{"id":4866,"date":"2010-09-16T15:48:51","date_gmt":"2010-09-16T19:48:51","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/pierrejoris.com\/blog\/?p=4866"},"modified":"2010-09-19T22:06:43","modified_gmt":"2010-09-20T02:06:43","slug":"kali-claude-yug-pelieu-express-11","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/pierrejoris.com\/blog\/kali-claude-yug-pelieu-express-11\/","title":{"rendered":"Kali Claude Yug P\u00e9lieu Express 11"},"content":{"rendered":"

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

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

Translated by Mary Beach<\/h2>\n

(continued\u2026& that’s all folks!)<\/h3>\n

THE COLD BANK<\/strong><\/p>\n

<\/strong>Ray was in the hollow of a wave.<\/p>\n

He didn\u2019t believe in his electric identity.
\nAnd I start again with images, for you, for you only \u2014 an amputated typewriter \u2014 a splash of color, screeching in time, non-color of neon-fever heated by French or American or Chinese gangrene, Arab or Russian (who cares?) cascades of urinals, the black years pushed into bones and voices… \u201cdeath to jerks!\u201d, \u201cVive peanut butter!\u201d… and then oh oh arrrggh!… I awoke unsticking myself from the waterfall… \u201cDeath to bastards!\u201d… and you assholes that I shit on the molecular scales, from one end to the other, shit-talk, combustible what the hell, assholes, you know what I\u2019m saying and you follow me, satellites, tentacles, radars, sonars, towing seven million men \u2014 a mad computer skins your cortex, and then it\u2019s Summer, holidays in Florida… aspens here, silver poplars, birches… a blooming rose, the landscape lights up, the setting sun licks the horizon \u2014 warm postcards hanging onto the spirit of the earth… we roar with laughter along with flowers cut in drinking and eating, the piss-shit, silence tears the waves over Silver Creek, the wind carries away the most ordinary images, the wind doesn\u2019t have to worry about neighbors \u2014 I jotted that down on a patch of ferns, charms rush into it, spraying like fountains with extra-sensitive waves… Snow Hill, Primrose Hill, Hamburger Hill, Electric Rainbow Hill, and further on the hills of San Francisco, San Fernando Valley… fast we traveled like traces, fast, but how can we really remember? no one knows how memory really works \u2014 skies lined with honey asleep in the hollow of a cassette, films and magnetic tapes salivate when dawn comes assembling us at equal distances apart, the wind blows and gives a little light, eyes beg for a little warmth \u2014 we aim at the heart, the head, the belly… secret cries, laughter, pornographic pages and collages say we are right, expressing themselves with meaning and then turning to dust before our eyes.
\nCelluloid Coca Neon. Idiotic songs. Swells of known and unknown faces. Black gelatine trembling on the Jewish screen. Cowboys, surfers, bacteria, viruses, specters… the poet folds his vertigos and his angers like any other baggage, waiting for the invisible invasion, sitting on black hawthorns near electric fountains forcing the turquoise curtain of New Mexico to open, contemplating neon in the water, or the flowers… the rescue of mandalas melting in time and space… in these broken lines we have seen thousands of gods, planets born in water, pyramids of polyester clouds \u2014 emotion is great as soon as an angel is forgotten… thousands of postcard clear my eyes… we\u2019re always absent or present, that\u2019s why certain people call God Mr. Everybody… present, absent, violent, peaceful \u2014 electric signs, and neon-flesh, moons diffusing blue… once again I overflow towards the West.
\nThe thousand-petalled lotus, tantric incantations and cut\/ups mixing with the third spirit \u2014 the knots in the image pierce the fog \u2014 insomnia on the Cotton Reef… dreams, rags of dreams murmuring to the drowned men marked by dawn… the sun revolves around your destiny, meat at rest winks at the Yeti, voices abandon you here.
\nLook at daylight falling into a thimble, daylight makes a suffocating sound.
\nDistant lips. Ashy stars.
\nThe air buzzes, Dead moons. Horizon-smiles.
\nThe man gets out of the sand, the grace of grass inspires the wind \u2014 the weather is fine and the cats are on their way to the river \u2014 I\u2019m in the hollow of a wave… my book is making progress.
\nSetting sun tears at waves and charms.
\nHow fast do traces work?
\nDawn-cassettes and dust-collages.
\nGod Mr. All Blue…
\nSilver Creek, July-August 197…? \u2014 idiotic music \u2014 San Francisco, how can we remember? A film-memory expresses Coca cowboy and clears insomnia.
\nFalling… getting up… coming, going… seven billion men caught in a post card… to laugh and shit in silence… to piss on one\u2019s neighbors. Pornographic pages wink at pink sounds…
\nThe show is dead. News riddles our environments of sexy messages.
\nFlipped out minorities don\u2019t know how to pick the messages… crazy Blacks go from hand to hand… Listen to the wild bulldozers bust genetic memory… between two sighs folded in the thick silence computers engulf the planet… crazy Blacks set fire to themselves in front of the Cold Bank.<\/p>\n

