{"id":4857,"date":"2010-09-14T08:55:54","date_gmt":"2010-09-14T12:55:54","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/pierrejoris.com\/blog\/?p=4857"},"modified":"2010-09-14T08:55:54","modified_gmt":"2010-09-14T12:55:54","slug":"kali-claude-yug-pelieu-express-10-2","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/pierrejoris.com\/blog\/kali-claude-yug-pelieu-express-10-2\/","title":{"rendered":"Kali Claude Yug P\u00e9lieu Express 10"},"content":{"rendered":"

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Claude P\u00e9lieu: Early Writing Experiments<\/p><\/div>\n

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

Translated by Mary Beach<\/h3>\n

(continued\u2026)<\/h3>\n

IT\u2019S BETTER THAN NO ONE<\/strong><\/p>\n

X ended up by being tired of being someone else and playing the role of no one. X laughs silently with insects licking every centimeter of fresh blood. X is always after an idea, having no prejudices, more or less maniacal. X controls his gestures, like a bleeding hog in his pink cellophane diver\u2019s suit. X takes sun baths and drinks gin and tonic. In Summer, for strange reasons, Whites detest the color of their skin.\u2028Non verbal communications and social pregnancies \u2014 computers and cameras think of you, for you, and, of course liberty of action isn\u2019t for every foreigner \u2014 pre-future caught among the financial pages, has already taken off from the technological chessboard that helps our sleep… that those who overflow with love may scratch their armpits… an eco-bucolic saga within everyone\u2019s reach… the last mystics roar quite powerless and peel off their faded disguises \u2014 puberty time rings in sexual factories, masses of mutants are carried away by an anti-cyclone of shit, a perverse opera and a universal cunt… each environment contains all information, no matter what the political regime is and the value of money… techniques for sale, ideological manipulations, process-and-produce controls \u2014 I don\u2019t divulge these messages for commercial gain…\u2028Then the Mediocre Symphony bursts from sleeping mouths, hiccups, moans, pig grunts, farts, belches… thousands of idiots, stunned, crushed, invalid, deformed, mutilated, paralyzed, ravaged, horribly dead and alive \u2014 of course, I would like to talk about something else, say and write poems maybe, they way I used to do… I have just returned, from a rather long trip, a lucid flash back… but again images are consuming me, I don\u2019t give them any time of, thousands every day \u2014 those images burst every second, crossing space, jostling beings and things \u2014 neon-scissors, ready to cause the universe to burst, an electronic saga that gives you the freedom to interpret it any way at all. A few ambiguities, I agree, but how can we take sides if we want to express ourselves and communicate?… the machine has seized (maybe accidentally) power, the machine controls and destroys everything. A few personalities, totally autonomous are ready to leave this planet forever \u2014 the world turns, the global village explodes… typewriters and printers crackle, dance, smoke, hypersensitive, plugged into tape-recorders and TV sets, plunging flabbily into blue and pink horizons \u2014 coffee-break, a public menace buzzes, filthy, grotesque beings are guided by remote control to demonstrate \u2014 quite an appraisal, abominable hiccups, burned eyes, stoned skulls, massacres, echoes of worlds coughing in the morning fog… screams, prayers, supplications, howls, hymns, speeches, bazaar-prophecies, a thick flow of platitudes and absurdities… sleepless nights cut in half by police shards, spaces invaded by men bent on extermination.\u2028The Summer of platitudes, we would like to be exceptions for skin reasons. Computers take off. Action \u2014 operetta-mystics in shit factories \u2014 the Opera of commercial ends, process-images of consumption \u2014 a smothering saga, rationed universe, zombies surface on the Ocean\u2019s shivery skin… Crazy Whites linger on the screen uninvited… non-verbal erections, a mutant\u2019s anterior existence is mixed up by the TV-chessboard, love, grimace and impotence \u2014 we\u2019re in the information mold… impotent poets are turned into cankers and insects, the artificial symphony of the prophecy \u2014 things burst under the sex scissors that leave you no way to communicate, I agree… the old swami is penitent because of his Brooklyn accent… scissor-things, plugged into every horizon, tragic demonstrations, worlds cough and melt on the shard-screen… an evangelical reality in the crapper at the Guys & Dolls… I hate the social color… puberty hour rings in the middle of chaotic mists vaporized by the anti-cyclone \u2014 sales and controls of sexy messages, images of hell torn apart cross my personal space \u2014 you may interpret this any way at all, but don\u2019t come near me, there are already quite a few who were unable to return… you follow me? You know what I mean, human brothers… that all loses balance in pink and blue… abominable menaces, say you \u2014 thick flows of conclusions and galactic hiccups.<\/p>\n

