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Kali Claude Yug Pélieu Express 5

August 30th, 2010 · 1 Comment · Poetry, Prose, Summer Reading, Translation

Mary Beach & Claude Pélieu

Claude Pélieu : KALI YUG EXPRESS

Translated by Mary Beach

(continued…)

A PROGRAMMED DREAM

The technician sprays toxic and lethal gases. The CEO shuffles a few pages and starts to speak.
“Gentlemen, the American astronauts will return in perfect shape, SKY LAB is a success. We’re at the dawn of the year 2000, and our enhanced gadgets don’t fight with the flow of history, besides that isn’t the problem, the problem is, uh, well let’s say that it is extravagant, if it be that our capitalist society that permitted the expansion of all consciousness and our trips into space”… applause… “that our society allowed the most audacious arts to infuse new blood into a whole generation, and that thousands of young people, among our finest technicians, were able to experiment with every kind of drug in spite of the uh-prohibition, well, I think that unadapted people have a right to happiness and the Freudian plus-value… Marxists have disgusted the youth of every country, and now we must adapt, change, and ALL that, Gentlemen, we can only go forward, with more and more freedom”… Applause… “so, I say , that those who wish to enjoy their incredible backwardness, take no part in the democratic brain trust, the exercise of liberties that democracy demands will have nothing to do with their aberrant convictions and their nostalgia… Oh, I know that the war machine can still function, but it can’t really affect us… even the Western proletariat loots the Third World”… laughter… exclamations… “Gentlemen, there will be no revolution in the sense that the stupid left wingers understand it, and I think that it is unbelievable luck for the revolutionaries, and, besides, I think they will soon realize that the bastards weren’t those…”
“There were ants in the hearse!”, exclaimed the union delegate.
“Oh, you, that’s enough, go and tell that to your flocks!”
“I even wonder if there will be a few fine days for us”, murmurs the Prime Minister sitting in his bathtub, contemplating his little celluloid boats.
“Those eyes undress you! Justice is done!”, yells another delegate.
“I accuse!” grunts the doorman visibly drunk.
“Just the justice of the people…”, the character hidden behind a curtain doesn’t finish his sentence. A ton of sadness spreads throughout that congress. Joe Allegro, one of the principal stockholders wasn’t there.
The CEO continues…
“Calm down, Gentlemen, calm down… Let’s see now, what the youth market is offering us… but let’s not take Europe into account, except for Great Britain… popstars are committing grave errors, they confuse the mud of abundance with the gold of time… those new myths, uh, for better or worse, hey we have our own fantasies, don’t we?… I mean the popstars aren’t profitable anymore… no more than anti-missiles, warheads with multiple heads, orbital bombs, carriers or missile interceptors, no more than the bacteriological and psychochemical offensives, only meteorological projects that provoke climatic catastrophes hold our attention… but will our environments resist the escalation?”…
