{"id":4652,"date":"2010-09-01T05:35:32","date_gmt":"2010-09-01T09:35:32","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/pierrejoris.com\/blog\/?p=4652"},"modified":"2010-09-04T21:47:35","modified_gmt":"2010-09-05T01:47:35","slug":"kali-claude-yug-pelieu-express-7","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/pierrejoris.com\/blog\/kali-claude-yug-pelieu-express-7\/","title":{"rendered":"Kali Claude Yug P\u00e9lieu Express 7"},"content":{"rendered":"
\"\"<\/a>

Ray Bremser - Mary Beach - Claude P\u00e9lieu Photo: Allen Ginsberg - Cooperstown, NY<\/p><\/div>\n

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

<\/span><\/strong><\/h2>\n

Translated by Mary Beach<\/strong><\/h3>\n

<\/strong>
\n(continued\u2026)<\/p>\n


\n<\/strong><\/p>\n

WRITTEN AND ERASED IN THE FRISCO SKY<\/strong><\/p>\n

A bit of eternity in the pink window.
\nBlond mountains riddled with poppies and corn-flowers.
\n(Stones swallow our tears, a lava flow transforms the landscape, on its high heels a tidal wave ravages the West Coast)\u2026 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\u2026 raisins, nuts, almonds\u2026 the wind rips the pages of newspapers and mini skirts\u2026 perfume and pearls travel faster than light. Everything quivers in the Velvet Bay, the Illumination Cobalt Blue Bay \u2014 paprika accompanies the wind, Cosmic Drag, Donald Duck fucks Mona Lisa, the Masked Lobster sodomizes J. Edgar Hoover \u2014 void dances in the margin, sparks rob the Cold Bank\u2026 robots impose a violent censorship, and on the blue screen a beautiful flesh-storm, gusts of screams and prayers\u2026 gongs and tambourines, we\u2019re in the blue jungle and we risked all for an orange girl with a boy\u2019s ass. The automatic pilot writes in the sky FADED SMOKE,\u00a0 drifting\u2026 flood of alcohol\u2026 acid hasn\u2019t been outlawed yet\u2026 crazy television sets,\u00a0 skulls stuffed with multicolored sausages\u2026 some say that it\u2019s still too early and roll in greyness, the others arm themselves, to hear and see nothing.
\nParadise lost? The fluorescent city\u2019s arms roll on the screen, twisted, broken, they\u2019re the streets and the old films oxidize the young years, flesh cracks as a sign of mourning.
\nI\u2019m speaking from very far away from today, and from the depths of the 50s and 60s, upside down, in the middle of undecipherable mutations.
\nTime opens up in capital letters \u2014 the Monkey alibi is solid \u2014 sono, stereo, lightshow, the video lifelines that we all have within us, like the screams\u2019s test-wall that ticker-machines pour into the files. We weren\u2019t sure we\u2019d 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\u2026 EXORCISM !!!\u2026 unnerved bodies groan\u2026 speed, alcohol, barbiturates, H\u2026 exorcism to recharge the sweet almonds incrusted in the Blue Kid\u2019s body, moving in an old film. Time\u2019s 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.<\/p>\n