SEQUENCE \u201cFLASH\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n

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The final flash will be presented in an underground parking.\u2028We are what we don\u2019t know and what we don\u2019t think.\u2028Shaw said that the most extreme form of censorship was assassination \u2014 The Himalaya of calumny or the head of a judge? \u2014 Here they don\u2019t rebel, they submit, sleep, live, die, and seagulls devour an old mattress, skeletal neons twinkle, here, no one waits for anyone or anything, they recoil, the arbitrary illuminates the time-interval… I\u2019m alive, I\u2019m writing this book to tell you that I\u2019m alive , and so are you… red and blue vibrations against time\u2019s mirages.\u2028Such and such, this and that.\u2028Reality throws us back onto the sounds of chance.\u2028Computers use our sounds. We flood the resonant structures.\u2028LSD sequence, so as not to cry I decapitate and eviscerate my teddy bear… the sandwichman jacks off … inside\/outside break ins… radio Gnome Flip-Flap, a wide door is about to open… we remember tomorrow as if it were yesterday.\u2028Sequence abyss-photo \u2014 the simplest things mix with fiction \u2014 eroded wild mint, forget-me-nots erased by frost, landscapes and houses of cards, and the spontaneous song of waves, Frisco Bay in filigree as open as a sound… the electric mosaic of Penzance, St-Ives and the Los Angeles airport as open as noises crushing silence.
\nNews terrifies, compromises, news spatters you, you can\u2019t react personally.\u2028I don\u2019t read the newspapers. I don\u2019t touch crowds, I\u2019m indifferent, uncommitted. God insists on silly songs… is that why every weekend is sad? (who wants to drag the sounds of this decade along?)… dancing matinees, distant pasty voices… flakes of men and landscapes, flakes of sex… volumes of unedited jungles… voice-explosions… high flames play on the walls… it\u2019s late, it\u2019s early…what is it?… this is what I see, and now I want to see something else. TV-Ass turns to stone.<\/p>\n

A burn resembling a thud.\u2028Dead and stiff on the highway, an old dog was still chewing gum… TV viewers are furious… video… shit-hole… a reunion of town councils, social problems, discussions… well it\u2019s the furthest from my thought, and I don\u2019t think I\u2019m wrong… are you interested in knowing if I worry about refugees and if I consider that \u2014 I turn to stone too, and I hold my hands toward the flames that illuminate Uptight City, Dog town and Bottleneck Grove \u2014 we want to laugh, laugh to the end of the day with simple words like lightning, laugh about poets\u2019 prison life and commercial trips as prophesied… and, of course, for some, the last word for God \u2014 perhaps \u2014 anyway, there is nothing tragic in that.\u2028To break the solitude of a mole hole-vision, strident hysteria, collective paranoia, insane grimaces, meaty-horizons, reality\u2019s phony vertigos spit in your faces, and the rats weep with emotion… we wait, we\u2019ll never stop waiting, fire between our shoulders… the canoe of emotion tips over… I swear that it will be colder tomorrow… also, I\u2019ve never seen you!… bubbles hollowing life, and time \u2014 stereo world unclenches its teeth, grey death chews on a bubble \u2014 I push mine along with a frozen crackle, I travel in the wind\u2019s outside pockets… Electric Zoo… a statue is shattered, an orgy of silence in the debris of time.\u2028The Earth\u2019s spirit marks us with a swift line.\u2028Festivals demolished by death thinking out loud. We\u2019re inside walls and nothing can take our place. West winds don\u2019t know where to put their laughter.<\/p>\n

