{"id":4729,"date":"2010-09-08T05:39:42","date_gmt":"2010-09-08T09:39:42","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/pierrejoris.com\/blog\/?p=4729"},"modified":"2010-09-07T20:40:53","modified_gmt":"2010-09-08T00:40:53","slug":"kali-claude-yug-pelieu-express-9","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/pierrejoris.com\/blog\/kali-claude-yug-pelieu-express-9\/","title":{"rendered":"Kali Claude Yug P\u00e9lieu Express 9"},"content":{"rendered":"
\"\"<\/a>

Claude P\u00e9lieu. Late fifties, early sixties, Paris, probably.<\/p><\/div>\n

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

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

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


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

THE ZIM ZUM LANDSCAPE<\/strong><\/p>\n

A felled tree reinvents time \u2014 a dirty song in the depths of time \u2014 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…
\nBlue, solitude buzzes (green eyes in evening gowns, dreaming, blinking), chance-blue in the center of the brain-failure. We\u2019re on the freeway, PACKING UP & GOODBYES, the ruts of the brain feel great love sorrows… a harvest of sparks, just listen to the wind \u2014 wood screams on the corner of a shadow \u2014 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 \u2014 the jaws of dawn on every airwave \u2014\u00a0 radars, sonars, jumbo jets, tragic effusions, crumpled porcelain in present time\u2019s 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 \u2014 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 \u2014 puns are superimposed indefinitely, prodded by cloud-images… cold colors, sad songs, death visits museums, new flowers pack up jigsaw puzzles and the rain\u2019s punches spare no one.
\nWater-carrying colors, heavy night nets, silence breaks you apart \u2014 cold colors in the rain know that death isn\u2019t favored by nature, and water disguised as tears shouldn\u2019t be mentioned \u2014 on an emerald line silence protects pale flowers that twist around the window.
\nNoise bothers infinity.
\nFlash-rose sighing under a scarf of fog.
\nBroken air turns around the airport.
\nThey claim that the situation is complicated, Zim Zum landscape opens up onto a few reflections…
\nClouds, traces of salt, a scavenger-sun, alphabets of broken fingers, childhood\u2019s embers die like weeds \u2014 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\u2019t hungry behind the clouds.
\nHorizon-bubbles that my tears swallow, black waves and clamors gag herbs… the sky is decomposing (we felt a tenderness for all things you can\u2019t even imagine)… a pyre-twilight caresses time\u2019s fur… fruit twisted by foam, the hurricane addresses the tides.<\/p>\n

A Polaroid rainbow, a prayer full of claws \u2014 I bleed noise to feed silence \u2014 I\u2019m from everywhere, I\u2019m 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.
\nCorny brains advance slowly and quietly.
\nTime-table \u2014 souls creak \u2014 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\u2019s 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, \u201cYou\u2019re filthy. But You\u2019re Handsome\u201d… colors have adopted all the flowers, good humor dives into vermillion, and tongues are unwound under a steel sky.
\nIf God regrets nothing, I don\u2019t either \u2014 Sad dead people won\u2019t go far and neither will you \u2014 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\u2019 empty uniforms leak weights and measures, seaweed applauds sand that refuses to question the stars \u2014 the horror-circle closed by the Evil Eye \u2014 cosmic signals, publicity gestures, scarlet battery lights up the window… I dance with X-rays, cold scissors salivate, hate babbles… let\u2019s 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\u2019t only washed in laughter and tears… empty mirrors announce the Spring… prisoners of flowers, and on the other bank the clouds jostle each other.<\/p>\n

AN ISLAND ON THE MOON<\/strong><\/p>\n

When we\u2019re 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\u2019re in the domain of songs \u2014 displays of meat bleed, frozen foods rot, supermarkets are battle fields like illegible landscapes. Crumpled by speed \u2014 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 \u2014 an island on the moon \u2014 Mary Jane sez Happy Xmas, and the weeping flowers follow the wind. They point at you, like blood shed that straddles our words. We\u2019re 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 \u2014 a target that is all of space…
\nThe sky\u2019s spare parts are off on a honeymoon. Prophecies pour out of the jukebox. We\u2019re 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\u2019 throats.
\nWe 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…
\nHollywood 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\u2019s the answer?… The question is a crystal ball, a postage stamp drifting around the Ocean-Planet… who wants to walk on clouds?) \u2014\u00a0 mauve brunettes blondes draw in the sky \u2014 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\u2019s propellers lie down.
\nShadows, gusts of wind, rain, blue cigarettes, grey stones crushing the field of vision \u2014 heart-world Yi King \u2014 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.
\nDreams for sale, silence within my eyesight. Our secret gardens fight against the density of winter\u2019s raw vibrations, made known to you by the shadow\u2019s 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\u2019re here, with our words, libido-typo and a sexy diver\u2019s suit… amphetamines bite into night, phosphorescent clouds… and hail strides across the plains… from rain to rain perfumes feel our faces \u2014 robots\u2019 cruel tools set fire to this day\u2019s end grasped by rain \u2014 a white stone lies down on a record, grass peeks out of the snow hitting you in the back.
\nStoned 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.
\nSounds in snow-water \u2014 Polaroid Blues \u2014 the sound of shattered glass tells us that emptiness is ageless \u2014 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 \u2014\u00a0 crumpled seasons, cold chasms \u2014 idiotic mouths forcing flowers to fade \u2014 we\u2019re inside our bubbles and green wood dries before images do. Naked & stoned in the woods… kilometers of noises… songs live in the streets.<\/p>\n