ACTION — general rehearsal in underdeveloped zones. Objective No 1… who cares, they’re not White… experimental non-violent repression on trial in urban and suburban volumes… ACTION… nothing to fear from militants and diverse groups… Hippies have found jobs and have grown old… universities, fashions, research, advertising, Dick Tracy, TV, etc, nothing to fear from liberated bourgeoisie, nothing to fear from western Communists… ACTION… we’re going to be able to liquidate our Madison Avenue MGM and RCA stocks with the retarded Europeans… ACTION… population explosions, global segregation… we won’t tolerate official subversion, and all that seems quite reasonable to us.
Let’s not forget to emphasize vacations and leisure, that’s really a revolutionary act… right and left wingers are under our control, those retarded minority layers are living their last minutes, let them rot… ACTION — no more classical repression, liberate those Blacks, all of them, quickly reclassify those suicide candidates… besides we have the time to see it happen.
“A little blue flower in the red flag, Sir?”
“Thanks, young man, I’m a socialist of the belle époque…”
“And what about me, I’m left wing, and I feel good in my skin…”
“I’m right wing who feels good in the world…”
“And you, young man? At your age, one feels good anywhere, no?”
“You? Yes, you!”
“I’m legitimately worried, oh, not a theoretical anxiety, no crisis, no… anyway, I hope it lasts…”
“A very fine statement concerning reality, my dear, remind me of your name?”
“And you, continue to campaign in my favor…”
“You know, there are discontent people all over…”
“Well, good night, I’m overjoyed, at least, you know what you’re talking about…”
“Well, good night, let’s say that we live in a world difficult to understand…”
“You know, a new washing machine, a new color photocopier are much more important than the riots in the ghettoes, besides, look carefully at the screen , do you see that street? Those young people singing the International in Paris and in Tokyo, well, the police does its job well… we’ve acquired the exercise of democracy and liberty, don’t throw that unique acquisition away…”
“Of course, the obsessions and neuroses of individuals with collective unimportance don’t interest us, not important if he takes her in the ass or in the urinal? with or without peppers? We’re free, you got it?”
ACTION — a green flash pushes the travelers back into yesterday, the last stop for the managers of the revolution, dream chronicles, we didn’t believe in it anymore… a sexual howl in the bloody trunk, silence, music, big lights in the pink window… We don’t give a fuck about their sexual problems, here, we light up inwardly, we come or not… we aren’t going to start over — English twilight carries an old address around, a few pissy bubbles burst in the sun — there are no surprises upon waking up…
A honey echo, emotion as pure as a drop of dew.
The sky unfolds its cloth. A cowboy song comes out of a jar full of mint leaves. Cassettes sing-song, televisions split, the shadow loots mirrors.
There’s nothing left, we’re on the brink of vacillating with neon… no explanation need be given to one or the other, you can’t change their lives or transform their worlds against their wills… ACTION — recoil instinctively… A hanged man lifts the curtain and shits in the prompter’s box, and before the three knocks reveals his stiff prick… a CEO shows off, stars are startled in the sexual mist… artists and revolutionaries become more and more indispensable to the established order — what is happening in the world? nothing, not much, every subject haunts the Universe, mutant-clairvoyants advance — without a look at the blind terror and conformity sleepwalkers and robots go to the cashier. What more is there to say?

