The Poetry of Wan Xia 万夏
Selections: 1984-1992
Wan Xia was born in 1962 in
1) The Date [约会]
2) Life [生活]
3) Dream of a Recluse [隐梦]
I. The White Horse [白马]
II. The Essential Dress of a Poet [一个诗人的基本服饰]
4) A Recent Death [新丧]
5) The Other Woman [彼女]
6) Ballet [芭蕾]
7) A Girl and a Horse [女孩和马]
8) The Essential Garments of a Poet (Rewritten) [一个诗人的基本服饰]
9) No Food For Poets [诗人无饭]
10) Words, The Inner-Being [词，内心]
11) A Man Passing Through Time [渡光阴的人]
12) Words, A House [词，房子]
13) Words, The Edge of a Blade [词，刀锋]
14) Moon-Set[月落]
15) The Scent of Lü Bu [吕布之香]
16) A Lifetime [一生]
17) A Butterfly[蝴蝶]
18) An Iron Skin [铁皮]
19) Time 1988: Air, Skin and Water [时间1988：空气，皮肤和水]
Part III: Eight Poems on Fate [命的八首诗]
The Date [约会] 31/01/1984
Knock before you enter
respect for her is of the utmost importance
when you we her nose mouth and other organs
fully plugged by tubes bottles or a cork
don't be hugely shocked by small things
don't ask
what is wrong
you must put on a nonchalant air
and absolutely must not compare the former wife to the present
Quickly find a chair and sit tight by her side
allay all sense of urgency you don't want breathing difficulties
by all means don't be rough
when talking, try to look into her eyes
make her feel you're sincere
given a chance, massage some major pressure points
intimate expression can convey another kind of language
When love is at its fiery point
it benefits a patient body and soul
so visiting times are best not too long
normally best between ten to twenty days
once before sleep
three tablets a go washed down with tepid boiled water
A lot of optimistic talk is a stimulus
and, as usual, cordially shake hands
Life [生活] 22/02/1984
We are all smelly socks on the feet of Confucius
the money Mummy earns by her sweat and blood
mud that can never be washed away on your feet
and the shadow on your brow black as coal
yet I still want to live a decent life
however on my buttocks
the enraged palm prints of my father still remain
as red as my face
but I still want to live a serious life be a serious person
make out like a proper mensch
The Patria wants me to carry a knife
to hack open enemy chests from the front
my wife wants me to close my eyes
to guess what kind of thing the world is
and my compatriots
fully enjoy the victory of women
then again thump their bottoms
curse them as prickly leaves
Anyway this is the way of the world
just this kind of a regular pair of smelly socks
or not smelly socks or whatever
anyhow whatever I say doesn't count who am I anyway
But I remember the sea maid's sheep were all eaten by the Japs
on the mountain slope all that remained were those blooming black flowers and plants
Aiee, the poor sea maid
I remember before the auction the whale bravely beached itself
remember our
has the arts of paper-making and printing
a Great Wall yet to collapse
and huge nuclear and hydrogen bombs
anyway the world is like this so entrancing and pretty
anyhow I want to go on living
can't be obsessed with defining the meaning of life
even if you run the danger of getting sick sneeze to your heart's content
even if a few imprints of Mama's are added
to the palm prints already on your ass
Selections from Dream of a Recluse [隐梦], a series of 6 poems
The White Horse [白马]
An imaginary white horse scatters its fragrant hooves in the wood
her hair lays flat over the tail
its whiteness leads to transparency
I wait for you to return stamping flowers
as if walking far through your palace
the white horse is the hand nearest your lips
you go into the wood
you are not a horse
Neither is it a woman that rolls up the curtains of the lattice window
the bolt of bleeding silk is still fluttering by the water
once you wake from a dream it will die in another
in another dream
white is not a lofty colour
a white horse is not a woman with four nude limbs
Back to the air
now the clip-clop of hooves fills the thick shade
the fruit you imagine beneath a rainbow is sure to be boneless
and how can the scattered faces not be your horses
The Essential Dress of a Poet [一个诗人的基本服饰]
In the mountains breeding snakes and at the seaside cultivating apples
eating pure grain and salt
but all this will be discarded on an island
allowing each head to fly off in mutual suspicion
In the mountains somebody has beheaded the sea-maiden's sheep
draped in sheepskin he returns to the ancestral land
from a tree he comes down to the side of a well
in a stretch of tree leaves closing eyes that have lost their head
From now on the well is full of eyes
the sky that can be seen is all fish and their backdrop
beneath another type of background
a man is balancing a woman
causing the dress of a poet to surge toward this pose
so losing alcohol and grain, losing the fish
and finally the head
The last salt dries in the grain becoming alcohol
apples are placed in the grain, in the wine it seems fish swim
in the basic conception of a poet
she gets drunk and cries
and does not dream of apples and fish
A Recent Death [新丧] 1986
On a rainy day you are sick in your room
