{"id":4716,"date":"2010-09-07T07:24:39","date_gmt":"2010-09-07T11:24:39","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/pierrejoris.com\/blog\/?p=4716"},"modified":"2010-09-07T07:24:39","modified_gmt":"2010-09-07T11:24:39","slug":"kali-claude-yug-pelieu-express-8","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/pierrejoris.com\/blog\/kali-claude-yug-pelieu-express-8\/","title":{"rendered":"Kali Claude Yug P\u00e9lieu Express 8"},"content":{"rendered":"

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

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

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

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

COCA NEON CAMERA SUTRA
\nFUCK TO THE BONE!<\/strong><\/p>\n

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\u2019 dives, in transvestite bars and psychedelic nightclubs. Some of the men had longhair. Others had short haircuts. Grass was illegal but LSD wasn\u2019t forbidden by the rigors of Law \u2014 and now that the rain has washed everything, I\u2019m sitting on that fence, I watch the hills shiver \u2014 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.
\nWe bump into no-love on all the roads of the world.
\nPoets 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\u2019t see the trees weep… and writers write, militants militate, video-spheres bleed, newspapers and reviews pile up… I don\u2019t do anything special, I\u2019m about to leave again, America, Canada, Tangier, Cape Town, I don\u2019t know where… so, I\u2019m leaving burns in a shower of sparks \u2014 it\u2019s possible to think that all is well, write poems, have \u201clovely thoughts\u201d, 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\u2019s true, all is well \u2014 all\u2019s well for me, that\u2019s important, all\u2019s 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.
\nPhony wars, catastrophes, dramas and a thousand miseries, night\u2019s bowl is overflowing, meat comes under the knife, silence \u2014 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.
\n(Strong smell of nothing comes from France. Strange, you\u2019d 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 \u2014\u00a0 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\u2019m positive of nothing, I\u2019ve got my eyes open, that\u2019s all)… in any case the experience was beneficial. We are now 1973, it\u2019s all over. People have gone away to die very far away, as tourists.
\nA living world is always dangerous, iniquitous, and no matter where we go we can\u2019t escape violence. That\u2019s how you travel, that\u2019s how you find the sun again, stones, the sky, water, wind, stars, the desert, plants and animals, and that\u2019s 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\u2019ll 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\u2019t exist here, but back in the cucumber-world of Social Security… For God\u2019s sake! They even regret that fire exists!… obsessions, miseries, hysteria, we make so much of those things, and no-color shudders with pleasure.
\nGelatine, 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.
\nWhat are they doing? And those? and him? and her?…No one knows, just a guess, we pass by, and that\u2019s right. All our cells emit, high frequency never varies \u2014 from the last telex we learn horrible things \u2014 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\u00a0 \u2014 Let\u2019s not talk about that ever again, boredom wins \u2014 we have to move \u2014 a drop of dew falls… a tiny sound all in flesh.<\/p>\n

A POLAROID RAINBOW<\/strong><\/p>\n

May it all start over…
\nThe 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\u2019s scalpel, alias Sally Ka-Ka, a fixed idea that devours an old photo inside my \u201cscrapbook\u201d… it\u2019s not necessary to invent words to speak about hell. It\u2019s clear that those odors escape from crumbling flesh.
\nThe gongs of violence cancel that clog and demolish this galaxy.
\nDoodling-film of a suffering-language, a poet\u2019s ideas polluting the archipelago\u00a0 of silence, stale words rotting in empty streets with phantoms and specters with ridiculous, atrocious, unbearable scenes.
\nPlanets 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.
\nRiot-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\u2019s 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.
\nEcce Homo… tragic and burlesque the man kneaded in tears and laughter, blood and shit, that\u2019s the way it goes… it\u2019s 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.
\n\u201cDamn bastards!\u201d, that\u2019s about all I have to say… those shits fuck my head.
\nMay 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.
\nA clear fixed idea, emerges from the smell of violence.
\nStoned hippies in the jungles of the Third World.
\n\u201cAre you plugged in, fat boor? Well, then serve it up hot, Xerox is in the backstage\u201d… you, and your dreams! Shit!… a porn panorama jostling the illegible given language… Neon scalpel devouring Sally Harmony\u2019s 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.
\n\u201cBy dint of communicating the guy became an instrument of psychedelic fascism. Kick the flutes of Krishna out, immediately!\u201d
\nWho is talking like that?
\nAn old photo was nothing but a word, \u2014 a loss of memory \u2014 gongs and transistors mix their lights of falling darkness. Galaxy-scrawls don\u2019t 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\u2019t answer either. Howling hags invade the ghettos.
\nBubble-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\u2019s skin.
\nNight is torn apart \u2014 when you\u2019re nowhere reality isn\u2019t an empty room \u2014\u00a0 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\u2019s songs… we came from heaven (we weren\u2019t all born in paradise) \u2014 the great North reorganizes light, and on the Seven seas intrepid travelers dance \u2014 The story of that death won\u2019t 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\u2019re in all of reality, far from the dangerous semantic traps… that\u2019s the way it goes, a \u201ctrip\u201d. A flower that opens, a blue flame, and it\u2019s all over. What the shadow leaves behind blurs our trajectories.
\nA smile, a grimace beheads the clouds.
\nTwo blackbirds go through a curtain of rain and vanish among the red pines.
\nRealities 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\u2019s tune.
\nAn event, a violet spot was dyed blond \u2014 flowers\u2019 prisms howling to break eardrums with the trees only to say they have no secrets \u2014 solitude buzzes… a Western at the gates of heaven.
\nEmeralds and wild bushes asleep on the granite.
\nHere\u2019s a syringe full of tears, and there, grass shivers.
\nChance sinks straight down. Dew lands on our lips like the sound of a bonfire. Chance lisps, it\u2019s 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\u2019s huge balls… gently night folds over the highway.
\nLondon in a dawn-cartridge, in the broken void, leading the wind \u2014 this morning the planet\/garden was all red, continent-scheme where the wisdom teeth of a generation rot in slow motion \u2014 silently frost empties the pond. Pink eucalyptus trees are dying. An immense lack of communication fills the planet, silence unmakes the river bed.<\/p>\n