Anti-death lighting.
\nHere, bubbles & death, why so fast?
\nNapalm, Coca-Cola, IBM, ITT, myths, operetta toys, soap operas, meditation-chromos, A Festival from Nowhere \u2014 the Blue Kid was in Frisco, like a shadow among the guests, like a shadow expelled from sleep\u2026 a smoke & sound affair, sucker-images that bodies follow like the fireflies in Cherry Valley sky \u2014 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.
\nI see again the old Black woman in Panama City, and Bilgray\u2019s Tropico, Panama Rose and Ixca, disorder\u2019s bastard asleep, naked on a beach surrounded by tape-recorders.
\nAnd Caryl Chessman\u2019s insomnia on the musical chairs of Alcatraz and San Quentin\u2026 we inhale the odor of human linen and dead salad\u2026. we know nothing.
\nA cadaver on the surface of an ocean of beauty spots\u2026 mutiny\u2026 a duel on the snow.
\nToxic images, prisms prisoners of frost, cement-mixer images, swells like the suns, eye-harvest on the gallows, aurora boreales\u2026 grass vanishes under the Offset shower, Tabloid Krishna\u2026 the weather was fine between curtains of silence, happy cosmogony in the prompter\u2019s box, the old film was blue, the blue of\u00a0 a generation on a bandstand, and all that cities have seen and heard in broken syringes and old eye-droppers\u2026 New York, 1964, the demonic screen\u2026 several films, Batman, Flash Gordon, Silver Surfer, Captain Weird\u2026 Chinatown, Needle Park, the Bowery\u2026 Marx ass-fucks the Pope, Dali sucks an old condom that had belonged to Truman\u2026 and that diligent silent humanity puked into the stable of the American Dream\u2026 AMPHETAMINE TERROR!!!
\nMemory\u2019s locomotives blow TV antennas.
\nI saw the cops strip sick junkies. I saw the Gay Scissor Brigades in the columns of the San Francisco Chronicle with the Beat Generation\u2019s bastards living in\u00a0 the dawn-weldings, a time for contempt\u2026
\nMOJO NEWS\u2026 the Spade howled, there were 500 coming from Greenwood, Mississippi to lynch him\u2026 the Blue Kid cut in the orange of a vision, cut with a blow-torch in the Nerve-sector, outside the scene \u2014 blurred dawn, elsewhere with flesh speaking a makeshift slang born of\u00a0 earth-sweat, living colors hanging onto the tender hills of New England, shadow mounts drowned at Fire Island \u2014 we were the survivors of that Electric Season.
\nUptown, Indigo Off Station, the Snow Subway \u2014 everything\u2019s blurred, we can\u2019t get by anymore, we must push the dirty-finger-curtain aside \u2014 A beggar dies on a bench, Avenida Solitario, in black light and stereophonic jolts\u2026 the shadow barks, screams tumble with the dirty fingers, the antenna-man murmurs \u201chere, fast, now\u201d\u2026 DREAMSCOPE\u2026 with which face should we weep now?
\nNeon-lianas, red thorns stretched under the skin and the colorless veins of your name rot in the bone-pit of time. In the sleeper\u2019s eyes the negative Quai Aux Fleurs \u2014 damp earth, jumbled, flaccid, black \u2014 extra-terrestrial mechanics, a dialogue between heaven and earth\u2026 continents drifting in mist, salty, asbestos Spring, white sun, disturbing pendulum\u2026 neon unfurls a tango moon.
\nThe 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\u2019 hands. I\u2019ve counted the days, the nights, the gaps, the hollows, then blue letters were blurred in the sky\u2019s spittoons, with grass bent by fire, and barrels of sores, and wings fluttering\u2026 Alone on the Heart Strand, I understood that the wind wasn\u2019t a ghost. Waves, eddies, signs, clippings, sighs rushing flush with the ground over the Spanish gorse. Target-night, freaky wind, frost bows.
\nThe Golden Gate Bridge wavers, undulates like a plate of spaghetti.
\nEl Paso Motel, Dead Water Valley, don\u2019t wonder if I talk to you from so far away\u2026 I hadn\u2019t 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.
\nA tempest of dry ice. Pinball Machine, peyote chewed by Nueva Barcelona tape-recorders\u2026 Indian flowers, snot-nosed peninsulas, a joint opened on incense paper, and flower on a black background, thrown over as the heart wills.
\nFlower round about midnight, I say you\u2019re immortal, I, me, as white as snow, back to the wall, leaning over that bit of skin \u2014 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\u2026 round about midnight\u2026 the shadow of Broc\u00e9liande crashed on Acapulco \u2014 two very pure notes immobilized over Baja California\u2026 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!\u2026 the docks, knife slashes, shots\u2026 musical flushing and entrails placed end to end \u2014 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\u2019s pink cough, fears, escapes, pains, an orgy of solitudes \u2014 we\u2019re in the Vomito, crime capitals aren\u2019t romantic. We\u2019re near the cramp basin, in the arrival of bubbles, wandering from pad to robot-kitchen, from Panama City to New York, FLASH!!!\u2026 you can say that again!\u2026 all that was left were my lips around my teeth, and even then! Then the flash needle, making my veins blossom once again!\u2026 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 \u2014 silence recorded a little before dawn, the angel tows fog-horns\u2026 hookers and drag queens motionless on the sidewalks of Turk Street\u2026 sono penetrating the vague moon\u2026 sky lit, steamed up shop windows. El Paso, Santa Monica, Sheridan East Corinth, Long Island\u2026 rain, interplanetary nightclub, neon lights on the nod in the stones of this continent \u2014 and all those who fall pushing their bubbles along\u2026 good God! Eyes are made to hear, and nothing is real enough \u2014 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\u00a0 soothed the crabs, I held out cash, and pocketed the sachets\u2026 and SPLAAaasssshhhh! The pain\u2019s white capitals were doing the split \u2014 and\u00a0 then, one day, just like that, the nervous systems prodigious memory makes a decision, my cells were in a panic, operation \u201cLet The Shit Go!\u201d then the metabolic wheel started to spin\u2026 icy leaks, the great wheels dig into space\u2026 a light mist made of grimaces, strangling and spasms\u2026 the sickness marries your body \u2014 so, to sleep, sleep, sleep, on my knees begging for a last needle\u2026 crouched in a corner, shuddering, cramps, covered in sweat \u2014 monstrous flowers hit by that white shit, Iron Street, my skin filed by blue cornflowers-puncture-points\u2026 my eye flat against my ear panics\u2026a dizzy fall\u2026 a horde of red rats attack you, and you wave your arms in the avalanche of cramps\u2026 and that comatose sleep on a man\u2019s back, that wool and cotton space-suit, and guts knotted in alphabetic index of agony.
\nGrass 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\u2019re 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.
\nWe 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!\u2026 you bet!\u2026 There will be a lot of sick junkies on Frisco\u2019s aquatic pinball machines said the Examiner\u2026 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\u2026 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\u2026 Dawn tells me that from the nerve-drums you must only think of life.<\/p>\n

