{"id":4585,"date":"2010-08-24T13:57:56","date_gmt":"2010-08-24T13:57:56","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/pierrejoris.com\/blog\/?p=4585"},"modified":"2010-08-24T13:57:56","modified_gmt":"2010-08-24T13:57:56","slug":"kali-claude-yug-pelieu-express-2","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/pierrejoris.com\/blog\/kali-claude-yug-pelieu-express-2\/","title":{"rendered":"Kali Claude Yug P\u00e9lieu Express 2"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"\"<\/a><\/h2>\n

Claude P\u00e9lieu : KALI YUG EXPRESS<\/span><\/h2>\n

Translated by Mary Beach<\/strong><\/p>\n

<\/strong>
\n(continued…)<\/p>\n

And the others? Where are they? They\u2019re stomping somewhere.
\nTen years, fifteen years already… everything happens… filmed echoes, morphine, hot bath, I\u2019m raining, and the invisible stains of our generation explode \u2014 westerns and technologic counterpoints \u2014 a bathtub, an old hotel in Chinatown, a door open or shut… old sneers… North Beach, City Lights, a new world-consciousness, a painful clash, flipped out zazen… a robot can\u2019t recondition himself and flesh refuses to die in the dream\u2019s pocket.
\nNews from the Global Village… Hippyland doesn\u2019t exist anymore. A dim-witted horde of imitators grasps what was written in heaven… like those guys who have never left the country of cheap red wine and checkered handkerchiefs… planetary hicks, Venusian boobs, and now those crazies shoot kids, think for you, and poison the grass that made eyes pop with wonder \u2014 we dive into the most distant universe with hallucinogens, our brain, and everyday we draw a map of it, tripping in time and space, and the Life-Poem blooms, people come and go, and limitless powers of speech are carried off by rock \u2018n\u2019 roll, ZAPOKALYPSE!!!
\nYoga Cut\/up, conscience-brain, prosody and bopology, long trajectories. (And, tell me, does any of these things, neither here nor there, have anything to do with the banal stories of drugs? with crime? With the so-called discoveries of the French Underground?)… Hippyland doesn\u2019t exist anymore… the planet\u2019s going to blow up… Ku Klux Klan Kultur is seizing the Universe… and now the sacrament of acid \u2014 prisoners leave their ghettos, the sun\u2019s blond guts are in a state of siege \u2014 Hippyland doesn\u2019t exist anymore, Woodstock doesn\u2019t exist either, Yippie\u2019s over, diggers crazies and zippies have left, there\u2019s no one on the road, there are no roads anymore, trees march spitting neon, electrified cloud hold hands \u2014 how are they going to learn how to live again? With their hearts, with their heads, under the sun, in the wind, how?… void in a ball, a gold-fringed scream in the blue fog, and shadows strip the days that are now counted for us.
\nI have assembled these notes & tapes at 23 Poets\u2019 Street, today baptized as Gasoline Alley. The arrows of Sagittarius have created light, and shooting stars beg for beautiful tresses.
\nCigarette burns explode in empty places.
\nWe were on the road, with millions of eyes, insane dreams molded and rolled visions \u2014 the sky rid of its fangs was proud of its freckles \u2014 a voice chewed on angelica that the wind and frost had mistreated.
\nArrows smeared with honey and Majoun. Arrows shot by the rain passenger, at #23 Poets\u2019 Street, an orange flower-girl who had a boy\u2019s ass \u2014 time has blown up my colors, all sails set \u2014 time unsheathed that image, this whispering odor-voice, I ENTERED, I LEFT… the ice\u2019s broken, the mirror\u2019s empty, poets bleed on the white keyboard of words \u2014 I is finally ME, I shuffled the cards of conceit, and with my foot I reject those thousands of hackneyed, filthy words lying in the dust of Panama City, in the streets of London with the Tantric wave-lengths of consciousness, moving from one end of the earth to another.
\nEverything happens, all of a sudden things happen, and Willy Lee\u2019s mad laughter falls back onto the dream machine, it\u2019s written in the sky, old words explode at dawn, howling like wolves, a poem digs out vision \u2014 dwarfs limp on the screen, fink-computers think for you \u2014 we will never pay the tab that we owe the system. Everywhere robots beat, imprison, torture, kill, mutilate, repress, trafficking bodies and souls, brainwashing people. And millions of zombies chuckle, satisfied,\u00a0 overfed. They chuckle when young people leave the life they never wanted to change. Every day they win a cadaver and are upset if the sick commit the irreparable. Innocent windows inside shooting stars \u2014 we descend from water, wind, the sun and Earth, singing along with young light years, we\u2019re alive, we\u2019re breathing, we\u2019ve recovered our health, we\u2019re free, and fairies dance, waves spout\u00a0 videocassettes setting the sky on fire, lets images speak.<\/p>\n

