Kali Claude Yug Pélieu Express 11

Claude Pélieu : KALI YUG EXPRESS

Translated by Mary Beach

(continued…& that’s all folks!)

THE COLD BANK

Ray was in the hollow of a wave.

He didn’t believe in his electric identity.
And I start again with images, for you, for you only — an amputated typewriter — 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… “death to jerks!”, “Vive peanut butter!”… and then oh oh arrrggh!… I awoke unsticking myself from the waterfall… “Death to bastards!”… 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’m saying and you follow me, satellites, tentacles, radars, sonars, towing seven million men — a mad computer skins your cortex, and then it’s Summer, holidays in Florida… aspens here, silver poplars, birches… a blooming rose, the landscape lights up, the setting sun licks the horizon — 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’t have to worry about neighbors — 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 — 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 — 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.
Celluloid 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 — emotion is great as soon as an angel is forgotten… thousands of postcard clear my eyes… we’re always absent or present, that’s why certain people call God Mr. Everybody… present, absent, violent, peaceful — electric signs, and neon-flesh, moons diffusing blue… once again I overflow towards the West.
The thousand-petalled lotus, tantric incantations and cut/ups mixing with the third spirit — the knots in the image pierce the fog — 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.
Look at daylight falling into a thimble, daylight makes a suffocating sound.
Distant lips. Ashy stars.
The air buzzes, Dead moons. Horizon-smiles.
The man gets out of the sand, the grace of grass inspires the wind — the weather is fine and the cats are on their way to the river — I’m in the hollow of a wave… my book is making progress.
Setting sun tears at waves and charms.
How fast do traces work?
Dawn-cassettes and dust-collages.
God Mr. All Blue…
Silver Creek, July-August 197…? — idiotic music — San Francisco, how can we remember? A film-memory expresses Coca cowboy and clears insomnia.
Falling… getting up… coming, going… seven billion men caught in a post card… to laugh and shit in silence… to piss on one’s neighbors. Pornographic pages wink at pink sounds…
The show is dead. News riddles our environments of sexy messages.
Flipped out minorities don’t 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.

ENTERING AND LEAVING

Silence, immobility, animals and machines… We’re on that electrified railing, a long time ago, hanging onto a pasty grimace. People were strolling around, avoiding the nuances of time’s airs. Absorbent grey waved in streets swallowed in light. Some thought that that ambiance could be built among the lines of a story — public taste right in the sky, proving the existence of reality, holidays and the world stretches out — death at will here and there, mocking the thinness of public opinion. There’s nothing new in that.
(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.
The message diffused before the arrival of the Villains of Space, even before the coming of the psychedelic Fascism was: RESISTED, SUBSISTED, SURVIVED,
ENTERED AND LEFT. To survive, dead or alive in front or behind the scenery — crossing walls bunkers fogs launching pads, screens and dangerous areas — a precise yet rainy technique. Who is who among these broken lines engulfed by the event, disappearing in pink sand?
CAMERA season — we don’t systematically take the side of violence and chaos… we refuse to compromise ourselves with those marriage proposals — a little creaky salute awaited its time in the mugginess of a July evening.
Those CIA agents were also colonels.
Heavy, damning files, hashed and rehashed by seditious conspirators.
Colonel Verminex, we don’t have much to talk about anymore.”
“Very well… we’ll see each other in Polynesia.”
“Watch out, don’t fall into the sink.”
So, 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’t dare give its name — the trembling fingers of those who have never come down, dying on this mosaic — we’ll never talk about it again, superstars can’t go backwards, already in a pasty way, the past has absorbed them.
The world’s 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.  I’ll see you facing the darkness of time, in police glue… is that clear? An appointment in the nevermore evidence.
Reality, we’re only in it for the money, sap! — scintillating procedures of the four seasons on holiday — we’re 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) — fights in the empty streets, crossing time on the first day of vacation.
“Don’t fall into that mosaic of screams.”
A blue flash erasing the card players.
Workmen come and go, menacing with their jackhammers. They’re handymen. Cameras in a state of alert — troubling attacks, horrible and stupid — the eloquent silence of the authorities. Flexible colors crying out your names, soliciting the troubled gazes of the spectators.
“Nothing will change the essential information…” 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.
The man in grey dissolves in a suitcase, unaware of the suffering and the overheated schedule.
Negatives of truth in the Chinese restaurant. Absent customers vanish in the
rowing-in-the-past pain — streets paved in sexual hunger, finger tips surfacing in the gutters — an uptown cry tears at the reporter’s 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’Année de la Fourchette, do you remember?… they’d 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 “Burnt Bread” — 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.
“We’ll find each other again in empty eyes, darling…”
“Or in accidental surprises, my love…”
On the side of televised hip comedy nothing to tell. A patriotic walk of the conspirators.
There was a purple fog over Miami Beach.
“There isn’t only the sea,” murmured the conspirator, “there are mountains too.”
We’re 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 — yes-yes superstar yes-yes leaning over the sink, vomiting the latest information.
In 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 — CIA season and trembling fingers on the mosaic — Lee dies in Ray’s backward walk, with orange tatters that were ready to talk. Pasty grimaces over New York. Grey landscapes lasting in space.
I cross the scenery, precise, rainy, a little drunk, displaced in the lines by the event, refusing the raspy salvation of the environment — heavy files, proofs to compromise Joe Veminex… the eloquence of the police?  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 — and the point in a few seconds… the curtain of  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.
Police-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.
The night of time and the evidence. We’re 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 “utopian” virus to appear, that literary drama of political information, fiction and global vision compressed by the mass media.
Someone somewhere, and what happens, what doesn’t happen… uncertain times… Amphetamine Cowboy, a stranger who doesn’t stick to the image of the man he sees on TV… Psycho vision in the Molecular Studios…
The Red Bar is invaded by a horrible smell… every moment crushed by the hideous crowd… chance maybe, certainly reality… silence never announces the color  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’s raining on neon lights, blue animals slip without a sound.
I don’t want to meddle with the transistors of others. I forget what the folkloric colors are. Postcards agonize in the gras  dust and sobs, cries and flashes, dreams intercepted by neon-sounds — (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?

August 1973
UK. USA.

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