COCA NEON<\/strong><\/p>\n

Coca Neon, I\u2019ve got those deep river blues.\u2028Under the sand a tearful rose, \u201cBlue suede shoes, gorrillaman\u201d, and me, outside, outside, that\u2019s to say at 100 km\/h, the wind is shooting arrows.
\nNeon strangles itself.\u2028Flowers died on the mirror \u2014 we\u2019re in the wind\u2019s hands \u2014 we have no definitive goals and yet there are two small flowers in your eyes that mock the wind\u2019s haystacks.\u2028Transistors, panoramas of consciousness, echo dust of the whole world, silent sparks green wood tortures your desires. In full sunlight, lying on colors, splashing the mirror, neon strangles itself. Violates silence and flees like a torpedo, a gust of Cornflakes smothers the sleepless night.<\/p>\n

Neon-Gallows \u2014 scarlet cassettes cross the screen \u2014 thousands of tears overflow with the light, mouths palpitate like comic strips, a light voice made of milk and honey moves stones and color-sounds… the sun sat on a dolmen… compasses drown, and I\u2019m dazzled, and I say to myself it\u2019s still yesterday \u2014 silence axes clocks, and fear harnessed to night bleeds a false note.\u2028A glance on the bloody gloves of the Birdman, the planet\u2019s sexual fear is on the side of the political horror.\u2028TV-Pork Chop, the breach is stained with dried brains \u2014 we\u2019re innocent \u2014 the fire\u2019s wrecked, the wind carries away our secret tears. TV closes its wings on the wild flowers.\u2028The Death Of The Great Spirit \u2014 poetry that must be, that is, that will be anything at all, and more, anybody in the singular\/plural, a cabin in the sky… A century has gone by between our legs, in a tube of black light… the automatic pilot comes out of himself, and images scale someone else\u2019s consciousness.\u2028Some visitor, some message.\u2028Fuck the world! FUCK THE WORLD NOW! This is your last chance…\u2028The sun revolves around a sad song \u2014 spray turns toxic behind that curtain of trees, the wind howls in the streets on fire… marsh-words, wounded bodies, separated from their souls… the heavens filled with screams, white rumors of apocalypse, and the wind dashes onto the rocks \u2014 the sea stirs its colors, the horizon\u2019s floating \u2014 those who predict stink, look!… a seagull\u2019s huge cry startles the photographer.\u2028Coca Neon Polaroid Rainbow \u2014 the quivering moaning flesh of the rain forest moves people like a dog run over on the universe\u2019s dance floor \u2014 the hills sparkle,\u2028\u201cBlue Grass\u201d, rain has washed it all, the tide\u2019s ebbing, wind\u2019s rising \u2014 what happened? Nothing… nothing, no… really nothing… God has taken the habit of masturbating… here the threat of all writing, literature, a hideous effort, awful sadness, feeble magic \u2014 the landscape is a brazier, an echo of every language, and this continent is inhaled like a huge sob, chance lands on the back of a hand… bits of words… the sky trembles as soon as death plays with life, and in the dark flames bend like wild flowers, aware of what is happening to them, weren\u2019t able, like me,\u2028to think themselves dead.\u2028Dawn is publishing this special edition, and we spend our time sorting out bits of words.\u2028Nerves torn by neon I\u2019ll have you know that smoke runs over this page.\u2028What is deep in your eyes?\u2028Nothing. I know it. I\u2019ve received too many people influenced by fear.\u2028Invisible tattoos, punches swollen with blood \u2014 it was the end of life \u2014 NEON WILL CRACK!!!<\/p>\n

