Kali Claude Yug Pélieu Express 4

Claude Pélieu : KALI YUG EXPRESS

Translated by Mary Beach


(continued…)

A NEON ROSE-WINDOW
DIES ON THE HORIZON

Your brain has been eroded by realities, you took your time, and it was all pretty horrible. Some people blubber, because of their hatreds. Small bites, small cuts… When myths die flowers survive. No more bets. Others weave their multicolored deaths, shake hands, talk and chatter, they have neither enemies nor friends. They say it’s a sign of despair.
Silvery slaps punctuate the course of history with cloudy streams of eternity.
Regrettable incidents, explosions in Belfast… Dublin recalls its ambassador… the codfish war… demonstrators brandish pickets, “IRA = Waffen SS”, “Down with the Irish revolution!” — representatives from African States are molested by drugged skinheads, ether and benzedrine, yells, “Bugger off Brilloheads! Wogs out! Get stuffed Niggers!”… here and there such incidents cause stirs — young people in sport cars in front of Salvation Army canteens mocking the faces of the jobless, the Chinese fiddle about the heavy gates of their commercial missions.
An old paralytic woman in her wheel-chair, waves a banner… “Jesus Christ is against drugs! Stop pornography! God Save The Queen!”… A trip all the way to the end of mediocrity in the streets of the world.
Programmers demonstrate against striking miners. “You see, those assholes are incapable of doing anything else, and then proles are born to work”… “It’s always the same story when people don’t know how to be content with what they have”… A half-wit starts on a Marxist analysis of the audiovisual empire, slowly dossiers and files come to the surface with Ech-Death archives.
Chained onto the street lamps of Lord North Street obese militants start a hunger strike.
The red dykes and the fluorescent queers mix with the blue sounds of television sets that are never weary of dying.
Intox, Intox, INTOX. (A kid is reading a story about drugs in a widely circulated weekly magazine. And then he swallows a little too much codeine, sniffs glue, and gets high on cough syrup. His myths only hold up because of a venomous article, he’ll be poisoned for life. But he might succeed to pierce the greyish screen of time’s tune, sing its songs)… the dead have no stories to tell. God isn’t in the know.
“The time goes by, you can’t see time go by”, a lady, who knows what she’s talking about, told me.
It was yesterday. A long jerky film, lush with hundreds of magnetic tapes…  where are the heroes? What has become of them? Are they dead? Are they alive? Stuffed?… it was yesterday… they have grown old, simply. They have become doddery and are now in lab-museums, on campuses, some of them had succeeded in showbiz and politics, others returned to their parents’ bar, or grocery store or garage. The two poles of the future have taken them in charge, they didn’t even have time to wave an eventual white flag.
All the world’s follies are in your eyes. Sometimes it even comes to pass that we are happy and rich. Almost every writer or has made himself understood — signals twinkle in the sky — men and women twist in pain before the cold eyes of the cameras. The kind of pain we show, always, in any place, in short, we don’t think, we pray, we advance, we recoil, we light up inwardly, we try to be happy, free, no nuances, then tragedies happen, we chat, as we drink alcohol, we laugh, we cry, and God calls the police… there are strangers in my house… they came yesterday, they must go to Nepal, they’re here, they occupy everything.
They surface. It was yesterday. A mark on history. Sometimes we happen to understand. Intox. Intox, INTOX. Empire-sounds in the archives of coughs — “time goes round” it speaks — myths die on the greyish screen, les jeux sont faits… they’re here, they occupy… and, of course they evoke brotherhood and good vibrations, they bore you stiff. They take over your personal space. A wave of bouillon and macrobiotic grub slips onto the lawn, a hurricane of greasy papers and used Tampax, the strings of an old guitar squeak and scratch the silence. It was yesterday… two shells of buckshot in the blue sky… I really don’t care.