Smack explodes in the hard frost. Blistered images held in puddles. Cops, transvestites, hookers, kids, extinguished in the muffled silence\u2026 the objective TO BE STONED\u2026 just high, that\u2019s 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 \u2014 the city with the twisted arms, burst veins in the turn, grey dreams rehashed\u00a0 on\u00a0 Long Knives Street, flipping out with the sharp whistles of old photos, crouched in the dawn\u2019s locks \u2014 that day the sun moved dangerously, lilacs smelled good, the morning star shone, voices within flesh\u2019s reach \u2014 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\u2026 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\u2026 the mad race of tears in the Mexicali dawn beaten stiff\u2026 or stumbling on the docks, the autopsy of a slick face in the hourglass of fluid time.
\nAs soon as you try to find a vein, asshole, the copy of your absence drinks from death\u2019s bottle.<\/p>\n

We didn\u2019t die, we\u2019re cured.
\nLSD 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\u2026 our society is very oriented towards drugs\u2026 IBM land of the arts, I placed my ragged lips on your back surrounding silence \u2014 I am healed, it took time, today I\u2019m hanging out like anybody else \u2014 a trip to Nagasaki\u2026 in his paper-mach\u00e9 sky, the Chinatown angel detaches himself from the\u00a0 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.
\nOur wing baggage was light.
\n(I was told that the weather was fine in Mexico City)\u2026 and in the rearview mirror neon-sprays, an electronic solo in the Hiroshima-Nagasaki glance\u2026 a blood-flash in electrocuted eyes.<\/p>\n

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 \u2014 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 \u2014 sexy fanfares in the streets of the world, drifting Juicy Fruit Kid, I called this West Saga Desesperanto \u2014 empty joints, Heartbreak, a rain-death photo in a boy\u2019s ass\u2026 Flower is dead, we\u2019ll never know\u2026 a Thursday, joint-ville\u2026
\nHe waited on the pier, near the docks.
\nClaws tattooing his smile\u2026 angel or devil? (we\u2019ll never know.)
\nThe facts \u2014 gun shots, then the body falling in the black water, and no one knew why\u2026 fair and dark skins\u2026 rain, he waited.
\nChain smoking \u2014 in an instant she went out with the other guy\u2026 her body swollen, her face tumefied, she knew, I love you \u2014 that night she changed beds and assassin.
\nThe acts?
\nMolecules of hate\u2026 that morning I awake in a hollow, in a dawn of piled high with cramps\u2026 supersonic turds in the Frisco sky.
\n
\n(LAST ETERNITY REEL)
\nATOMS AND FLOWERS<\/strong><\/p>\n