I see Warhol again caught between a yellow ticket and a fore-runner sign, like a blood clot… this world is empty sometimes, and popcorn sings, the deaf have no modesty… water\u2019s sound flowing among fluorescent flowers, red lights drowned in ginger ale, and silver clouds \u2014 art gives you a little kick, new art IS big business, just remember that, look at Marilyn, an icon, in the firmament, lost, rolled around by mandibles made of Hollywood foam \u2014 Marilyn wanted to see the colors of her lips, and now in the video-recording sky the mourning of a smile…\u2028A triple murder, a few rumors, a distressing suicide, two drowning on Fire Island… I hang on to the wind… false news licks the black and blue sky… the universe floats planting its pastel dyes on the reef-highway \u2014 rainy tickets exchanged for this discolored world \u2014 ten a.m., a flesh taxi explodes… the wind barred like a check by lightning and rain howling in the empty streets…\u2028Brain Police! Zipper Puke! Coca Neon! The Next Flush!… a grenade of vitamins on the wrong side of media video spaces \u2014 the smell of snow dies out on a stone, mountains derail, and me and me and me… directed towards charm, horror, from silence to silence with the flowers.\u2028It\u2019s not by chance that starving glances turn into snow. Night is waning \u2014 cinema-verite of another age \u2014 a new kind of toothpaste, an electric banana, isolated tears are reborn in a dream.\u2028The fire is dying \u2014 the bottles are empty \u2014 the cats don\u2019t recognize each other anymore, and that music announces something new, tempest of flowers…\u2028The wind mistreats the head metal. Behind bars the soul starts a hunger strike \u2014 We might say to God: I don\u2019t love you, I prefer you \u2014 winter vacations for the shadow sounds… we\u2019re safe and sound, we find ourselves again in the ogive-skulls of launching pads, with passing reflections, lamp-stars, silken images… what are the stakes of your death?\u2028Morning Song, morning evening, thanks again home-galaxy… snow inhaling all the colors of illuminated journals… nights ravaged by frost, indelible dialogues of rain and fair weather \u2014 and me, in a forest of sounds and images, popcorn & spastic bananas… the universe is a fried egg \u2014 dead birds carry the last echoes away.\u2028Every day the dead idea kills real life, bubbles dominate actuality, flux and reflux \u2014 they\u2019re repainting trash cans of history at minimum, they swallow the sky\u2019s jacks.<\/p>\n

What to do this morning?\u2028Cut some wood, roll a few cigarettes, refuse to be wrong, to be right, not to be bored stiff, jump into a plane.\u2028What can we do in a bread crumb sky?<\/p>\n

The flowers are breaking apart. Eyes full of love vanish without crying to be careful. Landscape-faces in American colors \u2014 when all goes well tomorrow daylight will come \u2014 bachelor sun digs forever, we settle down in heaven very quickly… are those people stretched out on cold metal doomed?… see, a forgetful Ocean, savage, realistic, sweeps away the vanity of chatter… there are very few words capable of resisting the powerful vacuum of chit chat… we absorb ourselves freely as we plant our laughter on the window panes. Musical comedy of the elusive Belle \u00c9poque. Instinctively we go towards the meaning of revolt \u2014 we\u2019re abandoned, our backs to the wall, we went by too fast, without realizing that the air and foam circulate with intrepid travelers… well, it\u2019s not the right time to hit on my marshmallow… there\u2019s nothing to say, we\u2019re in front of the Sperm Bank, a zest of a grimace occupies the world.\u2028Beauty institutions are on fire.\u2028And you, pygmies, arrive too late, with old addresses and bad vibrations.\u2028Cameras rush into the darkness and give themselves to computers.\u2028Lovely off-handedness taking the word to throw shit at the media allowing the green planet\u2019s colors to escape.\u2028The war industry and techno structures of violence spit a bit of vomit \u2014 to be continued is the password of every author at the same publisher\u2019s place \u2014 later a rainbow of me so as not to live in a whisper, one dies howling and drinking ink… death is our business, and business is good… do you hear, you wild civilized creeps, a vision has no opinions… you will never be poets \u2014 sound-effect children, phosphorescent wrinkles \u2014 the Cartesian ectoplasm has gone by, the man without a country has shit in his pants, ex-nihil cleaner than a drop of napalm… superjerks enter the fifth dimension… robots gesticulate in neon reflections… airports surrounded by darkness… people always live hanging onto death.\u2028We\u2019re here, nowhere at the boiling point, at their rope\u2019s end, we\u2019re bursting for the greater good of a piranha humanity… We\u2019re here, in streets that used to be full of people we don\u2019t mention them anymore… we split in neons and we\u2019re stronger than Xerox and IBM, but we can\u2019t store the flood of information manipulated by the hideous jaws of reality.\u2028Snow buries silence.\u2028Diagram Planet, photo sphere. In heaven trees stroll around and the rain sings, laden with shadows \u2014 the sun rises over a pile of dirty laundry, a fibrous break goes out with a bit of time \u2014 a flowers covers the screen, death buzzes and makes language inarticulate… we vanish leaving no traces… the fauna of space vaporizes lethal gases. Imagination shits in a strangely true note. Cavemen militants flip out. They were unable to break the barriers of the head with sexy grass. There are some revolts that are allowed and you mouth waters. Hare Krishna Scumbags!… Shut up! You\u2019re not even in the furthest universes of the brain… memories speak more softly… robots and diskjockeys don\u2019t remember in the same way… a fluorescent index searches through a lapping of muscles… the third eye, and one out of three adults in England has no more teeth \u2014 a paranoid crackling, hysteria, evil lighting \u2014 we\u2019re on board the Sperm ship, images scream in the dark, crammed into a grenade of rain.\u2028A scream tears the earth apart, broken images, death recoils. A scream and the blue monkey penetrates another body, engraving the word illness on the end of a blackened spoon. A scream, rush hour of the hero-ember agony, and a sad song stuck onto the shadows… Memphis Blues, Sweet Jane in the bayous of Louisiana \u2014 an ancient voice bitten by the fruits of insomnia \u2014 twilight, a branchless night crushes the cliffs of flesh, an explosion full of frost, and dawn once again… icebergs changed into hands, telephones lost at sea… Hamburger planet cracks and breaks the windows \u2014 neon waves its black flag \u2014 my hurricane-lamp looks nice… I\u2019m here, I was there, elsewhere nowhere… Maryland, New York, Los Angeles, San Fran, London, Paris, who cares?… infinity doesn\u2019t cause death to overflow.
\nDRIFTING<\/strong><\/p>\n