“Suck me but don’t put it in me!”…a guy in black leather has repeated that for the last six moths, desperately, he tries to resemble Jim Morrison. Will he fall apart, yes or no?… in short, he goes to Switzerland to make his tapes, then events come to pass, a parenthesis of gestures and facts, enigmas, variable distances and lateness between the seen and the heard… The regulars at Bilgray’s Tropico come and go in the sky, shivering in their shrouds.
Ironworks and vacant lots.
The windows of the American Express office are shattered.
Cops on horseback charge the demonstrators.
GIs on furlough distribute tracts. A procession of Scottish communists chant orders (they are on the side of those demanding potato peels.) All that is very original, a fiesta in the streets… “Suck me but don’t put it in!”… a few militants demonstrate, a vague story of washing-machines and community Tampax.
Sun in shining on Hyde Park.
Guitars are plugged into bottles of butane gas.
Processions, Pepsi-Cola, bouillon, hot-dogs.
Perched on wooden crate a priest babbles into a loud-speaker.
Ragged underwear floats over the roofs.
Nuns lift their skirts to piss on the flowers placed at the foot of the war memorial.
A gang-bang of businessmen at the Piccadilly Hotel. In filthy buildings in Notting Hill junkies inject light.
“Suck me but don’t put it in!” — Subway exits puke thousand of commuters — Trafalgar Square is ravaged by vaginal salve, pigeons agonize in the slime. Dense traffic. Pedestrians jostled each other. Pubs and movie houses are open, cabarets and sex-shops too. A huge portrait of Bogart fills the facade of a building. French tourists bray and do their business through their mouths… people come to shop at The Fashion Beads & Jeans, high-heeled Italian boots reimbursed by Social Security, blue jeans made in Belgium… a catatonic Hippie yells, he drank too many Pink Ladies, he’s flipped out, bad vibes… “Where are the photographers!” “Where are the photographers!” — he vanishes swallowed by the flashes from a pinball machine — the moon rises in a sky paved with neon lights.
Japanese tourists harnessed with gadgets and gimmicks go by noiselessly. — The Jap Generation! Banzai Buddhahead!… neon like heavy makeup lights up faces that look like those of wax dolls.
I drank a whole bottle of gin. I feel good. I advance. I don’t touch the ground. I walk towards Saint James= on an empty tin can, I race along, piloting dangerously. I land in a street where there are nothing but Chinese restaurants, the worst in the world except for those in Paris, if I remember correctly… “Get back gooks! Get back dirty midgets! Tora! Tora!”… no one pays attention to me. I crash into a bunch of garbage cans. Three foetuses roll into the gutter. I upset a bunch of crates full of rotten, spongy vegetables. “Suck me but don’t put it in!”, I sing at the top of my voice… a band of skinheads… they’re fixing the preps of a Pakistani with the lid of a tin can, some are waving shards of glass. I spit three times to hex them. I penetrate night’s flesh, going through a jade screen I bump into violence… specters are copulating in hammocks… dead flowers hang from the windows of a private mansion. (Good God! That’s where I was to meet the cultural attaché, I hope there’s an elevator.)