SPAGHETTI JUNCTION<\/strong><\/p>\n

Multicolored smiles on the road. Spaghetti Junction…
\nA 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 \u2014 ambushed in a bottle of after-shave a dead man crushes his bones, neon cracks \u2014 Nuclear Fuck Bits & Pieces \u2014 who is in those empty streets with jets of echoes and ultraviolet ricochets? Who? Death\u2019s disturbed singing strips flowers and petrified souls… rain doesn\u2019t 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\u2019re disappearing in smoke… God hatches a dildo on the ashes… and a few days ago I jotted down: and that\u2019s the ultimate on drumming, Lee Crabtree… three days earlier A.G. told me he had committed suicide… death always wants to tell us something \u2014 images tremble, robots hand out the roles you must play \u2014 inflatable instructions of the assassins of nature who invented the word HYGIENE.
\nSome voices murmur on history\u2019s table. The game consists of sublimating the last squawk, and the wheel\u2019s music, well, I think it is better to steal the Grand Lama\u2019s 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 \u2014 Technology\u2019s 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 \u2014 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.
\nSleeping Blue Note \u2014 heads ripen between heaven and earth \u2014 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\u00a0 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.
\nThe bad taste of alcohol tingles of suns, speech roosting on its perch bit into a bad smell \u2014 gradually we became lost in the rain forest \u2014 between heaven and earth and time\u2019s tune.<\/p>\n

Let\u2019s play something that isn\u2019t 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 \u2014 a broken voice, like a dead man\u2019s, the robot\u2019s bla-bla ovation, a robot who meditates on the debris of his own art \u2014 don\u2019t 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\u2019t dreamed up)… Up clear creek or anywhere else are never the same \u2014 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\u2019ve got my mojo working…\u00a0 A rhapsody of scented leaves… embolism-slogan… other births raining like the knell… we live in the same empty alley in the same heaven.<\/p>\n

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\u2019t really know what the others said, or didn\u2019t say \u2014 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 \u2014 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?
\nThe last roses are dying \u2014 and it all invents itself, revolutionizes, is created and unmade and bursts around the environment \u2014 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.
\nThat\u2019s when the wind pulls away from the game.
\nHere, two centimeter away from the skull, we\u2019re transcended into horror and shit. The dialogue of spaces dies in the rainbow museum \u2014 makeup stabbed by a sigh \u2014 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.<\/p>\n

Secret militant bodyguards and the 3rd dimension rats sign our declarations of independence \u2014 forgers always answer \u2014 laughter spreads in time and space.
\nYou 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\u2019s raining everywhere else, it\u2019s raining on night\u2019s anvil.
\nDOOMSHOW \u2014 a green moon, millennium tears in the Yeti\u2019s eyes, God elbows his way into the machine room \u2014 echoes turned off in the foliage… A neon zoo, infinite-laser… there are still guys leaving and returning from Kathmandu… it\u2019s too late to answer you, too late, or too soon… BREATH DEATH & KOZMIC KAPERS ABOVE ME, flowery enigmas in the mummy\u2019s eyes… moths are playing dominos \u2014\u00a0 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 \u2014 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\u2019t 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\u2019s fun & nada… a lobster was licking the soles of my feet, seagulls were drinking skimmed milk, the cats translated Coca Cola into Dutch \u2014 an imaginary hemorrhage on the pavements of London, creatures having descended from Olympia \u2014 garden-side skulls, sexes under glass, handyman death… missiles bark, the just fall, the others get up \u2014 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 \u2014 snow imprisons the wind and seduces wild honey… Great Balls of Fire For A Pornographic Budgie…
\nElectric 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 \u2014 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 \u2014 crazy megapoles and atomic jukeboxes…<\/p>\n