she died in the second month
she died in a cluster of flowers
amid farm work she put down the sickle, left the stone mill and beans
moving north toward your yard
the warmth of the second month mingled with the warmth of her skin
slipping out of skin
she and you are easily lost
a stretch outside and in, all becomes landscape
the second month has a good climate for burials
yet you have your back to the south, enter an even deeper room and strip
making your skin confront the air
you are free of farm work, but harbour a disease
wheat and beans all grow into another shape
the whole day in your room you suffer from thought
but she is long dead
Her death was to the south
under a tree she faced a busy season she bloomed on a day of falling petals
in the room you hear the wind
spread all around
drifting clouds gather on trees and form the scales of fish
the next day, again it rains
all landscape rushes at you, passes through you, then slowly wanders away noon, your surroundings and climate clear and bright
people arrive bearing news of death
you lose her
The second month, you are extra careful with skin
the days of the month vanish in a flash
you reside in yourself, busy with the season
in farm work deeply experiencing the lunar calendar, I won her
wearing hemp, cutting grass, shelling peas, she was in all farm work
she seeded in the third month, and in the fourth smashed porcelain jars
I can’t blame her
nor will she be judged
You are sick in your house, closing up
under a tree tying knots in grass, remember the day of the funeral
you went behind her, sat with your back to her
you are more like her
she faced the mountain to the north, stripped to the waist in a fallow field you held a sickle
and she faced south to the river
yet you caught a cold in a corridor, and leaning on a little bird, carried her away on your back
planting wheat far away from water and dirt
you murdered her
To the north and south are corridors, yours is the east
her skin is buried under bamboo, sitting facing you
chestnuts fall from between all this, in the yard forming a blizzard
the second month is deeper, more dated, better buried
you wrap your clothes tight, occupying skin and silk
she scatters disappearing around you, further from you
returning what you discarded, approaching you in the sober landscape
forcing you to live more deeply in your self
take hold of yourself through your disease
on your own in the rain growing into the scene
at this moment you are her
you open a chestnut, or draw water from the well, and look at yourself
again you win her
but the days of your sickness are shedding petals
in the spring every place reports a recent death
but you don’t delay the farming season
The Other Woman [彼女]
My other woman, when will I be in the monologue of your heart
the bronze vessels of many days have no water to fill them
but again today you bathe, get close to me with water
even the shape of my face shrinks into a hairstyle
but your many moments of weeping
have nothing to do with me
A day of anxiety over yesterday
last night was so tranquil
so you thought of dying, of growing into pure expression
never again able to secretly hurt and feel abased
but then to weep till today
even I am uplifted
After, you appear beautiful beyond compare
your morbid state transforms all waists into water sprites
rainy days are now also dropping almonds
your hand signals already used up but your argot is incessant
as precise as an unvoiced pact
as if again you slay me
A woman who wants to die is always sad and beautiful
one nears the opposite shore but dare not directly look
you are the inverted image of a cluster of words in a wine glass
following your own design blossoming into flowers and monologues
then causing cotton and silk to be filled by skin
I have nowhere to look
Ballet [芭蕾]
Whoever wins a pretty woman
his heart is heaviest with grief
in the past you were not mine, from now on also not
tonight, just as before with your elder sister, you not yet seventeen
the first time and the last time
I merely possess a pile of empty words and music
The sky is extremely bright, we have all become adults
each sister, going her own way, lodges beauty with a man
who is in the mirror
long ago her limbs fell into the water
like a rare daydream of mine
an ancient melody of the spring snow, all air and water
Again I remember some neglected things
the more tree leaves there are, the more easily they are forgotten
again the sun illuminates the two faces of a scene
part the silk
and your breasts are snowing
a very cold dance in a plot
one by one all dramas black out
A Girl and a Horse [女孩和马]
Ride the horse and forget the sky grows dark
the horse rider turns, peers behind the grove
heartache requires secrecy
or chooses the morning, and chilly weather
Riding a good horse you can go up into the sky
trample birds under hoof
like a horse, an entire winter unclothed
and endlessly regret
the time you could not gauge the time
all day in the mountains roaming