THE GREAT FUCK

Ray lifted Ida’s legs to examine her twat. He was on his knees, caressing the plump mound covered with curly nut-colored fur. He put his hand between her thighs and gently caressed her clitoris. She disengaged herself, turned over, and lips bumped into Ray’s penis who was sucking her conscientiously. Rapidly a sharp pleasure made him shudder. His prick was completely in her mouth, and he managed to return her caresses. Then he took her alternately in the butt and the cunt. They came together enjoying the same delights, discharging painfully… Hermione entered the room and covered them with her lips. Ida grabbed Hermione and sucked for her for a long time, shoving her tongue like a serpent in her streaming cunt. Ray didn’t take long to get hard again, and he serviced Hermione the same way in the ass and cunt. Then he spread her thighs roughly, Ida took his cock between her lips, and at the same time finding Hermione’s butt, she shoved two fingers in her rectum… then tickled her with her tongue… they were abundantly wet and Ray fucked Ida, her cunt swallowing his cock, Hermione caressed Ray’s balls, then they came like madmen, fainting with pleasure.
The boys (when they weren’t jacking off among themselves) were assaulting girls all the time. That sexual misery, and the many forms of repression, doesn’t, I think, have much to do with class struggles, in spite of what they say in informed circles… The photocopier replaces the orgasm and Xerox brings another kind of civilization to us… flabby thinking is diffused by ideological services only impoverish sex and its market — pathetic symphony in the crappers of high schools and stations — a mammoth explosion shakes the planet… repression and transgression appear simultaneously, speech is completely shattered, unpredictable reactions begin and end in the present, and spread over events and environments… the dominant structures of a system that strangely resembles the one created by groups that are hostile to it… Death and come remain in their throats, the better and the worst are in their heads.
The Japanese cop who arrested Juju in Los Angeles was also a pianist, a pure artist floating in the sunset in Surf City.
Early morning stratus flying over nuclear installation in New Mexico.
An ignoble attack forces a national spermatic emission to flow.
ACTION — the deposed emir was jacking off in a bordello in Timbuktu, while the stoned Fedayeens shit in his oil wells. In Zurich silly Hippies demonstrated for peace — a video orgasm pushed back the neo-Nazi counter-demonstrators… there are dreams we don’t remember, and that’s a good thing… On the sexual battlefield of sleep, the dreamer is plunges into a bath of vapor… the most committed militants are never really taken seriously, especially by their adversaries… reactions are mixed.
ACTION — young, rather ugly and ungainly girls go door to door selling, an explanation campaign, the pill, abortion, social security, the friend of the foetus, the great zygomatic, etc… lesbians exhausted by street fighting, attack lonely men and emasculate them, left wing housewives organize a faggot hunt… “all this is comical and quite enervating,” said a liberal who contests the sisters’ capabilities — Paulo, an ex-motorcyclist who had become a rock singer in a suburban nightclub, organized very special gang-bangs with innocent girls… he would deflower them with his Bic pen and cut their cracks with his teeth — drowning in grease spots and used Kleenexes, Paulo rushed forward and glided, yelling with pleasure on his toboggan incrusted with dildos. Billy Bud traveled with his sexual demonstrations packed in a suitcase… grave consequences between the lines of risky strength… I hummed the latest tune, “You’re dirty but you’re handsome”.
ACTION — a young man smoked leaning against a billboard. Bare chest. pre-faded blue jeans and red leather boots. Black hair cut very short. His flabby lips were surrounded by pubic hairs. Ray felt a little sick… a light breeze played in the silvery-green eucalyptus foliage. Onan City was lit up. The Frisco Bay, and over there, further on, Oakland, crushed by the lights of Berkeley… Ray thought that, in fact and in spite of everything, that it was better to live in New York or in Los Angeles, even London, with the conduction of being able to jump in a plane, every week, and fly into the heart of the Blue Mountains, or onto the beaches of the State of Virginia… Sexual extinction and curfew, police and military patrols and all the anxious and badly built people ready to lynch you… Ray and the boy were standing on a pontoon… accidentally Ray’s hand touched his belly. The boy’s hand grasped his cock, and he fell on his knees, his warm lips closed over Ray’s prick, his tongue caressing him slowly — the seagulls squawked — Ray held back, a trembling hardon, shuddering as he stroked the shaved neck, digging further into that delicious, exciting mouth. Ray couldn’t hold on any longer and he discharged in five long pulsations. The boy swallowed his burning come, groaning and suffocating. Then they stretched out on an inflatable mattress. Ray took off his blue jeans, stroking his tiny balls, as round as plums. They kissed and Ray tasted his own sperm — Another hardon. The boy’s penis was small but adequate… Ray jacked him off delicately and with his other hand caressed his ass, the assholes of the unknown kid dilated, retracted, and Ray took him in the ass, back and forth in the luscious scabbard. All around, young people were caressing each other, buggering, couples were fucking furiously, moaning and crying under the orange and black sky, blotted out by the San Francisco neons. Heavy waves break against the rocks and the surf came to caress the barge.
Operation “IT’S NEVER TOO LATE TO SEDUCE”… last reel… we’ll never talk about it again… the ration of time for solitude is no longer available.
I was Ray a long time ago, straddling a piece of ice. Finished in a reanimation booth. Finished in the American zoo. Rowing in olive oil and a hot fudge sundae, straddling a Polaris-turd, celebration Valentine’s Day with the red dykes.
Red dimensions bursting through the haze, set the nylon landscape on fire. God tried to photograph something, like the Abyss Gang.