A busted moon smeared with night…
\n(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 \u2014 a deep\u00a0 turning \u2014 we\u2019re still on a background of night, between it exists and it doesn\u2019t exist… we\u2019re still embarrassed by silence and apocalyptic creakings \u2014 a little bit of hell in these pages \u2014 and I vanish in the arms of the wind, the customer is king, and God is always right.
\nWAR…DEATH…THE RASH…
\nA 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 \u2014\u00a0 porcelain-slumber as light as foam enchants the cats \u2014 war, death, curses \u2014 a broken dream enters the lying thighs of the universe…
\nCOSMIC Whore, Polaroid Blues … cities shout and vomit heavy metal…
\nAn extinguished flame under a lotus flower \u2014 a hateful glance slips over our poor daydreams \u2014 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 \u2014 we can say anything now, particularly, the truth \u2014 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.
\nVisa 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…
\nSex-shards planted in neon…
\nBlue explosions in the pool halls of Assfuck City…
\nAnd behind the clouds trees sob in the golden twilight… dream-echo rising to the sky… I light another cigarette, the stars stumble…
\nPlanet EARTH-GONG \u2014
\nsmoke vandalizes what I was going to say…
\nSo many things happen \u2014
\nso many words…
\n(And there are so many people who become real)
\na handkerchief on the sea…
\nmulticolored branch-visions \u2014
\nfire provokes the mountains…
\nSexual totems and the world empties out…
\nSun-stripes over the industrial suburbs \u2014 a cramp wears a hole in the forest… flowers in the windows of the sky \u2014 our world forever irresolute, do you hear, you who were born adults?…
\nIrresolute, but all the way to the end described on the lining of silence.<\/p>\n

THE ENEMY IS THE WORD<\/strong><\/p>\n

The enemy is the word.
\nJoe Staccato blinked in the metallic crackling welded to android haze that hangs over Miami Beach.
\nA spy\u2019s face screen, sex toys, a panoply of pitmen… Joe vanishes in the nucleus of night with no passion, clumsy and stupid… operation \u201cLove is the Law\u201d \u2014 living death in the dungeons of censorship \u2014 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\u2019t fool)… the Scandal kid, Joe Verminex, this is the mad hogs\u2019 times.
\nOperation \u201cI Play My Last Card\u201d \u2014 the extremely reduced appearance of the evening editions \u2014 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…
\nOur 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 \u2014 like an idiot he was repatriated into the sexual and torrid afternoon of the coldest summer \u2014 those ladies mock us and it\u2019s really too bad, but let me smile when you speak about the sexual revolution \u2014 liberation movements are like so many cream tarts frustrated by the press… Suzy Creamcheese and B\u00e9bert Hallucinex track the hangers on in the porn movie houses of Piccadilly Circus and Las Vegas.
\nJoe 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…
\nThe 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 \u2014 well, I\u2019m bringing you along and give it to you at random \u2014 we talk day and night, worlds crack gently, sometimes the world trembles, and images hit one after the other by poets, don\u2019t sell at all. I\u2019m pleased. What poem has lit up a head since?… for ever… none I suppose… the enemy is the word that survived \u2014 so, tough titty, let\u2019s write since the Wimpy Monkey wants us to and that he\u2019s ready to pay, what logic \u2014 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\u2019re the flat calm, you\u2019re the neutral objectives, you\u2019re the words and the images.
\nThe enemy isn\u2019t Joe Staccato over Miami, they claim that in the nucleus \u201cLove\u201d Esperanza is stuck to the spy of space. Paranoid extremists. Operation \u201cMore Fear Than Evil\u201d… 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\u2019s sex forgetting the unbreakable prole… social neuroses to go… of course, another book, at random, let\u2019s talk earth, poets have survived on flat calm…
\nGrey but the word babbling \u2014 screen-face in a night without passion \u2014 \u201cThe Law\u201d, a living dead man disguised as a tree, the people who hung onto the Scandal kid and Joe Operation… \u201cI Play With The Evening News,\u201d a little late though… general information going through codes and boiled instructions… law and order in the afternoon, it\u2019s really too bad, Suzy Creamcheese\u2019s movements are our birth dates, sometimes invisible, ambitious conversations in the Monkey\u2019s crapper. Oh, with all that I take you away day and night beyond the worlds, with images puked by logic… happy, I guess \u2014 have what we write in our hands, a hand, an arm, neutral drifting you are the words.
\nClumsy sexual mist and Joe vanishes in the censorship dungeon. Vicious fat cops work for the Ugly Organization, Verminex Hallucinex, international puke… operation \u201cPromiscuity Forbidden\u201d… I hear the ladies crack in Las Vegas, near my grey mail box, I sniff the perfume of roses and old toothbrushes \u2014 ordered me to write \u2014 feeble monkey… gently cracking the soft word… idiots in the gears… you\u2019re the images.<\/p>\n