RUSTIC SCENE IN SUSSEX

There are cadavers that jack off, virus-beings that want to relive in your body, they want to train your soul.
Sitting on a case of munitions a Scottish parachutist tries to milk the Holy Virgin. Catholic priest place bombs in movie houses. Riots, atrocities, repression —  Protestants cast Catholics into huge ovens, young men attack military convoys, an endless day of violence begins.
Here, people drink, converse and laugh together, others dream. In the streets children are beaten by the police, the wounded are machine-gunned on the ground. A haze of anguish and fear envelops the squared-off town. Inconsolable the children fall asleep… the presence of the killers reassures those who swallow their words, bad magic — I went through all that, shocked, but indifferent — Later on I found myself at Lord Shmuck’s house, there were a few famous names there…
“Please go into the living-room for coffee and liqueurs!”
“With pleasure… may I consult your collection of old manuscripts?”
“Of course, my dear, of course, I’m delighted, make yourself at home…”
An old member of the secret services make a great effect telling abominable stories. (That man is sick, I said to myself) sick, maybe even dangerous… A plump lady wiggles and talks about the Beatniks, Hippies, she’s the wife of a BP man.. Sir Euh-Euh is also there and Lord Whosamajig, a good old sausage with a veiny face, a fat farmer from the region is there too, a bunch of more or less ugly women, all of them very stupid. I wasn’t at all surprise by it all. I’m used to it. In small doses it’s even amusing. And very normal. As a matter of fact I have a lot of fun.
A little drunk and high I profit by it to become very boorish, impertinent. Not a single dwarf will attack me physically.
A historian, through a lackey carrying a note on a silver tray engraved at the Sussex crappers, the note saying that I’m indecent. Governesses and babysitters take the annoying ugly, stupid brats away who were giggling on couches and hissing behind heavy drapes.
“You old sluts! Slaves! Don’t alienate those dear little shits!” I said out loud.
A thirty-five year old Immigration officer was there, with long hair, of course, face ravaged by vestiges of acne. A young blonde girl apparently in love, pierces the little violet pimp where little pearls of pus shine.
Those aphasic calves and huge cows are as ugly and stupid as their servants.
The chauffeurs are all in the kitchens.
And to think that tomorrow at noon we’ll see all those monsters alive.
I swallow two pills of Benzedrine. Personally I’m having a lot of fun. It feels like being in an old 50s film, residues of Greenwich Villages, ex-beatniks… only missing Perry Mason and Flash Gordon, and the token Black. There must be one somewhere. May he’s in the garden, jacking off furiously?… I say: “Where are the Blacks of yesteryear??”…Some youngsters are rolling cigarettes, and passers-by smile indulgently, except for an avant-garde French poet, a guy who knows who isn’t taken in… he’s always afraid that some Hippie in civilian clothes will drop drugs in his lemonade… he’s an ex-lettriste very much in favor… one time, his wife panicked and threw an ounce of hash in the garbage, to protect her dear little ones… One of their guest had mistaken a bar of Pakistani hash for chocolate, his sight was getting bad as of a long time ago. He ate the bar in secret, that fool!… two ounces in one day!… expensive, hard to take!… in short, a half hour later the guy smiles for the first time in forty years, as high as a kite, wanting to hear some real rock, dancing with the broads, and he started to insult his wife and son, who at nineteen knew where his responsibilities were and about the things that are done and not done.
“Well, you see, one must invest carefully, we financiers don’t feel responsible…”
Well, my dead, I’m talking to you and I’m not afraid to say that I’m anti-Semitic!”
A member of Parliament was making a speech about the Common Market.
Satisfied grins from one and the other.
I thought it very amusing, at least more fun than the hip parties where they dedicate books and pamphlets and poetry chapbooks, where all the good vibes are unpacked, and where you have to sit in a circle around the chief guru and listen to the last LP sung by the fool — Oh but, here comes the Swami, the spiritual cop with the grey teeth, Ass Boom Ramdam, the so-called Breath, alias Ali the Puffer, an expert in breathing, bending in half with a coughing fit since he left his Brooklyn cave — scared and frigid beast talked about the Reich… a Maoist crouched in a corner in the shadows starts a hunger strike, a pacifist tries to hid his filthy fly. (I hope nobody will have the idiotic idea of organizing a naked party)… There are a lot of bald guys here. I know some who’ve worked for more than ten years very hard before they could take their clothes off… all these remarkable events are going to weigh heavily on the balance of the revolution… oh! hey! Here comes the courageous publisher who went further than any of the others… blue suit, Rasurel briefs, cashmere socks, he’s pale, his short fingers look like maggots. He still has foie gras under his fingernails. Ah! here comes the slave… a well-dressed old man… I think that, by an accidental cry, we’ll have to announce how temporary their situation is. Tarantulas, rats, shits, hyenas, assholes.
The pond scintillates. The sky is streaked with black bile. Sulphur vapors creeping among the ferns.
A bar. A private club, near Duke Street, Mayfair. Two characters are sipping their gin fizzes.
“To be frank, my dear, I place the Arab on the lowest shelf, the Wog following the dog very closely…”
A vision of Lawrence of Poland, riding a pig, clothed in a filthy white jellaba, entering Warsaw in triumph.
One of the latest tunes puked by the jukebox, “Suck me but don’t put it in!”
Scraps of conversation. I take it all in. A kind of wild madness depicting the collective unconsciousness, I make a mental note, I note quite a few things in bars, night clubs, taxis, toilets, on airplanes, on a boat, in a train, in the streets that are preferable empty.
Sloane Square, two men chat sitting on a bench. I sit down, with an innocent expression, my Sony in my pocket. Shit! Frenchmen!…
“Man, America is it! No fuss over there, I tell ya it’s it! Very nice…”
“Yeah, have you been there?”
“No, but I know, I know I’m right…”
“Yeah, um…yeah…”
Strange guys. Blue jeans and spotted anoraks, boots, dirty sleeping bags filled with half-eaten sandwiches, silly amulets made in Hong Kong imitating Navaho motifs… they=re looking for guys from The Living Theater, and be on their way (sic)… thin hair, straggly, greasy, crooked glasses tainted by grease and obviously a few pimples… They’re perfect! Exactly the kind of guys I adore…