your carriage lost direction
What does a girl know
fording a river on horseback, a whip lashing butterflies
the bluest diamond is dark, that is where sound lives
water burns more fiercely than flame
when fording the river who cut your finger
and who plucks your breastplate and puts in an incense burner
the loftiest illusion is merely whipping a horse into a wild gallop, unbounded
in a fatal fatigue thirsting for bitten fruit
A horse leaves you, maybe going to a far-off place to die
you a girl
face a land never approached by man, what can you say
your shortcomings in ripeness are strikingly pretty
like the snow-white teeth of a crowd of strangers
the languages of different lands mysterious and deep
you ride on a horse, watch them sing praise, seeing off a dead man
a cypress branch in the mouth, crossing a lake
as tranquil as a mirror, faces dissipate
have considered defeat and death
the unspeakable affairs of a life
Now you return again to its side, a body of sentiment
the flowers and plants as thick as at first
a girl is forever an error
but the thing is still perfect
all its life a horse says not a word
still big and tall, correct
you live high on horse back, but the horse leaves you
a girl
your hand must still gather up silk
wash hair with lake water, coiling it ever higher
The Essential Garments of a Poet (Rewritten) [一个诗人的基本服饰]
In the mountains raise snakes, and at the seaside cultivate apples
eat pure grain and salt
but when you put on a silk smock
a tray of fruit with skin in hand, standing beside a chair
you will hear under the skin the sound of flowers blooming
all this happens in a very high very perilous place
there, even higher heads are all lopped off
shouldering their limbs you go back to your nation
from the side of a chair you walk under a tree
in a leaf you see a tower and a windstorm
the backdrop of the storm is the fins of fish in mid-air
in the tower are eulogies, the fragrance of funerals
Beneath another background
a man is holding two women
with the weather influencing the dress of a generation
alcohol and grain all stop on fingers in this pose
your head on a china plate vanishes without a trace
falls in a very high place
cools to become a moon, and burns a bridge
Finally burn the grain into wine and ladle it into a dish
can it be the skin colour of the wine is not yours
in a wild bout of drinking you wear a silk shirt and hold on to a tree
the imagination of a poet is one great drunk
yet you weep without cause
and again dream of apples and those girls
No Food For Poets [诗人无饭]
No food for poets, please drink soup
once again break your wasp-thin waist, your face will get longer
you are only a husk
as soon as the rice of a woman sprouts
it discards you, compels you not to eat
forces you to love yourself, and become unable to eat
too beautiful hair, a lifetime of incessant combing
the mirror that has lost its face will be covered in dust
but your look is already as thin as a pool of moonlight
at the first breath of wind paper flowers fly every place
you can’t drink any more soup
you have only death, so place your skin in another place
and you have only life
a cup of watery wine will destroy a crowd of talents
Words, The Inner-Being [词，内心]
A shattered vase abandons every body
the fragrance appoints our lives
raises us up out of thin air
to continue in the world persevering solitude
Whoever loses their most treasured things in good weather
will become clean and pure because of their sorrow
as skin colour is used to warm gold
each household container falls into its own empty cavity
so the shattered vase is even emptier
the heart of a seed joins hands with the flowers of two seasons
yet we incessantly shut windows, burn paper
let slip the opportunity of a sunny day
A thoroughgoing thing is most difficult
abandon someone and you win someone
the most painful or the most perfect thing, everything will mature
while drinking tea have a bad thing appear in excess
with a cup of watery wine ruin a mob of geniuses
progress is not our goal
Just squeeze out a bit of blood irrigate your hair and fingers
make the rest flow beyond the walls and grow into tall trees
from this time we loose the windstorms of a season
in a leaf you are eternally unable to distinguish dances from water
whoever can penetrate with fire
only that person can be transformed into dust
like banned musical instruments and cast-off shells
all hearts spread the fragrance of flowers from the same void
A Man Passing Through Time [渡光阴的人]
Alive passing through a life
is a difficult affair
flowers bloom in a tree
in their scent the people beneath wish to die
to complete a perfect plot
In the tips of branches women fiddle with details
possessing every kind of garment
a great master breaks the branches, carries away the fruit
yet the person who smells the fragrance
excuses the unimaginable error
In the scent there's a flower vase and fragments
someone smashes china
someone lives wanting to die
the sun shines on the dust
reflects his former shape
just as everyday he drinks tea