KRISHNA\u2019S CRABS<\/strong><\/p>\n

Please, get Krishna\u2019s crabs out of my soul…
\nPlease take your dirty socks off my heart, plus your morbid political gadgets…
\nPlease, don\u2019t invade my personal spaces… I\u2019m here for no one… fuck off!…
\nAnd, tell me who\u2019s fighting whom? And why?
\nThe modesty of the social picture is found in the underworld of society \u2014 I can\u2019t stand the smell of laundry \u2014 what do you want? A molecular revolution\u00a0 in Japanese sewers? The dirty dishes of the dead?… your absence has nothing to do with science-fiction.
\nAn energy crisis, a loss of speed and an emotional question \u2014 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 \u2014 may the sound waves erase the stupid babbling of poets who haven\u2019t entered the XXth century emotionally yet \u2014 that\u2019s enough!… who\u2019s fighting whom? And why?
\nErase 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\u2019s dust… Operation \u201cAh Ah Ohoh Hihihi\u201d \u2014 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\u2019t get up, all those who die on huge continents, all the generations that will never be normal, both physically and mentally \u2014 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\u2019re warned… a question of money, of course, and many other things.
\nObsessive fear, sexual abstinence \u2014 disfigured on the screen you implore, \u201cValium, please! Valium!\u201d… we finally leave the man\u2019s body only to lose our footing in a sign of life.
\nA marmalade of dawns cutting into the sky.
\nYou, blue people, agonizing on the electrified railing, what have you got you say?. If only you had something to say!…
\nLegalized homicide at every level. It\u2019s free.
\nJoe 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 \u2014 angels whistle that masturbation is the message, they whistle among the records of video-consciousness.
\nZoom in the Sepia Kid\u2019s crotch.
\nSpace riots.
\nA sexual safari in the desert of trash cans on episode-outskirts.
\nNEON level \u2014 tapes torturing history \u2014 sane reactions on the American side, the ideological haze of pure reason…
\nThe conscience-riot in a contemporary fix \u2014 pathetic and comical at once… the curtain is rising, rats enter on stage with The Rainbow Girls…, love-love, I\u2019ve lost my San Francisco-o-O baggage… none of it was very photogenic… agitators are always ungracious.
\nPlease, get lost and tell me who\u2019s the dealer agonizing in the dish water?
\nYour absence comes at the end of this special edition… we find ourselves in the middle of a question… nubile swamis cruise in the Dublin\u2019s YMCA halls.
\nErase 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…
\n\u201cGive me the Valium… yeah, I\u2019m nervous… I lost my footing in heaven…\u201d
\n\u201cYou, Kleenex-people, what can I say to you?\u201d
\nSpacial masturbation and bubble-gum-goulash…
\nViolence, violence, listen \u2014 please, please get rid of these evil air-waves \u2014\u00a0 enough!… errand boys impose their mediocrity on this galaxy… A trapped opera, you\u2019ll see everything… continent-grimaces… Western-thing… are you following me?… those people, please, erase them \u2014 a lack of signs, blue obsessions… you say, it\u2019s all free? \u2014 you\u2019re cabbage in Swiss cheese, mi amor… a sexual zoom on a Pygmy\u2019s hemorrhoids… simoom wind in his crotch… history barks… prick mobiles and dune buggies terrorize tourists…
\nKrishna\u2019s crabs wants to share the fruits of their experiences with the world. \u201cHare Krishna oyster faces!\u201d… the modesty of an odor \u2014 an electric scream shatters the Commune of Infinite Love, \u201cGet rid of those filthy dykes, emotionally erase those love-bugs\u201d \u2014 And why? And why not?… \u201cFascists! Fascists!\u201d reality\u2019s dealers have brought forth scabs, always question of money, and the police, of course… Joe Kick Sandoz cuts up dawn with a blowtorch, he\u2019s walking on a carpet of pearls, angels whistle at the Sepia Kid\u2019s multicolored records \u2014 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.
\nPlease, do as the homeless do, do things like everyone else, jack off!…
\n\u201cHave you taped what the western garbage disposal says?\u201d
\n\u201cYes, and having said that: He who sells his mother loses his neurons…\u201d
\n\u201cDoes he control your brain-mold?\u201d
\n\u201cYes, and secret agents put crabs in my bowl of rice…\u201d
\n\u201cDo you have written pages within reach, and complete pages too?\u201d
\n\u201cWhy?\u201d
\n\u201cI\u2019ve got to get this fucking book moving forward… I\u2019ve been fucked up enough by the sparkling turns of the pimps who claim to be publishers…\u201d