Fear, drifting, fresh paint on the fat balls of actuality… via satellite in the golden dawn vandalized by a generation of piranhas who have taken on a hip air to excuse themselves… the magic conception of a given world, in spite of everything, seems to win over the scientific conception of criminals who crowd this planet \u2014 everything is obviously dumb \u2014 the myth of the machine, metaphysical dimensions, managed societies, ideological services, avant-garde art etc… chicken shit submerges innocence… deprostrated poeticiens speak to us of primitive mentality, socialism, wild thoughts, the infinite trash… robots and the fuzz are at our service day and night… total war, racial, religious, planetary… psychedelic genocide, ecological genocide, electronic genocide \u2014 we may be the only ones who don\u2019t want to impose another way of life on others, let\u2019s leave that business to the baboons of the Fourth Dimension… worlds will be neither better nor worse, but surely different, livable… there is no words to describe those bewitching spells…\u2028Infraction-life, boa-desire, laughter, grab bags.. We\u2019ve seen the sun\u2019s flowers… God sips the spinal fluid of His electors in the videos of the Universe \u2014 we\u2019re here, where we can breathe, inside and outside \u2014 we\u2019re here nowhere overall the landscapes, electrified thistles sign the light.\u2028It was through icy knives of the Lower East Side, and we made the flowers dance \u2014 Death TV\u2019s antennae sucked the sky \u2014 conscience\/comet and a sexy message on the arm of a shooting star… the wind made the lines in a hand… dawn, dead-water, rain, old photos splash the clouds, those dawn drowned people.\u2028So well so that earth blue and scarlet silence \u2014 skipping words so well that so that \u2014 tension on every air-wave, screen-dog, SOS OD, Billy the Moccasin and Long John Silver killed an Indian for Nixon… a vaudeville of mouths and micro-taxis… chipped peninsula, wog neon, poisoned antennae and electric Camembert… laughter is reality, touristic comic strips, bites, Vietnamese streets of the planetary suburb, mad men and amnesiac bananas, cold brings a dead image back to you… a rainbow in that flesh store… events ending up in catastrophe, made into an image by the pancake-landscape \u2014 ossuary-sauna tattooed by rain.\u2028God has no lips, snow is always dirty… barricades of words, hot fudge sundaes, balls with a view of the mother \u2014 have I been heard clearly? \u2014 hallucinatory images will bear the skin of beautiful language \u2014 here\u2019s the man who is astonished by silence… images ambushed in sewers, equinoxes of filth, a tidal wave of shit, super-jacked off cucumbers, candid cannibals gorged with effort… one day God created Switzerland, then Belgium, you know the rest… had to allow us to exist \u2014 the sun\u2019s prick bashed in the window, the psychedelic melon made its entrance into the universe, Hare Krishna, knot-head!…\u2028Well, I do remember a quick trip in France… discovering the sweat of the 60s, erected into a cultural spire, popcorn underground, cream tarts, imported dropouts… \u201cYou\u2019ll see when you grow up\u201d, well, now we\u2019re grown up… have you seen something? Or someone?… amoebas howl with joy… Old Westerns and songs, sexual doodling, odor-plan… scissor-waves spit fire \u2014 what misery! \u2014 death is crouched motionless in the middle of shit…1 Let\u2019s allow the dibbuks invade our souls… visions, puzzles, vacations… not to mince our words… the Tierce of the century, the Festival of Squares… that\u2019s how we sacrifices certain principles profiting efficiency… ecological activity in crappers \u2014 who succumbs to charm these days?… The Universe loses weight, colors devour LP-smiles \u2014 a little sun on the sand, a few commas to displace, a coded message, a good contact, and the war is over…<\/p>\n