ASSASSINS WORK OVERTIME

Notices and small posters, it’s forbidden to throw beer cans into the barbed wire. Paint your ghettos green, Jazz up your hovels with psychedelic posters, avenging posters were plastered on the walls of the city, along with the usual publicity, so subversive and demented.
A gigantic prick pierces the clouds and showers the city with cosmic sperm, an intergalactic anus defecates on the creations of man.
People fight in the streets.
There is obviously another solution, Stoned Intersection, a shabby hotel room, an unmade bed, greenish sheets, sachets of heroin, spoons, syringes, matchbooks, cotton balls, speed and barbiturates… all that shit spread out on the bed… I smoked a bit, I had a few bennies, and I left… in a bar I drank five or six Vodka martinis… I felt better… I could no longer look at those bits of blood-stained cotton, those eye-droppers full of coagulated resin, those filthy needles, I could no longer see those guys and those girls, nor — the hell of heroin, coma, cramps, grey flashes stirred inside bubbles, the withered, pierced veins under your abscessed flesh — if we could only use a telecommunication satellite to wholly film and project at random the arrival of bubbles, overdose fixes, and the thousands of junkies in a single flash, any old pad, on any old continent, in any old highschool can, in any old prison… ACTION — I see a guy getting a fix in San Miguel, the needle trembled, the great mondo vision shot, and all the maniacal mythology of the universe of drugs… everyone should know that … Nothing happens, nothing in that universe, as soon as that filth has hooked you for good… five tons of rotten heroin is consumed in the USA in a year, poisoned LSD, over-priced grass is trafficked, murderous amphetamines, synthetic alcohol… a grey scream in the cold dawn where a thousand transparent silhouettes vacillate. The leprous anxiety emerging from the fog laden with metallic dust, a vague shock in the gelatin, shattered multicolored neon swimming in black blood, desolate and sinister zones of survival and panic, sticky wrinkles, slimy clots of sadness, a vague shock, the embers fry you vertically. If it tempts you, amuses you, engulfs you now in the Snow Subway, in the artificial dawn soaked by the blood of thousands of junkies bursting into torches, those thousands of suffering people who have no stories to tell, like Murphy and Floyd, dead for such a long time, with Skag and Jones, officially lying in the morgue for little powder mixed by Mol & Mort… I left that shabby bar and I smoked two joints in the parking lot. Then I took a taxi.
Like many people Doctor Rubin was undecided and troubled.
A rock group, The Fat Flower, and the demonologists of the Pentagon were dazzled by a porn lightshow staged by THE Wet Dykes.
A tear on the screen — the actor Pierre Clement is condemned by an Italian tribunal for usage and possession of drugs, the funeral of a Catholic priest in Ireland, Ginsberg and Ferlinghetti make a stop over in Honolulu, President Nixon stops over in Alaska, fights in Paris, Milan and Rome, John Sinclair is freed, wave of arrests in the countries in the East, murderous fights between Palestinians and Israelis, clamp of tension over the whole planet, a Soviet poet leaves a psychiatric hospital, declared cured by the authorities — in the minds of one and the other all the battles were either won or lost, their demanding formulas chase reality.
A soulless doll passes in front of the automatic distributor of condoms, two guys argue about a parking spot.
Images created by ideological services experts lean on a network of contradictions. Once again I was right, and so were you. A network of absurdities. as some consumers might say, consumers who have views about everything and nothing, like you and me… As soon as they organize your leisure they’re persuaded that they have freed you. A rebel in a coma speaks to us of the inconsequence of democracy. “I don’t know anything and don’t want to know,” he repeats fiddling with his paint bomb.
The Wet Mops, a symphonic orchestra attacks the first measure of Kibbutz Flower.
“Assassins work overtime!”
A veteran, tied onto his emergency chamber pot with security belt and all, cries out:
“Let our dead sleep in peace!”
A grey and brown rainbow, large flakes of grated cheese fall. Operation ‘GAMMA SUCCESS GUARANTEED’, cops and demonstrators are absorbed by electromagnetic vibrations and plunge into infrared and ultraviolet.
Chromatic information passed under the noses of a generation too preoccupied with choosing clothes at the Oriental Pearl. The information agents didn’t have much to do, if not to film, tape, classify and transmit. The electric activities of poets were drowned in adrenalin, they felt no dangers for the established order. (It was sad to see them talk gibberish on stage, holding greasy bits of paper in their hands, sputtering in mikes smeared with Dijon mustard, sad, in spite of total consciousness and the Immense Trip they are incapable of explaining to the world in which they find themselves)… it pleases me to see those guys embark on a pierced raft for a long cruise…
ACTION — the Sperm Hotel, Chelsea… artists, militants, dealers, CIA and FBI agents, crazies, Puerto Ricans whores, and Cuban drug-dealers… the situation deteriorated quickly, the belle époque was over, musicians went elsewhere, everyone was perfect… rapes, murders, break-ins, regrettable incidents, absolutely disgusting people took care of business… At all times New York was considered to be a dangerous city, like all the other large American cities.