\nTo 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 \u2014 and what, what\u2019s the use? \u2014 I must sell them the great shudder, flamboyant anguish, pistachio-nihil and refined pleasures… Om Om Ding Dong…\u00a0 Vision hygiene, ecstasy, the morality of work… I hear them jostling in the jar, a psycho-social role for vegetarian hags and average cadres \u2014 I see nothing wrong with that \u2014 police skidding in the streets of Onan City… I\u2019ve 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\u2019s all, don\u2019t give a fuck about\u00a0 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!
\nComputers and their electronic tentacles take care of you, tele-guiding you into televised death \u2014 cosmic pork pate, songs, electric chronicles, Utopia Landing Module, an infallible precision of words and images \u2014 an angel goes by, an orgasm cracks slowly under the rug… a pathetic festival!… Operation \u201cI Am A Fool But How Dare I Be So Handsome\u201d… 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\u2019t plant radishes by electrocuting the hag plugged into the empty cases of the catatonic hippie \u2014 fortunately there are thousands of hippies and yippies in civilian clothes…
\n\u201cSweet Jesus, Mrs. Jones, who would\u2019ve thought…\u201d
\n\u201cOh yes, such good manners, and always very clean, and an education…\u201d
\n\u201cUm, obviously we can all make mistakes…\u201d
\nThat\u2019s how the sausage-brain chooses, sorts out, controls and combines the most diverse information.
\n\u201cA shot for the grandmother, two! We\u2019re going to inflate her needs…\u201d
\nNothing more is darkening the social horizons.
\nCrazy Blacks start interminable technical discussions, a strategy for sexual guerilla a warfare \u2014 strange conversations in sewers and sleazy bars \u2014 they age fast, a fifty-year-old parenthesis, it happens, cosmetic-brain doesn\u2019t answer anymore… cucumber-brain registers the moments of her survival…
\nShort-circuited shudders \u2014 a starring role in the can \u2014 social skidding, and nature shits on you, and you crack gently at advertising agencies… \u201cHow dare I, Mrs. Jones?\u201d… a shot in exchange for your mother? \u2014 you can\u2019t sell Western garbage to just anybody.
\nAnd this fucking book that doesn\u2019t advance more than the others, anyway. I work for flamboyant pimps, for visionary bananas, and I\u2019ve to pay to wipe my ass… \u201cTo Be So Handsome,\u201d being obliged to obey \u2014 the electrocuted Dildo, oh yes, they never believed me, Mrs. Jones, never \u2014 dancing Blacks in Survival Street… forward men! For France!… I made myself play the part of the Pistachio-Nihil publisher… brain pollution \u2014 that\u2019s all, don\u2019t give a shit for social horizons… life offers you tentacles and pork pate \u2014 leave that dirty underwear store… crabs and Hippies have vanished… An angel goes by, I hear it grumbling in this chronicle \u2014 \u201cI\u2019m a fool but I know about refined pleasures@… an orgasm shakes the mountain chain… a Hippie vanishes in civilian clothes in that cucumber-void.
\nAnother shot and a skidding of ideas.
\nThe 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: \u201cGood Lord! Why whip an Arab in heat, for that?\u201d… Mrs. Jones the eyebrow licker vanished with Chopstick Charlie in a silent film in color.
\nAnother shot \u2014 it\u2019s time to have a drink \u2014 it\u2019s time to collect a little information.<\/p>\n

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

Claude P\u00e9lieu : KALI YUG EXPRESS Translated by Mary Beach (continued\u2026) THE ZIM ZUM LANDSCAPE A felled tree reinvents time \u2014 a dirty song in the depths of time \u2014 amphetamines have eroded night,...<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[91,96,804,1],"tags":[247,512],"class_list":["post-4729","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-poetry","category-prose","category-summer-reading","category-uncategorized","tag-claude-pelieu","tag-mary-beach"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/pierrejoris.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/4729","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=4729"}],"version-history":[{"count":12,"href":"https:\/\/pierrejoris.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/4729\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":4755,"href":"https:\/\/pierrejoris.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/4729\/revisions\/4755"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/pierrejoris.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=4729"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/pierrejoris.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=4729"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/pierrejoris.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=4729"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}