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 \u2014 my goal isn\u2019t 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…) \u2014 embryos wiggling in the pale winter sun \u2014 stars, comets and satellites beyond the broken lines of the horizon, genetic information for all… casually, a computer explodes in the suburbs of Technopolis…
\nAn 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\u2019t have the right to enter, girl-face doesn\u2019t 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.
\nSaving genetic combinations. Don\u2019t play the apprentice sorcerer too often… Crazy Blacks dandified come out of the walls with the cockroaches \u2014 extremely putrid odors escape from the ghettoes, footballs and starving rats are released \u2014\u00a0 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\u00a0 when we will have finished shooting the last ecological Western.
\nEcoshit, 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 \u2014 we\u2019re there, with our whole words and our cut words, we\u2019re there and we eat our own shit, we\u2019re the emulsion of shit-words.
\nA camera visa for another time.
\nWho do you think you are?
\nSome catatonic hippies demonstrate… a voice: \u201cYour sleeping bags stink! Your hair stinks! And your feet! Your asses! Your cocks! You all stink, bidet scrapings! Crypt-jerks! Pinkos! … You\u2019re entering the Fork-Era, you\u2019re on the Manson-Nixon Pox line, you\u2019re the Digestive Carnival\u201d… screams, jostling… I was the Bilgray\u2019s Tropico ventriloquist, mind-vision, bones and soul, but the old hippies still want to chose their words. Summer will be hot for the losers.
\nI 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\u2019re 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\u2019re forewarned, you absurd idiotic jerks… bloody kapok spatter morgue sounds.
\nYou\u2019re forewarned, don\u2019t grease the paw of a one-armed man, because I\u2019m 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 \u2014 Braille TV has produced an excellent afternoon \u2014 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.
\nI sell life and death, girls and boys. I am the cosmic dealer. Along the road you\u2019ll 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\u2019 souls plugged into digestive devices of operetta Chinks.
\nI\u2019m hot pressure-decor. I\u2019m carbonized sobs. I\u2019m that seedy nightclub, Bork Tropico. I am the right to enter and leave. I am that wall. I\u2019m full darkness and dawn. We\u2019re 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\u2019m that street riot, cutting your own lives and jamming your brain waves.
\nNixon and Manson are profiled on that wall. Pink flash imitates their movements.
\nNeutral words twinkling in the streets of London.
\nCut\/up scream over Key West.
\nI am the automatic gate.
\nFamine-silence at the end of night, a spectral pinball machine swallowing the tears of a generation of stutterers \u2014 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 \u2014 where are we? as the pages go we become stale. The visible mutation of the message delivered by the grimace merchant.
\nPlanet Earth doesn\u2019t answer anymore… silence cracks… voices burst behind the clouds.
\nA sign of life carried away by a voice in tears.
\nWe\u2019re finally leaving dreams and the infinity of cheap junk \u2014 we\u2019re always with the times, we\u2019re not in space \u2014 we\u2019re 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.<\/p>\n