\n

\u2019IN THE EARLY MORNING RAIN\u2019<\/h3>\n

Ted Berrigan<\/p>\n

Seven o\u2019clock in the morning, silence\u2019s broken, spatial music and the wind wound green wood.
\nZigzags, broken stars, grab-bags, the mauve haze on Beachy Head recalls things to me. The Universe\u2019s a box of Danish Camembert \u2014 lights and neons vacillate over parking lots, telling us that wasted time keeps its secrets \u2014 a flame follows my gaze, an instant has stolen the far north from the chance-echo. Erased imprints, absences mistreated by pain, dawns saturated by rain.
\nThe smell of meat attacks the Universe.
\nNothing can explain that cloud in the sky \u2014 sequences and meditations \u2014 a music that cries laughs and sends the world off to pee. A white pen scintillates in the green grass, the Japanese cherry trees do nothing but blossom, dew flows, bursts, swallows the hills, and illuminates empty places.
\nThe Musical Hyena has wrapped up Nixon\u2019s rock in a pop-bag, the rest\u2019s thrown in the sinks along with congealed spermatozoid. The others, tragically repeat themselves or imitate.
\nWe\u2019ve seen it all, we no longer want to communicate in the center of that encirclement and with the growing stupidity. The thief\u2019s wink isn\u2019t one of them, the packaging-space is merely a scenic trick to restore logic and morality of work. We should give nothing more to beings or things.
\nThe red dykes cried out:
\n\u201cStand up Hamlet! You faggot! The tide\u2019s rising!\u201d
\nLike seagulls we must digest things together.
\nScreams \u2014 \u201cDeath! Death!\u201d, \u201cStyles and Drag Queens!\u201d, \u201cProles of the world, caress each other!\u201d \u201cBomb yourselves with excrement!\u201d \u201cDon\u2019t fight for the last crumbs!\u201d, \u201cThe Chinese invented trousers!\u201d \u2014 in short, you dig their sort, good vibrations, good karma, nice style, a brotherly hand shake, a big smile in the way proles do… \u201canyone who has an orgasm\u2019s on the right,\u201d or \u201cproles\u2019 assholes are always filthy\u201d, you know their sort, ugly, very ugly… then the poor guy makes fun of himself, we invoke the anxiety of the uprooted man, the crisis of civilization, the alienating silent majorities are caught in brawn, and my ass reflects all the colors of the rainbow.\u00a0 Zombies love their antipersonnel death-gadgets… after the psychedelic and electronic genocide… zombies and robots, sad suckers of goiters hanging between their legs, at the hour of socio-cultural braziers.
\nSometimes, between two airports, everything\u2019s turned into music, the heavens erupt, the setting of shooting stars on fire as well as sexy messages, thanks to neon. The broadcasting of soft & flabby technologies in the videotheque of the Universe \u2014 sex-fiction and horrible convulsions \u2014 me, I\u2019m dying of laughter and I\u2019m very healthy, in spite of everything, therefore, I\u2019ve won. I\u2019ve returned with a few flipped out chromosomes.
\nACTION \u2014 ASSAULT PHASE \u2014 we\u2019ve cut our hair, our magnetic reading tables are covered with flowers. Not all stories end well, and people don\u2019t often dance in the streets. We\u2019re not always on the sunny side of the street. While waiting to see Malibu Beach & Hollywood again, we have to wander in space-time. Our audio-tapes are the blue prints for survival for 1984. Operation Capture & Multiply,
\nOperation Wake Up People! The Dream is Over, operation Ah! The Beautiful Classics!… A Flip-Video under the stars, refrigerated jukeboxes, liquid air, heavy & slow water, and a neon-mirror… The bursting of poetic language and written, spoken, drawn and filmed advertisements… sweet hydrangeas and technology, flake-flowers on the windshield, blueish snow like sperm.
\nThey killed what spun around void.
\nAvalanche-worlds, soft music, and dried sperm, crucified and an emaciated infinity… foamy stars wafting our sleepless nights, colliding with God, between the seen and the heard.
\nThe tongue doesn\u2019t know what to think. Same with me. Ugliness straddles life. Making fun of oneself in the rain while figuring out the lines of the hand of someone else… Boredom furnishes the Universe\u2019s bunker secrets… Eyes, under ice, eat Swedish matches. A sunbeam fan-pubis containing the whole day… worn out snow, inserted vertigo into these blue landscapes, the wind curls and the flowers of the sea pulverize the poet\u2019s insane speech. The marsh-time-table eats from God\u2019s hand. A panorama was the carnivorous accomplice of time. My nerve\u2019s soul tells you to go to hell!…<\/p>\n