poetry is an affair of a lifetime
Words, A House [词，房子]
At last I remember my clothing stays on the chair, my books are placed in the door crack
suddenly red flags assault the portrait of a head
the dust in the shadows is very cold
it's too late for regrets
Sit on the chair, faces all face the center of the table
finally a shape occupies the room
like a head, an abandoned axe
waits to be taken away by the murderer
the hand given to the people again makes you depart from other directions
a house is ruined by a night of blooming flowers
the people in the corridors all hide in the nests of cuckoos
the feet cause us one by one to walk into pairs of cotton shoes
in the house all that remains is the hint of a suggestion
A wall calls up the wind of eight directions, it's a mirror the wind can penetrate
the house falls into a very deep place, does not let us see
it only leaves doors and windows, but lets us come in
open a book or admire the vista outside the windows
you remember Armageddon has already ended outside this book
within and without your skin all that’s left is air
Words, The Edge of a Blade [词，刀锋]
A razor marks out a wound
your skin suffers language
when words reach infinity they only form an empty sound
Like the boundlessness of water draped over a face of skin
with its invisible edge the blade pares away the looks we cast
surnames bright and clear
what we see and hear
the tiniest words are stories and sand
when the west wind comes, it blows up into a mighty, vast vista
on the wrong path we die young
slack the thirst of our skin with a drop of fresh blood
with a year's moonlight cause a narcissus to burst into bloom
A blade's edge gives a surname blood
she is already too pale, an anemic beauty cannot withstand too much grace
with wounds she nourishes all words
when her body bursts, words steal into teeth and hair to ripen
the most limited words are bird and hand
the most are innumerable birds flying into a hand
like my entry in the night
a word leads to everything
the gesture of her hand corresponds to all things
One is everything
the light seen from the flames parts from the burning
in a deep winter, gold and silver are forged into cold swords
when a long, slender blade lights the colour of our skin
when spoken words are continually repeated, grow into facts
seen or heard
uncountable hands release birds
weapons of war grow into gifts of jade and silk
Moon-Set[月落] A sequence of five poems 20/04/1988
#I
In the afternoon I remember a moon-set, I was closing a window, burning paper
where will the words in the flames fly to
if I cannot see
a sheet of glass will slide into the seawater and drift for a thousand years
when beasts gnaw away all plants, they desert us
leaving only a few simple organs to cry and make sentences
a bed readily concludes your status
a sheet of paper writes out your whole life
a patch of skin utterly detests books
the ashes are emptiest, so I incessantly burn books and letters
the more brightly gold is rubbed, it drops even deeper in the sea
afternoon trees are greener, keeping my clear purity of former days
the alternately falling flames of day and night burn back our feathers
whoever pulls in their wings and flies with this afternoon
is our loftiest desire
#2
Idle days are the most perfect
I cannot do wrong, daily deficiencies mature
sunlight angularly lights dust, a vase of flower scent converses with who
the weather of an entire afternoon is placed in my hand
forces me to go have a silk shirt newly cut
use alcohol to splash out the revolution of a generation
in back of eyes there is only sand and ink
a few mandarin oranges, a plate of quail eggs
the brightest and blackest places fuse
pairs of quails, go in and out
on the table all that remains is a pile of peals
all its life a seed wants to bloom into somebody else's flower
when a person wakes up he is more like himself
the icy world suddenly drips on his skin
exactly who is it who knocks at the door
a house so quiet it tilts
#3
When I am drunk I go into the yard and pick flowers
slip and fall into a rotten tree
in amber my tiny decaying corpse is suspended high by you
your nipples are larger than me
like two shocking plots tightly clamping me in
repeatedly constricting me, publicly flaunting your fatal radiance
night after night I can only bury myself in books, drink a cup of tea alone and silent for a time
already too tired, I can't continue to waste away
it has been long since I could write characters into paper
also day after day I see spoken words close in
a compass sets the time on the gunpowder
a key suddenly is closer to the house than a hand
your enemy loves you more
otherwise whose body welcomes your ailment
whose flowers incessantly die of drunkenness
#4
Tear up the lantern, thoroughly smash the day
red flags, iron and organs launch mutual surprise raids
all enemies set out from a bad piece of news
I have long had no heart to trust in mankind
one lyrical emotion sensed the path of a lifetime