THE ASTRONAUTS HAVE RETURNED<\/strong><\/p>\n

The astronauts have returned. Psychedelic babies have reached maturity.
\nThe Soviet cosmonauts said:
\n\u201cWe were expecting you. And we were waiting to see what the others had already seen before us. Of course, we\u2019ve read a lot, and, naturally we imagined something, uh, um, well, it turned out differently…\u201d
\nOutside 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.
\nBlack cosmic night. Raw stars. Sun \u2014 a red disc embedded deep in the blue-black velvet of eternity \u2014 remarkable acoustics.
\nThe cosmonaut remaining in the cabin can hear the sound of boots and\u00a0 hands of the one walking in space against the sides of the spaceship.
\nFrom the Earth you can\u2019t imagine anything like it.
\nUnder 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.
\nSounds, flashes, eco-horizons\u2019 bony holiday air, and cosmic stars on a raw gold background.
\nSeen from the cosmos a twilight eye of black velvet. Fascination. Hallucination. Without false simulation, you can\u2019t 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.
\nA camera stabbed by an earthling.
\nWhite\u2019s glove slaps the red disc.
\nCosmic insolation for the Soviets.
\nSky music, air waves, shadow-graphs, murmurs sown by the angels of earth. Landscapes, traces, spots, sounds, and void welded to human movements.
\nWe enter. We leave. We\u2019re inside. We\u2019re outside.
\nElectric Rainbow, Space Agency Bulletin.
\nI oscillate inside someone else\u2019s words. Lost, reckless, in a bowl of screams. A little pre-raphaelic fear. A Russo-American cut, and several years between three experiences.
\nAn after-glow pierces dawn. A current of water slow and heavy. Thick, mossy,\u00a0 stringy, gummy things… a counter-sky belonging to that old Western, American colors… San Francisco… scars burned alive by a laser beam.
\nOur 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\u2019s left of Nature today?
\nNerves hesitate. Hearts don\u2019t beat anymore. Ink sticks in your throat. Neon-scissors drown.
\nA tear in what\u2019s left of blood \u2014 huge sobs tinkling like cherries, as if to say adios, as if to tell you adieu with its eyes in Indian summer milk \u2014 as if to say that the belly-furrows ought to be named after flowers and fruits.
\nI regroup the pages of this journal that stirs ten light-years.
\nA 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\u2019s locket bursts!… you find yourself high as a kite, and you don\u2019t know why… you don\u2019t know why you\u2019re healed, you came a long way, that\u2019s all. At times we feel that we\u2019re terrible assassins.
\nThe 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\u2019s test-tubes… a shadow equinox… \u201cwith that mummy submitted\u00a0 totally to the image,\u201d, Shiva, Kali Ma, Jesus Superstar, etc… full mouths stick up a sign… there\u2019s time to tiptoe out.
\nTea blooms in springtime battles… like drugs… that\u2019s the way pot vanishes, and the black lysergic revelation… old brain-transfers you\u2019re forewarned \u2014 tear-covers and faded bellflowers, dawn, dawn-recipient \u2014 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…\u00a0 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.
\nThe cameras scan the cosmic void.
\nOur ocean-planet is blue. We\u2019re tuned into the worlds. Stars on a black background, antennae erected at twilight.
\nThe shadow defrocks proverbs and scream bindings.
\nDefunct April stabs the rain.
\nBlack and Jewish skins on display.
\nAmerican colors. November, Kennedy is assassinated. Owsley makes LSD for humanities greatest good. Right here, write now. Snoopy flipped out, the lotus-eater doesn\u2019t answer anymore…
\n(Paris-Match, June 30th 1973, \u201cSkylab: 28 days in the beyond\u201d, an Article by Raymond Cartier. THE ASTRONAUTS HAVE RETURNED.)
\nAt 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.
\nDoctor Montezuma\u2019s Hymn to the Ventilator… you\u2019ll 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.
\nVacuums 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 \u2014 Captain Sun is responsible for food and water \u2014 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 \u2014 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 \u2014 avid crews, embrace the whole thing.
\nDo 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.
\nThe 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 \u2014 ears volatilized by experience, America\u2019s distress turned into stars \u2014 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 \u201cCold Cream\u201d \u2014 the astronauts were pieces of bread, Karwin and Weitz transparent, eating with straws, dollars floating in fields of stars \u2014 a cosmos with no language doesn\u2019t know itself yet… who knows who will be energy?
\nSkylab 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\u2019s ultraviolet rainbow… will die because of those circumstances \u2014 leisure of the future \u2014 Phase\u00a0 Orange a focal conscience-catastrophe \u2014 Zone doesn\u2019t answer anymore \u2014 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.<\/p>\n

