Widowhood
I scoop the centre of insomnia, for memory's desire
For a way of flying through bottomless hole of the living room
Like clay muddling through the slope of ground glass
Self-ramming like a flash of lightning on the pedestal of stainless steel
Corridor lights are wizen, blank morning coming with a brazen face
This world is full of miserable men, and the lucky few
Have the gift of lying prone like a hot dog or supine like a hyena
They do not have to care about weight and snore
How corrupted is the bedroom with mirrors
Mirroring flaccid lusterless cushions piling on half of a two-seater sofa
I hate most the calligraphic vertical scrolls of regulated poems, in whatever style
And Li Bai, Wang Wei or Tao Yuanming makes me sick, diametrically
Hypocrite! Better string up wet brushes of different sizes of assorted hair
And hang from the sky scroll to drip into the earth scroll, or dry in the air
Once soaked in ink, no brush can be hard to the core
They do not rinse white any more.
Disappointing touch and imagination, like reality in a bathrobe
Winds over the grassland of words expose a fat autumn,
In which I may walk like a cat, and half-clad in early summer
I am what I was, a cotton-tree flower, red but not hot yet
April 21, 2009
守寡
我在失眠症的中心挖井和心思
记忆的情欲载着我飘飘然越过厅堂的大洞穴
如雕塑的软泥滑过毛玻璃，重重地跌坐
在闪电般的不锈钢底座上，自我夯实
而廊灯色衰，空洞的凌晨又将腆着脸而来
这世界多的是不幸人，而幸运的伪君子
心宽而体不胖，趴着像热狗，鼾声从嘴角拖出
仰卧像一只土狼，晒双腿间的假货
庸俗的卧室是多么堕落啊，镜子彻夜照着
软塌塌的旧垫子，堆满大半个双人沙发
而我最讨厌的莫过于古诗书法，无论什么体
尤其是立轴的王维李白陶渊明律诗真令我恶心
农民、酒鬼、假正经！不如串起一排湿毛笔
随便什么豪，从天杆上挂下来，波澜不起地滴
给地杆吸收，或者，风干再润湿，润湿再风干
浸吸过墨水的，怎么都不会硬到心
可总令想象和触摸失望，好比现实披着浴袍
风，吹过连理的字景，秋色正丰盈、正如
曾经，而我，而我，而我的衣裙
盖着的仍是初夏，红红的木棉花仍没有蔫
2009年4月21日
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