a mouth that returns to the hand moves people more, escapes into the ear
hears the heart in a pile of shattered bones incessantly bombing
iron filings in my flesh grow finger nails
with a net of meridians the cosmos carelessly controls us
lets the disease residing in each pressure point evade Chinese medicine
a small needle drives out the evil, then ten fingers barter back a heart
the beautiful brocade of a thousand years is snatched away by a beauty
wheat drops dust from walls
complain bitterly in the most particular prescription, and leave nursing malice
who in fact does a very red mouth await
the sweetest fruit is modest and speechless
#5
Waiting for a moon-set
under a tree I will grow tall
a conversation that will not end for a long long time, is it not you in the grave
the sunlight inserts itself at an angle into a bottle
making the whole afternoon extremely dangerous
abruptly the world is overstated, bad people are carried off by blackbirds
I do not know who picks up a looking glass and distantly gazes at me
through the window the whole season swarms in
tonight's vista is sure to have been burnt up by too strong moonlight
at this time if you do not flee, you will be as fragrant as a flower
but it is still too early for the moon to set
I still have enough time to be shot again
you have only to give a pure look to somebody
and he will more deeply fall
The Scent of Lü Bu [吕布之香]
A sudden urge to kill, a fragrance blows over
the coat in the bamboo is truly thin, Lü Bu
yesterday the emperor was bearing flowers, today you can't adore them enough
the dregs of wine drunk till death of drunkenness
want to be a hero you're a hero
a night of deep sleep but apparently conscious
autumn rain in the screen delicate and profound
Tonight there are others who can not sleep alone
some flowers race to drunkenness, others think of swords
all beauties await poisoned wine
Lü Bu, the autumn harvests your head
the hemp and mulberry on the silk covers the hill in a disorderly green
a red fringed skirt, a lover's yearning
but in the mirror the important person is repeatedly wrong
and in a southern blizzard resents a late spring
Last year it was snow, tonight it's still rain
man-eating horses continue to roam free, aren't you the hanging head
Lü Bu, the probable husband's face is covered by tears
an impossible hero everywhere lonely
Lü Bu, if only the fruit of the heart ripens
who will not be blown on
by the heart-breaking currents of air that escape the deep curtains
Lü Bu, as long as your greatest foe is renewed every day
the disorderly scent of skin grows stronger
A Lifetime [一生]
In a lifetime how much paper is wasted writing poetry
drinking very bitter Chinese poetry, the lines of a palm paralyse the people
let others read books
keep the outstanding sentences to yourself
in a far-off place, I am superior and cool
women, please continue your periods and love
I obey your revelations
Today, skin brings us hunger
mother and father both dead, surrounding poets are pretty and partial
poetry is not whole
nor people a fantasy
lean on an illness to pass your days, write snowy vistas in praise of beauties
The words incorrectly spoken to me by somebody are probably doubly wrong
lovers decamp into death, the ancestral land is exceptionally pretty
in the past I was as real as a hypothesis
too much self-love and too contemptible
that is the love of some other person
A Butterfly[蝴蝶] - written while in prison in
A flame wrapped in paper
dropped into a bag of tricks by an enflamed tiger
the fragrant odour that splashes out, an agitation for the complexion of a pair of sisters
O, grain as sparse as morning stars and beans ripen
either wash your hair with gold
or leaning on a sunflower lower your head and sleep
O, round mirror in a trousseau, your frail
younger sister on the other side of the air pounces, circles
and senselessly sacrifices quivering thin wings or excuses
Causing ivory skin to give up fresh blood and white snow
on one side you save
on the other destroy
An Iron Skin [铁皮]
In rooms and bowls, bodies without
content are reclaimed and cultivated
by clothes sewn into shoulders and minds
burying people alive and killing them
these small humble things, once they hit the head
neither a sound, or a pleasant moving sound
Open a drawer, empty thoughts are immediately cashed in
an emperor without rhyme or reason rides out of thin air
words respectful and sincere, explain flesh sticking to bones
as well as the pressure between silver and gold
These nations are so hollow, names with no substance
at war in vain the two armies pass through springtime
progeny transcending class suspended outside the window
polite and objective, lift high a tree of paulownia blossoms
together with me declining toward rainwater
The sound of a beautiful zither destitute and quick
feelings spread out in the air, pass through the eyes of needles
our happiness has no hope to ride on
our sober empty corpses
in iron skins pluck peppermint people
the ironware in hand as fragile as water