AMERICAN COLORS<\/strong><\/p>\n

At that very moment American colors and Soviet colors were in space…
\nThe 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.
\nVoodoo night \u2014 the dead dance on the city of twisted arms \u2014 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.
\nA 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 \u2014 words scattered under a microscope… Times Square, the Strip, Avenues B & C, blue prints of Grant Avenue \u2014 I think it\u2019s time to talk about the astronaut\u2019s 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?
\nWas a question of the natural greyness of the man who, body and soul, were participating in a fabulous world premiere?
\nWhat to think of the converted and of those who became unhooked?
\nAccording 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.
\nPENETRATE THIS WORLD BEYOND WORDS \u2014
\nACTION \u2014 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\u00a0 was ordered to watch over them from afar, from a suburb of frozen fingers occupied by the sexual proletariat.
\nThey came back, alleluia!..
\n\u201cGod is absent\u201d, said one of them.
\n\u201cHang up, Rosenberg! You horny viper!\u201d…@ answered the other one.
\nA fantasy that others had imagined tuned into all the worlds… someone came to buy back His Father\u2019s Kingdom \u2014 bright circles grasp Leonov\u2019s hands, who then leaves his seat at the wrong moment, outside the cabin he\u2019s dazzled, as if someone next to him was welding \u2014 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.
\nThere 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.
\nLeonov and Belaiev saw the red stars, they didn\u2019t see God. McDivitt and White saw the stars on the American flag.
\nLeonov watched the somber side of the sky through the rays of the sun, pale, very pale \u2014 it seemed as if someone had sown black and gold stars \u2014 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.
\nYou\u2019ll wait forever in the brightness of that light.
\nWatch out, words die at the slightest pressure…
\nLeonov 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.
\nScanning 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 \u2014 others had already seen that, while speaking to God a long time ago \u2014 the cosmonaut\u2019s very slow movements felt the\u00a0 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.
\nAmerican colors \u2014 someone sowed stars… they heard voices… the laborers of space didn\u2019t see the stars scattered by the CIA and the KGB \u2014 the cameras came, red phosphorescent orgasms outside the ship, and the earth scratched by blue… coming and going…\u00a0 Seen from the cosmos the black and blue velvet leaves the air\u2019s seat \u2014 emitting from mouth to mouth, that the welder hears on the sly \u2014 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.
\nChunks of stars, solar oranges…<\/p>\n

WORD ECHO<\/strong><\/p>\n

Who dies on that road, in a black Cadillac, repeating I want to pick it up…?
\nA legend threading its way with colorless blood through the walls of the city.
\nViolence. Mystery.
\nDied 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.
\nIt\u2019s 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 \u2014 a blurred film breathes in the empty margin \u2014 nothing has changed, operation \u201cFor Who Wishes To Hear…\u201dSo, let\u2019s wake up abandoning another piece of life, I ask myself \u201cwhat makes them write?\u201d
\nThere have been many festivals, the one of Pure Idiocy, the one of Spitefulness, there were huge gatherings, Celebrating Promiscuity, Word Echo Solstice… let\u2019s 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\u2019s clothes, avoiding the polluted air-capsules of revolutionary figures \u2014 I was the man with the short hair, the man in the grey flannel suit \u2014 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\u2019s 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.
\nHistoric festivals in the windowless sink.
\nMy lives decided to write themselves in the time capsules I\u2019ve been collecting for such a long time.
\nWho 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\u2019 feeble message?
\nA suicide\u2019s 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,\u00a0 between Honolulu and San Francisco \u2014 in a dream reduced with the collapsed figures of operation \u201cDay And Night\u201d \u2014 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 \u2014\u00a0 unexplainable , distant spitefulness… let us leave aside the words, the narks, the followers, the ragged men, the losers \u2014 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 \u2014 in the distance a black Cadillac, and a gathering of horizon-consciences.<\/p>\n

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

Claude P\u00e9lieu : KALI YUG EXPRESS Translated by Mary Beach (continued\u2026) COCA NEON CAMERA SUTRA FUCK TO THE BONE! Some time ago I lent a few slogans to the wind, just for laughs. A...<\/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],"tags":[247,512],"class_list":["post-4716","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-poetry","category-prose","category-summer-reading","tag-claude-pelieu","tag-mary-beach"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/pierrejoris.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/4716","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=4716"}],"version-history":[{"count":6,"href":"https:\/\/pierrejoris.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/4716\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":4723,"href":"https:\/\/pierrejoris.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/4716\/revisions\/4723"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/pierrejoris.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=4716"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/pierrejoris.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=4716"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/pierrejoris.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=4716"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}