ENTERING AND LEAVING<\/strong><\/p>\n

Silence, immobility, animals and machines… We\u2019re on that electrified railing, a long time ago, hanging onto a pasty grimace. People were strolling around, avoiding the nuances of time\u2019s airs. Absorbent grey waved in streets swallowed in light. Some thought that that ambiance could be built among the lines of a story \u2014 public taste right in the sky, proving the existence of reality, holidays and the world stretches out \u2014 death at will here and there, mocking the thinness of public opinion. There\u2019s nothing new in that.
\n(Here) some beautiful modern villas, luxurious, integrated into the landscape, spacious bungalows overlooking the sea, it all sparkles over the sunlit sprays. Robots insist on expressing themselves in millions of tons of TNT. Everything evaporates, opens up, closes down, dies, rots, the worst lies travel around the world at the speed of light, and we advance, going backwards, burning our voices, barely furnishing space and time.
\nThe message diffused before the arrival of the Villains of Space, even before the coming of the psychedelic Fascism was: RESISTED, SUBSISTED, SURVIVED,
\nENTERED AND LEFT. To survive, dead or alive in front or behind the scenery \u2014 crossing walls bunkers fogs launching pads, screens and dangerous areas \u2014 a precise yet rainy technique. Who is who among these broken lines engulfed by the event, disappearing in pink sand?
\nCAMERA season \u2014 we don\u2019t systematically take the side of violence and chaos… we refuse to compromise ourselves with those marriage proposals \u2014 a little creaky salute awaited its time in the mugginess of a July evening.
\nThose CIA agents were also colonels.
\nHeavy, damning files, hashed and rehashed by seditious conspirators.
\nColonel Verminex, we don\u2019t have much to talk about anymore.\u201d
\n\u201cVery well… we\u2019ll see each other in Polynesia.\u201d
\n\u201cWatch out, don\u2019t fall into the sink.\u201d
\nSo, chatting, slobbering, telling a completely fictitious story invented by informers and agitators, supervised by Joe Verminex… a report of crises that get along well with the police… a dive into the darkness of time, psychedelic Fascism, macrobiotic eloquence and the congealed left-overs of a counter-culture that doesn\u2019t dare give its name \u2014 the trembling fingers of those who have never come down, dying on this mosaic \u2014 we\u2019ll never talk about it again, superstars can\u2019t go backwards, already in a pasty way, the past has absorbed them.
\nThe world\u2019s taste spreads all over. Water and spray here as well as words. Fear is evident on these pages. Lies ventilated by the ideological services in space. And behind the scenery, or in front of it , tatters of seasons and silence-cameras. CIA in the sink. An orange evening party and meringue-hashish, with trembling fingers to go backward and never talk about it again. Everything is ready. Faded stars in the sky. Here, modern villas overlooking the sink. Robots go around the earth, broken technique of a voice mixed with the fetid breath of the conspiring colonels and the secret agents, char women and superstars.\u00a0 I\u2019ll see you facing the darkness of time, in police glue… is that clear? An appointment in the nevermore evidence.
\nReality, we\u2019re only in it for the money, sap! \u2014 scintillating procedures of the four seasons on holiday \u2014 we\u2019re advancing with the survivors. A rainy Death in the sleeping waters. Words jump… circumstances bringing bad omens… the story? (conspirators, agitators, hitmen, commandos, militants, policemen, scapegoats, innocent passers-by, marriage proposals economically evacuated through the curtain of zippers) \u2014 fights in the empty streets, crossing time on the first day of vacation.
\n\u201cDon\u2019t fall into that mosaic of screams.\u201d
\nA blue flash erasing the card players.
\nWorkmen come and go, menacing with their jackhammers. They\u2019re handymen. Cameras in a state of alert \u2014 troubling attacks, horrible and stupid \u2014 the eloquent silence of the authorities. Flexible colors crying out your names, soliciting the troubled gazes of the spectators.
\n\u201cNothing will change the essential information…\u201d a meticulous relation to the facts erases all the paranoias, the time tune disappears with precise dates, with the debris of bad memories, the good ones too, brain mush and a risky situation… an old poet gesticulates, mumbling, grotesque and pathetic in the broken light… sad, infinitely sad, lyrical clown subjected to such imperatives? The bad treatment of posterity whistling in the sepia dawn, noblesse oblige was the password.
\nThe man in grey dissolves in a suitcase, unaware of the suffering and the overheated schedule.
\nNegatives of truth in the Chinese restaurant. Absent customers vanish in the
\nrowing-in-the-past pain \u2014 streets paved in sexual hunger, finger tips surfacing in the gutters \u2014 an uptown cry tears at the reporter\u2019s shivery film. Sadness weaving tormented sounds. Threatening crabs sucking at the sharp pains of a flip-flap generation. Psychedelic cops shining through the blade-ripped screen. L\u2019Ann\u00e9e de la Fourchette, do you remember?… they\u2019d photographed that bloody, horrible crack and carved on her chest the word WAR, causing her brain to splash onto the walls of the kitchen, drinking her blood, skinning her spouse in the swimming pool… Fascist rustling in the heart of the unforgettable night, on the way to heaven, Operation \u201cBurnt Bread\u201d \u2014 another collage of scraps already bursting apart in the recent past, flesh-clots chopped by Joe Verminex and his disciples, sniffing garbage and toilet water, robbing medicine cabinets.