Selections from Time 1988: Air, Skin and Water [时间1988：空气，皮肤和水]
(a sequence of 26 poems)
Part III: Eight Poems on Fate [命的八首诗]
#1
While a raised finger talks of fate, my hand
throughout is an expression of the air. The pose is faultlessly correct, my heart as dark as this
overtone
when a red mouth in song thirsts to death before a cup of water, carried away by an enemy
I'm obliged to take out my talking tongue, raise these lofty ears
I make myself remember a stately officialese, repeatedly speak
a few words into the air, the climate that falls at the time mingles with the talk
becomes a window full of vistas pitched in the sky that cannot be invigorated, or grows
into an emperor fallen in a plum blossom amid the swirling dust, drinking with a crowd of girls
and this leads to the progress, pressing or otherwise, of an historic period or sudden death, so
the birth of a nation and a manner of speaking are placed on a par
and outlaws in the grass carry off a land, making me extremely careful
If I lose my grip and smash the glass
abruptly an empire is ruined
#2
When the dust of the collapse blows into a broad vista, all people
fall into foul weather and endlessly grow pretty for no reason, secretly celebrate past missteps
in extremely bad feelings a fisher and a woodcutter answer each other, repress homicidal acts
the libretto is immaterial, like the relationship between teeth and plastic people
and so the pressing vulgarity of the people and boredom swell up only once
cause the state to be frequently inflamed in hearsay, the byways of sex lives renovated
everyday
girls are trussed in tall towers by a tardy conjugal fate, everyday stroking their skin scratching
their itch
in mirrors only having relations with perfume, silks and menstrual periods
the result of spying by the edge of a curtain of pearls causes the organs of night to run wild for a
while, eating people everywhere
from here on there is machinery to make flesh and bones, with iron pipes to drain blood and a
handgun to shoot eggs
I was arbitrarily fabricated
generation after generation learns to eat grass, practice acupuncture, pay respect to Confucius
leaving me forever crestfallen, just alive
a zombie making itself widely known
#3
I remember the moment of the birth of some machines, the blueprints dreamt up by brains
completed by hands, and this produced means and other strengthening behaviour
science and philosophy are all within what you practice
creating a consistently identical consequence, the world's temperature suddenly burns your hand
an endless stream of lazy monarchs emerges with primary school textbooks critical of liberty
people loaf around all day, sitting they eat mountains
in the end hands vanish from sleeves, the brain's imaginings even emptier
the birth of idle dreams finally forces landlords to industriously farm the infertile land
in the autumn they harvest the state grain and pay head tax
science's view of the world plastered every place by an ancient folk prescription
has mankind leap forward from castration and polygamy
to sex spies, Aids and the explosion of a defensive nuclear bomb
this makes me remember the posture of drinking water, a dry mouth
leaves my soul guilty, I develop stomach ulcers, rough water
in the manner of urine is pumped into a pail, exquisite water flows into blood, irrigates hair
causes hunger to go deep into bones, to be tempered into an alloy
lets us grow sufficiently hard scalps to meet the blow of the axe and be cut in two
#4
And so I obtain a fixed manner to enter language
when I eat food, my hands hold the fuel, I observe pleasing things
then I grow into one word among many
immediately possess a multitude of curious treasures, spice carts, mules and horses, and female
slaves
I take care to remember the places they haunt, clearly remember how each of them grow
and I become a sentence full of soul traveling unimpeded through a sinister climate
at this moment from many directions food is passed into my hands
the spice cart draped in colourful silks wildly pursues me
the aim in undertaking a book abruptly undergoes a miraculous change
from originally looking at pictures and recognising words becoming a laboratory test of a virus
to recognise truth
even in forums for lofty discussion, the greatest problem is surely something born out of
nothing
carry the words written on goat skin to those on shells and bones, and piece together poems and
essays
or abstract a philosophy into one word
concentrated into one element, so light that all life finds it unbearable
it has to drop down out of thin air, in a flash blowing a city to smithereens
a mighty massacre by a word
the unhurried persecution of history by a diseased sentence
#5
I can only open my books again and look up the suspicious pacts
but everything is watertight, like hair meticulously ordered by a comb
I slip into a word, these neatly attired beasts
the same as the plot laid out by a chessboard, neat, sanitary, convenient
a multitude of brushstrokes presides over radicals and character components with a system of