Life is empty.\u2028The street is empty.\u2028Odor-show. Socio-bah!… photos drowned in time\u2019s lightshows… life\u2019s a street, life\u2019s death-odor, Zodiac Punk… a corolla-mouth, and a hideous voice on the night-road imitating a real noise, bossa nada, bamba mambo… On the back of the ocean snow sings, a block of live flesh sodomizes the window of language \u2014 a wild cat growls on the edge of the path \u2014 an unreal scream jostles the airwaves. And once again void makes a paragraph.\u2028Wrinkles and foreskins on the calendar \u2014 we made this night \u2014 militants enter on all fours into the crappers of history grunting like pigs.\u2028I put all that on the tab poetry owes me, nana scratch, stupidity, simile-mourner, show and gut, an ideological hangover, throngs molded into the spectacle \u2014 alarm-man evicted from heaven, the voids of a cold summer still ring \u2014 a savage cry swallows heather… media-visions, ageless suburbs… I fall asleep on the tracings of every landscape.\u2028The roses survives the first frost. Grass trembles on the top of the hill, with cradle-clouds. Disemboweled dawn, dynamo-sex, the immensity of it changes skin \u2014 and you, dealers of changes of life \u2014 rain strolls around crushing a generation, the other one… cramps puking a little green smoke over Heathrow Airport… the jumbo jet takes off… London-NY non-stop… the control tower vacillates… the jet disappears in the blue night.\u2028Snow, crystal, elastic islands. Whiskey, cigarettes, old Westerns… wind and dust carry the javelins away and millions of stars escape over New York City… silence\u2019s velvet back… a stolen instant puts on an air of passing-time, light beats us up.<\/p>\n