Smoke pot in your mother\u2019s womb!\u2026
\nThe purity of their wings, the insolence of their youth\u2026 filter-eyes on the always blank page, and a sensual mauve mouth\u2026 New York, acts of feeble terrorism and the noise of Import-Export\u2026 our revolution\u2019s coming of age\u2026 the order of the day \u201can interesting investment, a spot for the fall of France\u201d\u2026 school\u2019s out forever\u2026 the planet is losing weight horribly\u2026 have you heard about the plot they\u2019re talking about the plot of delinquent intellectuals? (dwarfs invent anything at all)\u2026 our revolution is coming of age \u2014 do you believe in:
\nFresh air, green grass, blue sky, clear & clean water, trees, stars, tribes, crazies, love, peace, electronic democracy, laughter, poetry, freedom?)
\nIf you do it\u2019s okay\u2026
\n(To write a little every day and we know that rage only exists on earth. Why co-sign the incidents that don\u2019t interest you? A little science-fiction and laser-cameras speak alone)\u2026 atoms and some flowers, a little fried music announces a dog\u2019s life in the aquarium\u2026 how dawn must suffer! And blue fades\u2026 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.<\/p>\n

Me
\nI want to live one hundred years
\n\u2014 and more
\nAnd purr in the grass<\/p>\n

All the radios are covered in frost tonight. It\u2019s 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\u2019ll be alone, like the gods, always dreaming, in vain, of a universe full of bubbles. Tranquility and silence. Winter\u2019s silence wipes what is left of the 60s with a damp cloth. Parking meters of the Universe groan \u2014 Narkophonic Jams\u2026 Full Tilt Boogie \u2014 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.<\/p>\n

A HOWL FROM THE SKY IN THE PINK WINDOW.<\/strong><\/p>\n

The neon parade \u2014 fire is rising \u2014 the planets crack.
\nWill we escape the violence? (all is possible now)\u2026 our wounds are healing, they will go around the world again.
\nBodies, blue floats.
\nSoul, air explodes on the track.
\nSex, sperm makes a U-turn.
\nGod, in the air time makes a detour.
\nBlood, I hate meat.
\nBone, the Angel has a hard on and comes.
\nAnd we\u2019re going to get fucked on the way.<\/p>\n

SO TO GET AWAY FROM THE BURNS
\nUNDER A SHOWER OF SPARKS<\/p>\n

What is a stranger to the soul and the heart shouldn\u2019t be called vision. As the heart says my days have left to wander. That isn\u2019t the way to settle into solitude.
\nPollen, blood, come, sweat, shit, singing our first loves, we\u2019ll all go to heaven\u2026TV antennae dance, death TV sucks every vibration\u2026 fuck off! Plunge into the universe\u2019s groin! \u2014 time\u2019s circles howl, memory\u2019s cavern is a pig sty, God, flamed banana, doesn\u2019t look back, He hasn\u2019t ordered the massacre of stars \u2014 Drunk, stoned, meat loaf\u2026 flies plant kisses on history\u2019s fat bums, we\u2019re watching the last western, evening, morning, thanx again, God speed, Motherfuckers!\u2026 a wild soul needs no dictionary, the body doesn\u2019t 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\u2026 highways don\u2019t know that the sky and earth meet sometimes\u2026 children steal a piece of cold wind, shadows aren\u2019t crying out tonight. The blind wind and bad omens tie the dream in knots, and the scream of canned currents turns pink.
\nI sent you flowing to return you to life\u2026 just look at Nixon, that sexual disaster, the great white feast of our malediction\u2026 I wouldn\u2019t sell a second hand condom to that guy\u2026 he would have to leap towards something else, for him to get a second soul, flowered and surrounded by colorful butterflies \u2014 that kind of silence erases the image of the Industry of Death, the storm of colors bursts the abscess of absolute power \u2014 the crowds\u2019 gravelly voices pollute your skies and your souls. There is no answer to that\u2026 huge things begin to live, honed by cold dawn, no-love shows its claws, mob-consciences recoil\u2026 words and songs, filthy dentures straddling thought-vegetables\u2026 poetry is a rocket, and a free man\u2019s laughter crashes on the launching pad\u2026 next summer\u2019s stones will be American, Nutopia\u2026 A vague moon will harpoon lotus-words that angels spit out like clots.
\nWhat are the poet\u2019s superior logic? The poet is always right, it\u2019s written in the sky, and it doesn\u2019t matter \u2014 the poet is both right and wrong, he likes to do nothing, he takes drugs, if he\u2019s an alcoholic, homosexual, criminal, it\u2019s a lifestyle, and this eliminates the opinions of one and the other with no bleeding. It\u2019s what some very young people understand very quickly, thanks to visual\/sound avalanches. They are already high in the sky\u2019s dust-covers. But the fact of hitting 40 suddenly, in the prime of life imprisons us in the \u201cthey say\u201d, 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.
\nTo 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 \u2014 Sing to your heart\u2019s content, nebulous panther \u2014 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.
\nFant\u00f4mas surrounds himself with climbing furs and dawn resembles a long candle born of a dream and sorrow.<\/p>\n