collective punishment, while mouths and shells grow long
even my private life is often inquired into and grows into an illicit affair paraded everywhere
syllables and semantic meaning, the curly hair and hats of fabricated characters
for what calamity does the world not have words, there isn't an argument that doesn't exist. This
is enough to deeply convince me
the words in books freely liaise according to the highest instruction
with exaggerated iron bars they seal off the inside news, already shot
And now it's even more dangerous
at a four-way intersection, some people down knockout drops in wine
then go on to eat buns stuffed with human flesh, I saw
an ejaculating pen, a face that eats the dead, as well as an overbearing way of talking
I rush to find the leak, so as to get free
but the prison of words is boundless, a manner of wording battles its way in and out
sometimes an extreme snake, sometimes the frenzied dance of beautiful trash
the greatest foe appears, kills people with a song
if you do not run now, you will fall into empty words and waste your life
#6
My heart clearly sees behind the play a still even bigger stage in performance
empty-minded heroes of consummate skill cup hands on their chests and swear brotherhood
the danger tends toward a cool note, even to total opposition to the state
leading to us being able to sit in a teahouse together with a gang of hoodlums reading an
unofficial history
we see very cold swords on the road to murder
being embroidered into a tree of beautiful fruit that falls into the moon
the sounds of incisions, uniforms for the night running wild, the heads plucked off by
boomerangs still talking
and still in the manner of moveable type the world pieces together open secrets
changed into material for idle chit-chat to educate the new generation
In days of good farming weather, inside and outside the world everyone drinks big bowls of wine,
eats large slabs of meat
comes up with a few decent suits
extremely bored people have full stomachs and empty minds, everyday in back gardens they
temper their strength
in an attempt to get a knife and a gun from the border government, they obtain closed-off wives
and sheltered children, and a name in historical annals
in the wind the apricot-yellow banner grows thin, ostentatiously flaps into being an indicator
a bold decisive network of roads becomes an interlude of fancy boxing and lovely legs
the wild land of lakes and rivers merely passes on into a sentence inscribed on a strand of hair
#7
But another species of person runs away from the narration of written words, put about into the
likes of flying apsaras and flames suspended in midair
in siestas unable to sleep they drink untreated salt water, excuse every kind of evil
mouths particular about what they eat swallow metal spit flames, the corpses that cannot die
are high above
or go deep into the folk strewing superstition, binding feet, promoting filial progeny
but blood flows from the anus of the people who everywhere consume the fire and smoke of the
human world, their forms dry up and whither away
you can only pick out bones between the skin and flesh
Another kind of person has mastered the secret of becoming a sage: gourmet's luck
the mouth that eats all under heaven speaks one sentence that refutes ten thousand
beds for every purpose are born, and a grand charm is all the rage for a time
on account of this, nude models, queens of sex appeal until cruel punishment in broad daylight
finally conclude in the tax system and secret trials
this leaves a tyrant incapable of ever being particular over what he eats
breakfast alone has the power to make immortality as well as the right to guillotine a head
#8
I maintain silence about the truth I know, like a man of great virtue
the same as your responsibility to somebody terminally ill
the world is yours, fundamentally ours too, but in the final analysis yours
blast genesis from a bud, from an ovum, from an embryo, day by day death grows taller
the fall of a moth makes a season suddenly chill
the death of a beauty causes a generation of emperors to go missing in a mirror for a thousand
years
the fine china in a smile is smashed, the nation becomes a heart-rending roundelay sung plainly
night after night
all that is left is us, in extreme music pursuing a revolution in the arts that destroys genius
or at a sumptuous banquet reciting the rubbish of poetry
When my gestures come to an end, a grand affair abruptly vanishes
when I am informed of every form of death: suicide, homicide, bloodless murder
the silence I hear is that of a human throat being cut
the blooms flying in the wind are the heads of millions falling to the ground
The sunlight shoots in at an angle, the magnificence of the air is hard to clear
the world is still cut to death by a drop of fresh blood, or carried away by the brilliance of a
diamond
as to fate, my heart is clear as never before
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