\n

\n

CAN I DREAM AWAY THE SKY?<\/h3>\n

Sometimes rage dozes on a sheet of water. Death oozes out of your eye. A crooked laugh strokes the mirror \u2014 and there\u2019s nothing important that\u2019s worth mentioning, at least not now \u2014 I am free, therefore neutral, & you?… The road is ash-colored. The world\u2019s full of questions and answers, & after-diner tricks. Don\u2019t apologize. And never explain yourself… Almond green on white silk… I\u2019m high… a spurt of silence \u2014 a flash of shade on the hills, and a few flakes of snow \u2014 the sky\u2019s on alert. Pollution has disfigured my landscapes, and you, lovely slaves, inhale it on these spaces bloated with stones… a bird perches on a branch, the greenness of the pine-grove fills the emptiness, a child\u2019s clear gaze casts away its parents\u2019 scowls. At the death of myths flowers survive. Small bites in the margins, little cuts… Oh! The great cultural pregnancy! Hey! Here come the photographers!… the cloudy stream of wonderment, DEATH ECHO FILES… a cold, sour wind flattens the wild grasses that have survived. It was yesterday…
\nWhirlwinds. Myriads of elves and goblins. The earth thinks it\u2019s completely naked. So we must tell all and reject extreme misery… notes and smoke… images skip rope over the void. A perfectly human silence can serve language, but Spring brings back monsters that have barely left childhood. Immaturity is one of the reactions of expression.
\nKapok guts, hamburgers mixed by electric hands, furtive gestures, bloody neon rots on the highway… children gathered cuttlefish, water-drop baubles, turbulent mandalas \u2014 the miracle\u2019s red core, and still more awareness, where nothing exists \u2014 I step aside, you\u2019re floundering… pure joy in the desert, an image of Big Sur, an image of Cherry Valley, hills covered with flowers, and the photographs develop howling.
\nThe pale sun washes the city walls. Wind-battered stones squeak and recover their speech. I blow my own bubbles because one must scream in front of those doors. An old Christmas tree creaks in the shadow. Sleeping trees are no longer asleep \u2014 after silence, rain \u2014 it was yesterday … in a bottleneck of bumpers the Blue kid dreamed of tomorrow, perhaps… it was a Frisco rag mimeoed by cocaine crystals… since then I\u2019ve had my share of fun. PARANOIA Warehouse is closed, like the Drugstore of the Sky \u2014 an enormous slice of blue dripping with grafts and screams, back-things uttered out loud, each silence possesses the world.
\nA white sound occupies the landscape and the night club of the Universe.
\nFrance in the world is like water in gas, the country of no return, TV-Mescaline, visions, planets, dawn bells, smokes, white whiskey, X-ray bullets, rock \u2018n\u2019 roll \u2014 I met Toscanini and St. Jerome (a very simple musical conversation) \u2014 mauve jukeboxes behind the hedge of dirty laundry, white roses caught with impassible, unmatchable rumors. The wind\u2019s got my tongue.
\nIndifference is the same all over. An immense collective isolation I won\u2019t complain about. Silence and music are busy. Nothing can\u00a0 annihilate my personal space. Water flows over comics, with unreadable poetry, pink pornography, with body and soul.\u00a0 We danced in the center of the mandala, on the toboggan of mad laughter.
\nSo, where are the elements of the announced answer?