I say anything at all
\na cry in water
\n\u201cgimme shelter!!\u201d
\nan electronic raga in the open sky \u2014
\na cry in water<\/p>\n

Blood repaints that plump, goitrous landscape. The sky is a wart. Kitchen folklore makes history\u2019s bed. And I, one by one, I pull out language\u2019s ass hairs \u2014 City hysteria reaches its paroxysm, let\u2019s not talk about the suburbs\u2019 \u2014 Operation \u201cBad Trip\u201d\u2026\u00a0 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\u2026 sea foam smothers volcano fires, water flows over words, like a soft nail file on London on a rainy day\u2026 The intrepid traveler and the solitary one can\u2019t escape from the landscapes that we created, nor their violence. The robots saw nothing. I won\u2019t make a wish this evening\u2026 Who can dream on the traces of fluid time?
\nLondon, a rainy day. Time\u2019s tannin tickles the banks of the Thames, silence is ripped open like a tube of toothpaste.
\nSmoke hesitates between two worlds.
\nThe flame-throwers of Total Censorship control everything, even sexual energy. Censorship causes the propellers of the marvelous to turn pale\u2026 the birthmark of a vision\u2026 the democratic electronic ear gives you back the songs of a generation\u2026 Operation John Cage, \u201cHappy New Ears!\u201d\u2026 What can we say? Press the button, pull the chain\u2026 they have changed my song\u2026 shit-lit stutters in the prompter\u2019s box\u2026 Pop-bag misery, today\u2019s tube is awful\u2026 TV-dinner knocked, fucked up and zapped in, I like that\u2026 Ivy falls in love with old things, and I go on writing to various people, I take walks, discretely I\u2019m bored, I avoid all sorts of people, I hang out, I\u2019m high, I trip, I travel, I don\u2019t make a dime with what I write, others invent words on time;s back.
\nOperation \u201cPepsi\u201d, \u201cBeat Your Meat\u201d, good and bad news \u2014 catastrophes, bombings, genocides \u2014 insects, ghettos, rats, killers, plotters, enzymes, cockroaches, all this comes before man\u2026 Which survival projects are you talking about?\u2026 The tickets haven\u2019t been reimbursed, they exploded, and God opens His eye, ignoring your prayers\u2026 then the Indians lit great fires, burning the words that polluted the Great Plains, the Great Lakes and the shores of the Pacific\u2026 Words decimated the Celts, poets and the unstable, but the great patterns of their laughter will break the supersonic sounds that hurt the heavens\u2026
\nWindows in flames this morning.
\nSilence \u2014 death makes its bed.
\nTime\u2019s gold is devalued.
\nThe scent of flames listens to what habit says, and it\u2019s midnight, night\u2019s bowl is overflowing.
\nDeath must shut up.
\nThe morning operetta seduces cherries covered with shitty light. It\u2019s Spring. Empty forests pivot on clouds \u2014 I know those landscapes very well, they are brutally invaded by sadness \u2014 shadows hang onto flowers, weighed down by songs.
\nJefferson Airplane a long time ago, Nevada, Colorado\u2026 a faded pain sleeps in the sands of the West.
\nTHE SEXY MESSAGE BUZZED IN THE TREE OF SILENCE. Paranoid Blues, pendulum of explosions.
\nThere\u2019s a clock that doesn\u2019t chime, an accumulation of errors, an extraordinary push forward. The masses aren\u2019t against it anymore, they follow as they shit. The incurable backwardness of words doesn\u2019t seem to affect the hopeless revolutionary without a revolution\u2026 Zippies and Yippies face each other, that was yesterday\u2026 Psychedelic Fascism considers itself in silence, like a period in history\u2026 the masses don\u2019t understand that parties and ideologies have no reason for being \u2014 the rest sheds its skin, every day technological advances solve our problems \u2014 false information shakes the Planet, the universe shudders, freckles disappear\u2026 Blue Grass, language can\u2019t foresee the variations\/mutations, the body doesn\u2019t reject the vision that sometimes ignores it at times\u2026 Chorus of information\u2026 On the way things change, and yet everything was very clear, to produce, consume, govern, conserve \u2014 flesh pivots on reality \u2014 music invades the sky where stars are extinguished.
\nWhat are we doing on Earth today?
\nWe\u2019re doing a lot of jacking off. Flakes and flowers disembark. Sketches frozen in the \u201cthey say\u201d, the sketch of the drama, of the world.
\nTime flies and makes you cry.
