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万古愁 谁照旧埋着头？谁破坏着气氛？ 谁视力迷乱却甘愿站在桥上， 谁偷听了乡音却认定那是外语？ 你计算，你得到了却故意漏掉些什么…… 就像你的位置被景色挪动过， 气候会随时提醒你，它把边缘投放到哪儿。 如果上一轮环节，你在场却没领悟 可观的价值，现在不妨把自己透明化。 这个建议不是从经验中来的， 而是朝着经验的末梢，危险地爬过去。 一开始你疲倦于巨幅的颤抖， 别担心，你只要假装你不够脆弱。 睁眼时，你心痛于塞纳河的颜料盘 不经意地崩溃：蓝色染了霉菌， 金粉、银箔也被鱼嘴拱得不象样。 你感叹，听力真是一套繁琐的手续。 显然，这是透过感官比较学的角度。 这也导致你错失了恢复的黄金期。 从侧面袭击的声音，猛烈到 像喇叭探进体内，用原声朗诵你的错误。 它最擅长填补你的缺陷，它宣告： 你的时间表也很错误。令人担忧的 不是真假之辨，我认为你的错误 在于把错误反省到了语法的层面。 是时候恢复你的眩晕以制服眩晕， 让它适应视力的环线。是时候再一次 将景致内部化，最简便的操作 莫过于把喇叭口一致对外，继续播放。 另外，请保持一种模仿性的距离： 离人群既远又近。理想状态并不等于 理想的状态，每当你询问“万古愁……？” 一切答案都像跟自己赌气。 2017.10.31, 寄蔌弦 Pont du Carrousel, Paris AEONIAN SORROW Who is burying his head as usual? Who is ruining the atmosphere? Who is willing to stand on the bridge with inadequate vision, Who overheard local accents but decided that it was a foreign language? You counted, you got it and you left out something on purpose... Just like your position was moved by scenery, The climate will remind you at any time, where it dropped the edge. If you were there during the last round but failed to grasp The considerable value, you may as well grow transparent now. This advice is not derived from experience, But crawls perilously towards the ends of experience. You are weary of giant trembling at the outset, Don't worry, all you have to do is pretending you're not vulnerable enough. Eyes wide opening, your heart aches at the Seine palette Inadvertently collapsed: blue stained with mold, Gold dust and silver foil were also humped up by fish mouth, beyond recognition. You sighed, listening is such a red tape. Apparently, this is from the perspective of comparative senses, Causing you to miss out the golden period of recovery. Sounds of lateral attacks are so vehement As a speaker poking into the body, reciting your mistakes with its original voice. It does best in filling your defects, it declared: Your schedule is inaccurate as well. What is worrying is not the Discrimination of truth from fallacy; I suppose your mistakes, Lie in the reflection of errors on a grammar level. It's time to restore your vertigo to combat vertigo, Making it adapt to the loop line of vision. It is high time to Internalize the landscape; there’s no simpler operation than Turning the horn to the outside and continue playing. Moreover, please keep an imitative distance: At once far and near from the crowd. An ideal state is not the same as The ideal state, when you enquire about "aeonian sorrow... ?" All the answers seem to prompt a rage within yourself. 2017.10.31, Dedicated to Su Xian Pont du Carrousel, Paris ------------------------------------------------------------ 前 线 一圈圈，扇形的前线被鸽子推进， 扇形化的影子被随时变卖。 它颠簸像掏空的浪，舞步搅拌着天真， 但未必联想到风俗与智商。 它脑袋左倾时，在此刻，的确曾揪住 你机会主义的情操，即使未曾修正； 另一刻，它顶撞交腿而坐的绅士， 遭到男人纤脚的警告，至少 再下一刻，它不敢冒失地展示烂漫， 缩首谨慎于广场的严肃。 冒失的说法是：圣像的威望取决于 底座是否高耸，譬如高乃依石化的袍裾下 那忍声痛哭的头颅，与其说藏不住， 不如说刻意露出一颗难辨认的心脏， 仿佛果真向鸽子的祖先寄存过某种机密。 但它眼里，除了晨昏是均分的， 只剩下颠倒且微缩的赝品。 石像接连倒下，加重它半个月来 睡前的疑虑：初冬，新长出的羽绒 像加厚的集中营，显然圈不住它 却隐隐围着它。一些惯例在宠溺着什么， 但局部的历史不足以将它教训成 一个智者。它的贪食已锈坏了 飞行的性能，不再轻易跃上石像， 不再试着啄翻神圣的帽子， 虽然秃顶早已不反射光明。 2017.10.9，赠金子淇 Place du Panthéon, Paris THE FRONT LINE Circles of fan-shaped frontlines were advanced by a dove, The fan-shaped shadow can be sold off at any time. It bumps like emptied waves, dance steps stirring naivety, But not necessarily associated with customs and intelligence. Its head leaning to the left; at that instance, indeed grasping Your opportunistic sentiment, though not amended; During another moment, it contradicted the gentleman who sat cross-legged, Warned by a slender-footed man, at least The next moment, it did not dare to boldly exhibit brilliance, Pulling its head back, aware of the seriousness of the square. An obtrusive statement would be: the prestige