“I’m gonna learn Yoga, man, then I’ll wait until you’re connected to teach you how to play tabla, now I’m gonna show you a mantra I wrote last night, at some guys’ house…” — then they wondered for a moment where they would sleep, or eat, leafing through the London underground guide book… evoking the road to Nepal, San Francisco, Onan City (sic) — “Then we’ll go to see thingamajig, he’ll give us  free tips on America”… a rotten transistor… The dean of chimpanzees died this morning stricken by a heart attack… a diabolical substance is motionless over Buckingham Palace, Portabello Road is buried under a tidal wave of grease spots, to be continued is drawn in the sky by a helicopter.
A pub, The George…
“Blacks are lazy, thieves, but, on the whole, rather nice.”
“Sure, but there is no work for the English.”
Those two guys groaned about Europe’s Seven Wounds, pulling on the old strings of the all-knowing man in the street.
“But remember this…”
A telecommunication satellite station is damaged by an explosion.

“That’s enough!”, cried the minister. “What is this? Another revolutionary with no revolution!”
“Yes, Chief. Badly informed, therefore badly thought out.”
“Shut up! Jerk! Vomit your laudanum and get to work.”
“You may be familiar with me Chief.”
“Give this message to the assholes, and fast!”
A ceremony around a mutilated body, larded with stab wounds. His genitals are horribly mutilated… Manson, whose tender passion for Bobby Beausoleil, thought the bride was too beautiful — a fashionable terrorist held forth in front of the gates of a factory, it was Sunday, there was nobody around. He had abandoned everything to militate.
Collective feelings are insinuated into the messages of futurologists.
A cargo-plane crashes on a shanty town of dilapidated caravans and old cars. Snow-covered disaffected building lots.
Political demons advance in tight rows, threatening and grotesque. All is permitted. Huge shortcuts in mondo-vision on the masses of demonstrators worldwide. All this is quite mysterious, partisans, adversaries and allies don’t know what it is all about. Are they even sure they exist? In the halls of Studio Reality the Invisibles smile.
Cops surround a bloc of Housing Projects. Insupportable, brutal scenes.
A yellow fog engulfs the city.
Circumstances are made of dust.
“Let the situation rot, we’ve seen everything else. It’s simple, those people are too far away from the system they want to combat… an irretrievable lateness… as for you, Dickhead, watch out, you can easily be replaced and recycled, ya dig?”
“Yes, Chief”, answers the minister’s assistant, his finest collaborator, as he likes to think… He clicks his heels, kneels down, opens the boss’ fly and gives him a blow job… A global view of Dublin from a jumbo jet, a global view of Shannon, then Kennedy International Airport, New York…Faded photos exploding in the windows of the Gotham Book Market, faded smoke around two thin cats playing in the dusty window of the Phoenix Bookshop… wind sucks the thieving shadows, sharp cries in the oven of the 60s, sexual guerilla warfare in the streets of the world. Nothing has changed. Everything is just a little sadder, a little deader.