\n\u201cWe\u2019ll find each other again in empty eyes, darling…\u201d
\n\u201cOr in accidental surprises, my love…\u201d
\nOn the side of televised hip comedy nothing to tell. A patriotic walk of the conspirators.
\nThere was a purple fog over Miami Beach.
\n\u201cThere isn\u2019t only the sea,\u201d murmured the conspirator, \u201cthere are mountains too.\u201d
\nWe\u2019re sitting on police glue. People were wandering through reality, absorbing death, wavering like cops evacuated by the pipeline of time, crossing that mosaic of spray-cameras, impaling themselves on jackhammers of worker-agents… risky messages in the light… to survive in a macrobiotic night, naked, dying in the taste of the world, flying over the scenery, crawling among technical lines \u2014 yes-yes superstar yes-yes leaning over the sink, vomiting the latest information.
\nIn time and space… Tutti-fruitti in the empty streets … Irving Rosenberg, the Ugly, right in the sky dragging the Red Dykes along… to express oneself in the arrival psychedelics, psychic experience before or behind the purple lines of violence \u2014 CIA season and trembling fingers on the mosaic \u2014 Lee dies in Ray\u2019s backward walk, with orange tatters that were ready to talk. Pasty grimaces over New York. Grey landscapes lasting in space.
\nI cross the scenery, precise, rainy, a little drunk, displaced in the lines by the event, refusing the raspy salvation of the environment \u2014 heavy files, proofs to compromise Joe Veminex… the eloquence of the police?\u00a0 A dive into the sink so as never to return. Fear behind the silence-CIA, is that clear?… an appointment at the end of that process in sleeping water, with the innocent conspirators controlled by the psychedelic Fascist sounds \u2014 and the point in a few seconds… the curtain of\u00a0 zippers calming the savage outcries of the policemen, a flash on the state of alert… nothing will change noblesse oblige, trash in a suitcase, pain-truth surfaces with the shivery files and crabs… Joe de la Fourchette skinning Miami Beach.
\nPolice-glue, I tell you, reality carrying emptiness around, mosaic-colors breaking the cameras. Sexual hunger in the blade-dawn, street riots, savage police charges, the word WAR cuts through the passers-by. A re-splicing is advised. Fog murmurs.
\nThe night of time and the evidence. We\u2019re going forward. Words jump. The players are erased. A troublesome silence in the crappers at the Miraflores. Precise facts pushed away by essential things. Sadness throughout the screen. Memories carves all around the swimming pool, tattered memories, dangerous operations in the past… trembling flesh in the empty eyes of secret agents… a televised comedy for the image hunter. The image consumer puts the fecal happening in place. The Time-Eating Phallus, the Ejectable Vulva. The Radioactive Asshole, the Evil Gadget, the Masked Lobster and His Retarded Group, all those agents have caused the \u201cutopian\u201d virus to appear, that literary drama of political information, fiction and global vision compressed by the mass media.
\nSomeone somewhere, and what happens, what doesn\u2019t happen… uncertain times… Amphetamine Cowboy, a stranger who doesn\u2019t stick to the image of the man he sees on TV… Psycho vision in the Molecular Studios…
\nThe Red Bar is invaded by a horrible smell… every moment crushed by the hideous crowd… chance maybe, certainly reality… silence never announces the color\u00a0 images lost as the days go by the evanescent charms of culture, and the old poets in rags emerge, consenting victims of a feeble folklore, shit! Will have to shit somewhere very very soon… we use rare words, events bring eyes to the nuclear bordello, robots babble, salivating with moving stains… it\u2019s raining on neon lights, blue animals slip without a sound.
\nI don\u2019t want to meddle with the transistors of others. I forget what the folkloric colors are. Postcards agonize in the gras\u00a0 dust and sobs, cries and flashes, dreams intercepted by neon-sounds \u2014 (another system, impossible to evaluate what is overwhelming the world)… a total lack of depth and psychology… Viruses and miasmas take hold of the streets, historians are grafted onto disease… what elements are you using now?<\/p>\n

August 1973
\nUK. USA.<\/strong><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Claude P\u00e9lieu : KALI YUG EXPRESS Translated by Mary Beach (continued\u2026& that’s all folks!) THE COLD BANK Ray was in the hollow of a wave. He didn\u2019t believe in his electric identity. And I...<\/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-4866","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\/4866","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=4866"}],"version-history":[{"count":10,"href":"https:\/\/pierrejoris.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/4866\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":4875,"href":"https:\/\/pierrejoris.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/4866\/revisions\/4875"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/pierrejoris.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=4866"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/pierrejoris.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=4866"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/pierrejoris.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=4866"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}