FLAKES OF FEAR<\/strong><\/p>\n

Space, listening post, blue song, an ever-missed meeting, drunkenness. The bursting of myriad skulls. The great shudder drinks something other than water. Pebbles throw themselves into the sea \u2014 blackened cliffs, stars and missiles like us submitting to inferior values \u2014 the West winds decapitate sand to defend themselves, and muscles with a bone base cut the skin-linen.\u2028Masters and slaves, assholes at half north\/south, never east\/west, excluded with patriotic passions and season mourners… the cosmic underworld seizes the Grimace Galaxy… sparks put on their seven league boots, speed exploits their findings, nerves are happy to flee, pricks pointing forward.\u2028Flakes of fear, fear hemorrhages \u2014 screens crackle, a collision of pink waves, giant dominos cross the field of echo-claws \u2014 minarets, merry-go-rounds, decals, geysers of laughter-light, gobbledy gook-Wog, erasures, we\u2019re on the chain hi-fi of eternity. And it\u2019s electrified!… televised wind blows from the Great Wall of China… wrinkled jungles… morning dew seduces a cargo of buckwheat… by the way, tell me, are you at ease with people who know what they want? (Those whose ideas never change)… I\u2019m in the Arab-echo of the motionless village \u2014 I hear the sea \u2014 the moon crosses outside the crosswalk, fire on snow works unawares, crazy blacks cry: Shake the Pumpkin, Baby! Shake! Shake!… Today\u2019s already yesterday, and the beat goes on, the beat goes on and on!… megafuck! Shit! Groovy!… shake! Shake! SHAKE!…\u2028So there \u2014a movement of the crowd, an attack, an electoral season, a few troubles here and there, subjects we absolutely don\u2019t want to talk about, the end or the beginning of a war, for example the ugliness of the IRA or Vietnam, booby trapped letters, the taking of hostages, the bursts of machine guns and the bombs… all that\u2019s unimportant, all that didn\u2019t make the history of a Spring… and yet the facts, but what facts?… no one will have excuses for your freedom, your indifference, those facts have excluded us from history, and we throw ourselves into the pre-future, and you sit there on your asses, bloated with mediocrity. Barricades of cucumbers where heroes die, ruminating on their foreskins \u2014 signals of a little smoke here and there, they claim that there isn\u2019t enough nature for everyone… and the sexual proletariat unclogs into murmured time… fire tears the blue jungles, televised news doesn\u2019t tell you anything at all, disease spreads over the global village… no illusions when words are concerned, you\u2019ll continue to write, write to each other, without crying out, in French superwog negotiations, like pygmies, well it ain\u2019t my affair… all is unwinding, and so much the better… it\u2019s all turning into slobber, into rancid come, and colors shit language \u2014 sometimes the wind eats thunder, its song possesses all that it represents. Reality moves or it doesn\u2019t move. A mentholated shock, a draft of air \u2014 silence refuses to nourish the survivors, the murmur of the morning dew lives truth like a passion, the rest is unimportant…\u2028For a long time silence has left the desperate and stupid tropical slowness. We\u2019re illuminated from inside. We\u2019re plowing fields of waves. Shoulder and casting away those who refuse to freeze in the veins of someone else, quickly, a drama with nothing and no one, where we can hear the colors… Full Tilt Boogie… Your censorship has had no effect, it will never clear the silence that lives in us \u2014 Factual comic strips and video lines against pathology and politics, against cultural narks… all that will only last an instant op-op frozen, congealed \u2014 audiovisual solitude, a green glint cuts into the sky, a great white streak of lightning, and the film unrolls \u2014 the studio explodes, then all the lights go out… three or four dimensions to mix people up… a sound of water in the pipes of time.\u2028The swami has vomited his hamburger that he\u2019d eaten the day before, on the sly.\u2028Sexy messages at auction on TV-ass. Porn photos pinned onto every lip.\u2028Belotte players disappear with strands of red hot iron and blue waves in front of the Sky Bank.\u2028A diffused message in every language: we\u2019ll be free when we\u2019ll be rich, rich and free, free and rich, we\u2019ll be rich when we\u2019re free, free and rich…\u2028Violated neon… the wind\u2019s knives puke your howls, starving brain techniques by the city-sounds… Riots in the tubes of time.\u2028Transistorized nipples, imagery-bodies, trembling the waves disperse \u2014 death live on the screen, North Carolina collage \u2014 crazy Blacks jack off furiously onto the windshield… empty clothing abandoned… even the headlines of daily newspapers have lost their power, no one was able to do away with violence… soon the milkman will deliver the paper in a cassette, and the big green snake will play the flute \u2014 the televised flash breaks down every barrier, we\u2019re born with commercials and comic strips \u2014 and sometimes the shadow of indifference is like the rain, a huge fist.
\n(to be continued…)<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Claude P\u00e9lieu : KALI YUG EXPRESS Translated by Mary Beach (continued\u2026) IT\u2019S BETTER THAN NO ONE X ended up by being tired of being someone else and playing the role of no one. X...<\/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-4857","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\/4857","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=4857"}],"version-history":[{"count":7,"href":"https:\/\/pierrejoris.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/4857\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":4865,"href":"https:\/\/pierrejoris.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/4857\/revisions\/4865"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/pierrejoris.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=4857"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/pierrejoris.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=4857"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/pierrejoris.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=4857"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}