A pink taste in that cruel glance. A vision of the world transcends pinball machines on 42nd Street. The old film must be decoded. An intestinal occlusion that tends to replace any important cultural contribution… The CIA agent, long hair, black shades, etc., at the bar, exploiting Chibas= gestures… the bursting open of an old film and of conscience is the starting point of the arrival of blocs of association, that return at random, after the seen and the heard, hoping to make you smile.
A jazzy goodbye buried in the jukebox in this filthy dive, the El Coyote… all that ruins memories, a metabolic shock caresses twilight, like a spurt of sperm falling in flakes on the worn bath mat, a soft noise, a grey sound.
As soon as you exaggerate and you take your desires for realities you start to invent. We catch all the signs drifting among reflections of waves whispering on the edges of clouds.
“You’re making fun of my body!” cried Lola Pozo as she readjusted her veil. That poor drag-queen was aging badly, her acting clothes were faded.
That day, returning from Las Vegas, I noticed that the old Beatniks were resurfacing again, betting on the Hippy market, that all the crazy exiled avant-garde of the 50s were escaping from the Jewish psychoanalysts waiting rooms, and that it was really touching bottom… a neurotic and romantic wind blew in the halls of the hotel, not to mention the bad smells. Daily low blood pressure, filthy beings, eroded by rages and hatreds, and the hideous sounds of 23rd Street… things go so fast that questions and answers telescope, and that double vision turns into impenetrable dullness… the hideous images rise in your field of vision.
ACTION — for a week now, professor Tchou Wrong reads and rereads the Supreme Public Servant’s latest book. He always worked cold and practiced acupuncture by correspondence. He operated cold, scalpel in his left hand, the little red book in his right one. Obviously his successes were very limited — song week in Peking went on without incident — Paris and London were crushed by greyness, and the Soviet Union not yet hypnotized by Nixon seriously thought of joining the Common Market… here, assassins were working over time.
ACTION — 4 pm, the lounge at the Chelsea Hotel… they entered the lounge completely stoned, armed to the teeth, brandishing the Pink October pickets… they stank of ether, rubbing alcohol, some were tripping, THC and super pot, most of them were high on amphetamines… originally they wanted a Housing Project for themselves on 9th Ave, but they decided to start with the Chelsea Hotel and the YMCA swimming pool… automatic-gun shots between the legs of bathers lying under tanning lamps, grenades thrown into the pool… hundreds of bloody bodies floated in the water, some hung on diving boards… pale green-blue water turning red, purple… bullet-riddled bodies covered with grenade shards lay on the steps leading to the steam-baths, Fag Cruise Row… life-guards were nailed onto the doors of cabins… mirrors were shattered, grenades were thrown into elevator shafts like rosary beads… puddles of blood everywhere… they entered the hotel lobby — pictures painted by masters, bought cheap, were riddled with bullets, telephone operators were killed on their chairs, the manager was hacked to death … the black doormen were chased into the cellars of the hotel by a small group armed with hatchets and electric saws… maids were murdered on the staircase — the doors of rooms were bashed in, dynamited, a rock group that was rehearsing was machine-gunned, the singer bends his knees swallowing his last remolo, the drummer takes burning flames in his eyes, fire licks away his face, another group is armed with flame-throwers… people are killed in their bathtubs, in their showers, sitting on their toilets, some in their beds, others are thrown out of the windows… children are not spared… some try to escape onto the balcony, terraces, emergency stairs, hanging gardens, etc — shots tear through chests, stomachs, backs, tear off heads, marmalades of brains on the walls, guts… An artist falls holding his palette, a guy finishing his best-seller (I was a Hippy before the letter) falls on his nose on his typewriter, burst apart, twisted, smoking… the old couturier and his dogs and his chicks are axed in the hall, the Caucasian poetess opens her big mouth for the last time while her Cuban lover rolls like a gazelle against the wall… white nylon carpets are covered in blood… artists offer money to the killers, models and actresses offer their bodies to the sanguinary hoodlums… then it was the turn of the bar and the restaurant the El Coyote… I rejoiced over the fate of the bar and the restaurant, I liked it… An Italo-American, Number 1 on the Hit Parade was gunned down holding his orange juice… the Spanish waiters had collapsed in the straw and Vagina Souffle… “Ole! Ole!” I screamed…
“You dig, people don’t think, they only repeat what they hear”…
“I didn’t make you say that…”
“Antonio! fucks! Give me the wine chart!”
“Si Senor!”
An incident among so many others — and two steps away, at Madison Square Garden, the mentally handicapped people of the American Communist Party claim that Socialism is on the march — Maurice Chevalier arrives on the Concord which will later, be turned back, a forced landing in Switzerland… Then the swami throws his lighted cigarette into the mouth of the semi-artist who cries: “Good God! I don’t fear anything you old blow-jobber!”… a German face-lifter bursts into tears, he just missed his thirteenth head transplant.

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