\nI hear Jimi Hendrix he\u2019s a man and a guitar, a rainbow forever \u2014 a rainbow-man \u2014 Johnny Winter, Janis Joplin in the solar antechamber of Texas… the sun was coming to their mouths… Dead gods and Criminal Industries feed on carrion, fanfares stumble on blood-soaked fields. SATIVA, Heaven\u2019s Candy Store, Sidi Hidi dominates the throng, he contemplates wounded galaxies.
\nSmoke-filled heads and high seasons mumble, the d\u00e9j\u00e0 vu vanishes into thin air, the Universe\u2019s tears are forever linked to laughter\u2019s metal alloys \u2014 everything should be in flower, at high volume \u2014 pebbles snore and turn towards the light, the coffee is boiling hot, Senior Service, H, the windows are wide open, it\u2019s very cold, a pink sun… DIG IT! DIG IT! DIG IT!, without end… children\u2019s smiles make their way among grey, dirty words like burst tennis balls, real words, fat, stupid & filthy… Children are always dazzled, it\u2019s natural as they are innocent… then, suddenly, they die… cookbooks and newspapers close over them, they swallow a moral pill and land on the banks of adulthood. Like you and me. That\u2019s how we all became idiotic, absolutely! Regularly we watch childhood burn, and no one cares.
\nFiction, fiction \u2014 the recent literary platitudes and the distribution of wild meat and beef bouillon have proved this for us \u2014 FICTION? The Tuberculous Fairy handcuffs our inner eyes, and if I can believe the trace-instants that furnish our lives… now we must go, leave with the Universe\u2019s echoes… barely seen God hangs up, you made a collect call, Buddha is at the end of the line, he shuts up… Moloch Drosera, Kali Yug are listening. And we barely fill the planetary stage with our petty mental garbage.<\/p>\n

(to be continued…)<\/p>\n

\u00a9 copyright 2009 by the estates of Claude P\u00e9lieu and Mary Beach
\nAll rights reserved.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Claude P\u00e9lieu : KALI YUG EXPRESS Translated by Mary Beach (continued…) And the others? Where are they? They\u2019re stomping somewhere. Ten years, fifteen years already… everything happens… filmed echoes, morphine, hot bath, I\u2019m raining,...<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[91,96,804,103],"tags":[247],"class_list":["post-4585","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-poetry","category-prose","category-summer-reading","category-translation","tag-claude-pelieu"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/pierrejoris.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/4585","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/pierrejoris.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/pierrejoris.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/pierrejoris.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/pierrejoris.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=4585"}],"version-history":[{"count":10,"href":"https:\/\/pierrejoris.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/4585\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":4596,"href":"https:\/\/pierrejoris.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/4585\/revisions\/4596"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/pierrejoris.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=4585"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/pierrejoris.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=4585"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/pierrejoris.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=4585"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}