WHITE FLOWERS ON THE SCREEN

Young homosexuals castrated by skinheads expelled from their grey suburbs. Pakistanis stabbed in the dark streets around Piccadilly Circus. Apartments set on fire, hippies brutalized. Two ex-paratroopers disembowel a Jamaican, stuffing his belly with garbage taken from the trash cans of a Chinese restaurant. “Here, Brillohead! Here you are stuffed with something worse than your own shit!” Later on they kidnap a young girl who hung out with a Pakistani, and fill her vagina with quick-drying cement.
Televises mud is spreading. John Wayne and Andy Murphy, The Duke manipulates platitudes with humor. Driving the Blue Foetus’ khaki Rolls, he rushes toward the Cote d’Azur. Hamburger Gyp ends his days in a hotel in Seaford.
A green flash in the purple fog… naked, standing on the State Ship, the Prime Minister rushes towards more pleasant climates. Sexual segregation in the streets of the world.
The Pink Panther won’t finish its speech, a sexist flash, red, erasing half its face. “SEXTERA”, I murmured as I took a photo.
Strange sounds invading High Camden Street.
Thousands of jobless people wandered in the streets, waiting for the opening of dismal pubs.
A cinemascopic duel and bossa nova.
“Sir, I, who am not a racist, I do think the crappers should be segregated.”
Soft music in the dimmed back-room. Red Charlotte distributed tracts.
Israeli secret agents placed bombs in a wimpy. Dead drunk Pollacks drink Javel water and bite directly into packages of frozen food. An ad: “Madam, if you have greasy hair, eat some baba mousse” another ad, “Put a little springtime in your sandwiches, buy endives”… “Your son takes drugs, your daughter is a prostitute, come to us for consultations, FAMILY PLANNING JELLY ROOTS”… toothpaste for dogs is sold illegally in Great Britain…
An extraordinary reunion. The general secretary of the Unique Party, a wounded vet and a work hero has the floor. His artificial anus plugged into a  bottle of Propane gas. Two young militants stand at his side, armed with bicycle pumps in case of a breakdown or sabotage.
“Comrades, uh where are we with the Tierce? Uh uh, ah ah, the minister hasn’t paid his taxes, hihihi… uh uh… comrades, uh… arrrhhh! But go on and pump you little shits!…uh!… Pump!”
The General secretary collapses. The undersecretary grabs the mike.
“Pump! But go on and pump!”
“Comrades we’re not responsible for the thousands of young druggies who vegetate in psychiatric hospitals, and I say — Yes! We’ve thought of everything, education, cultural revolution, sexual revolution, counterculture, sports and leisure, cold buffets, drinking holes, crappers and pop music…”
“It’s the fault of LSD!” cried a self made union man.
“He’s drunk! Just get that baboon the fuck out of here!”
“But he’s a comrade!”
“Don’t give a fuck!”
“But he’s a work hero!”
Don’t give a fuck! He’s kicked out of the Party’s control! A militant must behave, be an example… there are too many faggots here!”
I was of the same mind, but who am I to criticize? I was there, with an extraordinary mission for the Insect Trust Gazette.
Hideous images were distributed to young adults and to schizophrenics.
“An historic flop”, I said to the Muslim representative to Blacks from North America. He nodded, spreading his little plastic rug he began his prayer. An Eskimo Guevarist representative told me: “There’s no discussing with people like that!”
The cultural industry has always been influenced by military & industrial complexes, which is normal, whether it’s about persona; capitalism or State capitalism, even Socialist, that’s how the techniques of brain washing are abandoned in advanced capitalistic countries, the Control Organism possesses much scarier weapons than that. The imperialism of the stomach and social security have rendered pre-war techniques null and void. We’re entering a golden age. “Eat, drive fast, jack off, organize your leisure, idiocy is in power!” a period some might regret, paranoia of hearts and minds.
“Where are we with the control of information, Watson?”
“I really think that we are in the majority…”
“Ah, good, and are the masses of polling following?”
“Yes, like a single man…”
“Perfect, Watson, perfect, well, Watson, let’s have a little sniff, the State’s blue cocaine… ah, Watson, increase the free distribution of sausages a bit, as well as wine and beer, that’s very important, Watson… we must remain neutral.”