\nPendulum of explosions \u2014 blue wounds the shadow \u2014 wood enters the fray, unravels the knots of given space, on the way back the signs of the times\u2026 An axe posted on the heart of the Punk Zodiac\u2026 dice roll on the mirror\u2026 the other side is closed forever \u2014 nights tighten up, the pliers of the wind whine, you can become familiar with God, neon bleeds night \u2014 dawn will be\u2026banana-shadow.
\nA 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\u2026 then the catastrophes? Wars?\u2026 soundlessly night opens its wings, a slight tremor\u2026 the straw man and the man of the street straddled a supersonic turd, patrolling the sky. The survivors don\u2019t carry away any image of that world.
\nLight 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\u2026 a recapturing of those old harmonies on the screen\u2026 The Evil Eye weaves the vines of time.
\nBureaucracy believes it\u2019s 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\u2026 Our Lady of the Snows, an island on the moon and an American flag\u2026 I won\u2019t take back what I have said, nor retrace my steps, nor take back what I have not said\u2026
\nThe 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.
\nDrunk, 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\u2019m going to shit as soon as I can.\u00a0 There, that\u2019s how heaven is destroyed, how flowers are poisoned.
\nSuch tatters have built the world.
\nOperation \u201cReel Fucks Real!\u201d\u2026 hell in the city \u2014 a tear engulfed in a surplus of signs in a bone sky \u2014 the great tear-basin, Fuji-Mojo, Yin Yang-Tidal Wave, flowers, seeds, fruit, wild animals\u2026 the audition is positive\u2026 the wind splits in half too, no pun intended\u2026 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\u2019s soul enters childhood without knocking, then it wanders, it can\u2019t tune into its birth date, nor in its civil status, nor even to the color of its eyes.
\nTonight, near the pond, tenderness overflows. It\u2019s already spring. Everything comes from the trees, flowers, odors, the cries of birds, songs, music and dancing \u2014 honey drips into milk \u2014 the blue of the sky drinks of pure joy.
\nCan you hear the public complain? Wind-tears say no comment. Anything heard starts to live according to your nerves. That\u2019s what creation is all about \u2014\u00a0 shooting stars rain down, smiling \u2014 A brain turd takes off. Sunflowers breathe and sing. It\u2019s raining.
\nMist 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)\u2026 intervals, zigzags, puzzles, the wind\u2019s 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.
\nAll the landscapes dance in my heads, like the face-to-face that devours us.\u00a0 Elderberry marrow in the honeyed milk, a sun bubble inhales a shadow. I hope it lasts a long time\u2026 so, now your slogans?\u2026 the Universe must dig it!\u2026 The scream swallows itself\u2026 blood-orange on a cloud \u2014 a rose in the desert, and death, dumb, gaga, hangs out on Earth \u2014 blue flashes go bananas and sew up the clouds, and what does it matter whether you\u2019re in New York or Frisco, or in London, Kabul or Amsterdam?\u2026 Electrodes spit, and God sees\u2026 but will He know what happened on this planet one day?
\nBlue and orange vapor \u2014 a slow shock, soft, deep, liquid, a tingle, a set of geysers, an excess of silence in this quagmire of shadows \u2014 God said to me: Man, I would like to die far away from here\u2026 Soprano-dick in the English sky\u2026 romances, the cosmic prix-fixe and a studio-sneeze\u2026 this book of hours was an amalgam of variations, improvisations, tapes and scraps\u2026 An island on the moon called Solitude.
\nIt\u2019s red, it\u2019s blue. Music flows under your feet, an image wiggles its hips \u2014 St. Ives, Land\u2019s End, Beachy Head, Big Sur, Muir Beach, Mount Bay, Bodega Bay, dispersed beaches and canyons \u2014 rocks console each other, images strip in front of the waves.
\nOperation \u201cFeed Your Head! Make Your Move!\u201d \u2014 poem! Mercy! Shanti! Satori! Hi-han! That I am?\u2026 every morning wind-bark cries out, sadness collides with you, and misery \u2014 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 \u2014 poets always do several things at once, they dominate speed and slowness, and they are often wrong to play politics\u2026 I hear the song of the poor sufferers, I hear the masses of slaves coughing in the dark\u2026 Grass takes refuge in the shadow-target. Night shakes itself in front of the TV.<\/p>\n

\n

(to be continued\u2026)<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

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