of an icon depends on Whether the pedestal is towering, such as the head weeping bitterly Without making any sound beneath the petrified robe of Corneille; Not so much as failing to hide, as deliberately revealing a heart difficult to recognize, As if it turns out that some secret had indeed been deposited with the ancestors of doves. Yet in its eyes, except that the morning and evening are evenly divided, What remains are inverted and miniature imitations. One by one, the statues fell, aggravating the doubts it once acquired, Before going to bed for half a month: in the early winter, the new down Grew like a thickened concentration camp; obviously can't circle it Yet loomed round it. Some practices are doting on something, But the partial history is not sufficient to teach it to be A wise man. Gluttony has rusted its flight performance, No longer able to leap on a statue with ease, Or to try to peck the sacred hat and tip it over, Although the baldness has long ceased to reflect light. 2017.10.9, dedicated to Jin Ziqi Place du Panthéon, Paris ------------------------------------------------------------ 圣 心 你准时发怒，随时洗脑， 身子纤细易受寒。你背靠黑夜 边爱抚边偷吃，花蕊上 烈酒嘶嘶，造成一个花腔。 你再而颓，三而丧， 把童年按进了死胡同。 它转身，羞脸。你不停地通知 就像统治：你，剩下来的那个…… 少小离家，你局部的视力 导致胡闹、乱讲：“真理脱光了我。” 你在花蕊里饮水，反过来， 分泌的宗教湿答答，更纯。 啊，你在美的缓刑里拖延？ 寄宿在鲜嫩中，却枯萎得像废人？ 把衣冠移交给永恒，就算了事， 你等着：有借有还？ 像胭脂，深刻到表面。 像星星，被奴役到星星眼。 要逃了吗？你压上来像新手开坦克， 喘息时，实在没原则。 2017.11.10，Montmartre Paris SACRED HEART You lose your temper on time; brainwash at any time, Your slender body easily catches a chill. With your back against night, Caressing while eating on the sly, in the stamen, Liquor hissing, generating a coloratura. Dejected time and again, You pressed childhood into a dead end. It turned around, ashamed. You keep informing Like a ruler: you, the last one… You left home at a young age, your limited vision Led to mischief and nonsense: "truth stripped me." You drink water in a stamen; and in turn, The religion you secrete is wet and purer. Alas, you procrastinate in beauty's probation? Lodging in the tender, yet withers like a waste? Hand over clothes and hat to perpetuity, as if it’s all completed, You’re waiting: some borrowed and some returned? You are like rouge, so deep, but reflected on the surface. Like stars, so enslaved as starry, glistening eyes. Are you running away? You pressed me like a novice driving a tank, Catching your breath, you are without principle. 2017.11.10，Montmartre Paris --------------------------------------------------------------- 风 声 是你：风踩踏过雨的阶级， 又像骑行，用同一只脚 夹紧手风琴那沉着的肺。 但你手势无声，仍不肯 将琴键背后的弦 拨进水面年轻的肌骨间。 错误的阶梯，被吸进午夜之嘴。 你轻薄如潮水的身躯 正填满一道肉的阀门。 从凉亭背后，你曾比阵雨更快， 为荷花池转出一排空地。 你的声线有银钩般的用途。 你向黑夜借来的目光， 自顾自，劈断水中浮起的呼救。 每一次更替—— 每一次光在你体内躺下的时刻， 就在无能的手掌间装上一根新弦， 让琴键潜水，至于无声。 就是承认毁灭，承认时间 正掩埋你高烧不止的脸。 2016.10.24 凌晨，上海 THE SOUND OF WIND It is you: wind trampled rain's class, As if cycling as well, with the same foot Clamping steady lungs of an accordion. Yet, your gestures are silent, which still refused to Pull the strings behind the keys Into the young bones of the water. A wrong staircase, sucked into the mouth of midnight. Your body, flimsy as a flood, Is filling a valve of flesh. From behind the pavilion, you were faster than a shower of rain; Whirling out a clearing for a lotus pond. Your voice could be spent as a silver hook. The view you borrowed from night, Engrossed in splitting the call for help emerged from water. Every alternation — Each moment light lying down in your body, Would put a new string between incompetent hands, Let the keys dive, slowly reaching the sound of silence. That is to admit destruction, and that time Is burying your feverish face. 2016.10.24, early morning, Shanghai |
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