Children are selling ‘Le Cri du People’ in the empty streets.
Drunk with rage and hate the police stomp cadavers.
Veterans, stoned, parade naked, tears of pride sparkling in their filthy eyes.
The nation’s pupils demand the heads of the idle, of sleepwalkers and faggots.  Scoundrels exploit public misery, put itching-powder in the stocks of plasma, stop ambulances to set fire to them. Official statistics explode in the cellar of the Sperm Bank.
“Give shit to those who are hungry!” I screamed in a fit of generosity.
Fifty year-old black leather jackets attack isolated passerby with syringes filled with curare.
“Now that’s fine, Watson, good job, the people want information, true TV news”… a CEO agonizes, clobbered by a chimpanzee… confusion reigns in the slums of the city… a group of social students are ambushed… Her Majesty the Queen hitchhikes in Asia.
So, when we think about it, they call us cowards” murmured a cop, on all fours, pants down, buggered by a red-headed, green-eyed sailor. Another one yells with his mouth full of come: “Ugh! Good God! Where are the elite!”… a CIA agent high on heroin absently scratches his balls.
I was lucky to witness the raking of Sacramento by the red drag queens. At that time dwarfs stayed quietly away. Reagan leading the assault units, surrounded the vacant lots in Harlem.
The idol of songs was on stage. A mini-Woodstock failure. He fiddled with his amplifier. We put TNT in his electric guitar. You should have seen the flash when he pressed the button, BANG! BANG!… and his expression!… better than napalm… and his pianist sizzled when he placed his feet on the pedals of his electric organ,  SRRR rrrssshhhh!… A smell of burnt flesh and a commercial flash, some of the fans fainted, nothing much was left, his Italian boots and cuff links.
“Bravo! Bravo!” cried the police commissioner, “when I say musicians under  police protection I’m not saying in the morgue!
Some Bangladesh partisans struck up the national anthem.
“Those people won’t go far, Watson, with that kind of a song…”
A few scabs beat the wives of strikers. Ixca and Sally were fucking in a beet
field. Suddenly Ixca found himself alone, the cock armed… Sally’s clenched hand was disappearing in the mud… a few bubbles then an awful silence. Stunned, Ixca looked around him, he saw an upset sign where he could still read: “DANGER QUICKSAND”.
The super Yeti and the Swami organize a competition of spiritual grimaces. Their sexual tentacles left imprints in the sand.

Heaven will thank you. You will thank heaven. Everyone is very polite.
The swami made a little greasy, wet sound. God doesn’t need gate-keepers.
Men tell a few untrue stories, that’s the trouble.
Tomorrow, the vision of several million individuals will be upset by the international market of cables and video-cassettes. I won’t insist on mentioning the political side of that revolution.
The cries of militants turn into murmurs. Ectoplasm pushes against them and sodomizes them, then fill all their orifices. Their groans and murmurs prove they like to be humiliated.
After having come for a long time in Red Charlotte’s ass, an ectoplasm forced her to her knees, and plunge her tongue into the heroine’s rectum and swallow his sperm. Little by little they all dovetailed happily, dabbing their anuses with bits of cotton soaked in brilliantine.
“You’ll earn your bread by the sweat of your brow” murmured the hypermarket manager.
“We will force them to make their peace with their work!” cried a student from Teachers’ College who had dropped out to work in a factory and who was not used to sodomy. A young hoodlum glides up behind him and screws him in the ass. The muscles of his stomach harden, with a demented cry the hoodlum fucks his ass. The brilliant militant shudders, and his cock spews, splattering the shelf of fine lingerie. On the assembly line of programmed sodomy there were quite a few candidates.  Then all the demonstrators were dominated by sexual rage. The cops distinguished themselves as soon as they lost their inhibitions. The crowd officiated actively. Unfortunately the seriousness of politics and the game took the upper hand, and ideological services repressed, with extreme violence any deviation, going along with the powers that be. To enjoy sex was forbidden. It was quite clear.
Incidents of rare violence went on for several weeks. Every day thousand of beings clinched. The cops sniffed their adversaries like passionate and jealous lovers.
No rapes to report.
Gigantic and impressive fornication. Intense effusions. Pure and exquisite emotions. All their senses were fulfilled. Some were unable to hold back their tears and their ecstatic cries.
Early in the morning violent fights restarted. In the daylight no sexual impulse preoccupied the protagonists.
Juju and Chano slept side by side near a barricade. Chano turned over, groaned, opened an eye… a terrible erection that he tried to forget… Chano put his hand between Juju’s thigh who was still asleep, then he wet his fingers with saliva and wet Juju’s anus, Juju moved a little, groaning he stretched his adorable ass. Chano penetrated him gently, holding onto his shoulders, slowly he moved up and down, he couldn’t stop his movements.
Juju barely moved, contracting his rectal muscle, hoping Chano stayed there, and never relaxed his embrace.
Their bodies covered in sweat shone in the fog of teargas, the odor of come dominated. Chano came in Juju’s ass, which contracted in the ultimate reaction, feeling the long spurts of come flood the bottom of his ass… In their trucks under their blankets, soldiers caress each other furtively, the smell of semen mixes with the odor of gas and tobacco. Some of the officers were troubled by the excesses.

(to be continued…)

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