, rats, groupies, followers, erase the galaxy’s dust… Operation “Ah Ah Ohoh Hihihi” — I look elsewhere, I trap the drawers and files of reality, I erase those who were born adult, those who have grown up and seen all, I erase heros and molds, while I drum on the napalm-sofa… All those who fall and can’t get up, all those who die on huge continents, all the generations that will never be normal, both physically and mentally — nothing to be done… audio-visual signals and atrocity-smiles, a Western odor painted on the brain-prick… street language living and dead in a grimace. You’re warned… a question of money, of course, and many other things.
Obsessive fear, sexual abstinence — disfigured on the screen you implore, “Valium, please! Valium!”… we finally leave the man’s body only to lose our footing in a sign of life.
A marmalade of dawns cutting into the sky.
You, blue people, agonizing on the electrified railing, what have you got you say?. If only you had something to say!…
Legalized homicide at every level. It’s free.
Joe Kick Sandoz walked on clouds with Sergeant Pepper, he watched the world turn, rising in the stratosphere… an ocean of music and peace, a blizzard of colors and pearls… violence stole from nerves, terrorizing intellectuals traveling on prick mobiles made of cream Swiss cheese — angels whistle that masturbation is the message, they whistle among the records of video-consciousness.
Zoom in the Sepia Kid’s crotch.
Space riots.
A sexual safari in the desert of trash cans on episode-outskirts.
NEON level — tapes torturing history — sane reactions on the American side, the ideological haze of pure reason…
The conscience-riot in a contemporary fix — pathetic and comical at once… the curtain is rising, rats enter on stage with The Rainbow Girls…, love-love, I’ve lost my San Francisco-o-O baggage… none of it was very photogenic… agitators are always ungracious.
Please, get lost and tell me who’s the dealer agonizing in the dish water?
Your absence comes at the end of this special edition… we find ourselves in the middle of a question… nubile swamis cruise in the Dublin’s YMCA halls.
Erase the cops and shut the others in allergic bubbles. Erase. Erase. I look elsewhere and I see you dying on the sofa, smiling, an odor of dead streets and state secrets…
“Give me the Valium… yeah, I’m nervous… I lost my footing in heaven…”
“You, Kleenex-people, what can I say to you?”
Spacial masturbation and bubble-gum-goulash…
Violence, violence, listen — please, please get rid of these evil air-waves —  enough!… errand boys impose their mediocrity on this galaxy… A trapped opera, you’ll see everything… continent-grimaces… Western-thing… are you following me?… those people, please, erase them — a lack of signs, blue obsessions… you say, it’s all free? — you’re cabbage in Swiss cheese, mi amor… a sexual zoom on a Pygmy’s hemorrhoids… simoom wind in his crotch… history barks… prick mobiles and dune buggies terrorize tourists…
Krishna’s crabs wants to share the fruits of their experiences with the world. “Hare Krishna oyster faces!”… the modesty of an odor — an electric scream shatters the Commune of Infinite Love, “Get rid of those filthy dykes, emotionally erase those love-bugs” — And why? And why not?… “Fascists! Fascists!” reality’s dealers have brought forth scabs, always question of money, and the police, of course… Joe Kick Sandoz cuts up dawn with a blowtorch, he’s walking on a carpet of pearls, angels whistle at the Sepia Kid’s multicolored records — episode-riots in American suburbs… then back to London in the purple fog… the dirty dishes of the dead, pure Vedanta in the crapper of a greedy West.
Please, do as the homeless do, do things like everyone else, jack off!…
“Have you taped what the western garbage disposal says?”
“Yes, and having said that: He who sells his mother loses his neurons…”
“Does he control your brain-mold?”
“Yes, and secret agents put crabs in my bowl of rice…”
“Do you have written pages within reach, and complete pages too?”
“I’ve got to get this fucking book moving forward… I’ve been fucked up enough by the sparkling turns of the pimps who claim to be publishers…”
To burst in a comic strip interrupted by reality, to never come down, never return, continue to soar with botched chromosomes and all the fried circuits — and what, what’s the use? — I must sell them the great shudder, flamboyant anguish, pistachio-nihil and refined pleasures… Om Om Ding Dong…  Vision hygiene, ecstasy, the morality of work… I hear them jostling in the jar, a psycho-social role for vegetarian hags and average cadres — I see nothing wrong with that — police skidding in the streets of Onan City… I’ve no idea how to resolve the problem of overpopulation, of pollution, of the nuclear danger, of inflation… I know a little about how to wipe my ass, I know how to roll my joints, that’s all, don’t give a fuck about  the great social gestations)… nature casts you into the world, life gives you to life, then by an order from God it swallows you and shits you into space, squisssshhhhhhh!
Computers and their electronic tentacles take care of you, tele-guiding you into televised death — cosmic pork pate, songs, electric chronicles, Utopia Landing Module, an infallible precision of words and images — an angel goes by, an orgasm cracks slowly under the rug… a pathetic festival!… Operation “I Am A Fool But How Dare I Be So Handsome”… Even if angels blow on your touristic equipment, the setting fire to the Sacred Dildo will come to naught. Explore your own shits, smear yourselves with toe jam, limp with dirty briefs and the visiting cards on the suicidal mountain chains… the pink ego plays in the strategic choker, oh, no, guys you can’t plant radishes by electrocuting the hag plugged into the empty cases of the catatonic hippie — fortunately there are thousands of hippies and yippies in civilian clothes…
“Sweet Jesus, Mrs. Jones, who would’ve thought…”
“Oh yes, such good manners, and always very clean, and an education…”
“Um, obviously we can all make mistakes…”
That’s how the sausage-brain chooses, sorts out, controls and combines the most diverse information.
“A shot for the grandmother, two! We’re going to inflate her needs…”
Nothing more is darkening the social horizons.
Crazy Blacks start interminable technical discussions, a strategy for sexual guerilla a warfare — strange conversations in sewers and sleazy bars — they age fast, a fifty-year-old parenthesis, it happens, cosmetic-brain doesn’t answer anymore… cucumber-brain registers the moments of her survival…
Short-circuited shudders — a starring role in the can — social skidding, and nature shits on you, and you crack gently at advertising agencies… “How dare I, Mrs. Jones?”… a shot in exchange for your mother? — you can’t sell Western garbage to just anybody.
And this fucking book that doesn’t advance more than the others, anyway. I work for flamboyant pimps, for visionary bananas, and I’ve to pay to wipe my ass… “To Be So Handsome,” being obliged to obey — the electrocuted Dildo, oh yes, they never believed me, Mrs. Jones, never — dancing Blacks in Survival Street… forward men! For France!… I made myself play the part of the Pistachio-Nihil publisher… brain pollution — that’s all, don’t give a shit for social horizons… life offers you tentacles and pork pate — leave that dirty underwear store… crabs and Hippies have vanished… An angel goes by, I hear it grumbling in this chronicle — “I’m a fool but I know about refined pleasures@… an orgasm shakes the mountain chain… a Hippie vanishes in civilian clothes in that cucumber-void.
Another shot and a skidding of ideas.
The dirty thing explodes in white jelly. Zero-Eternity. People talk. The world turns. A scream erases the fingerprints. Colors plunge into word-closets and break everything. People who write too much beat you up scientifically, a little sadness and two blistered fingers of goodbye. The stench of these millennia is still present, and Mrs. Jones says: “Good Lord! Why whip an Arab in heat, for that?”… Mrs. Jones the eyebrow licker vanished with Chopstick Charlie in a silent film in color.
Another shot — it’s time to have a drink — it’s time to collect a little information.

(to be continued…)

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