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  1. decomposition

    that of disappearing…moves of apparitions…the ulterior…where the light comes from…dark hole…a beam…of what do one dream…of what do one create…the land beyond…imagination equals…implosive, that moment of…all things happening…all electrons transposing…and of distancing…to write a poem

                                                                                                       I become…to tend to become…an infinite process of becoming…an irresistible force of becoming…in which I becomes…am…is…yes and yes and yes I will…I will…I see…I hear…I say…I dump…I make love to…

                                                               the verb…the noun…the sentence of structure…the structure of eloquence…the underneath circulation…the kinky little sock of…the boy with blushes…the pink tip of…the thick…into which one appear…and disappear…the super-reflective surface…permanently reaching to…without any income…and the bottle…where piss into…the author’s…phone ringing…ding ding ding ding ding ding ding///the real sneaks into…reality of that of …a panty of yours…the blade rushes into fat and meat…the anthropoid…thropocentri…c…hiss and neigh…ah the perfect scenery of racing…

                                                                                                                                the layered…the multiplied…the crosshatched shadow of knowledge…the firefly in…the exhumation…the death of truth…the cloaked…the alibi of I…the obfuscated…the conjuncture of yesterday and today…the knot of a string with neither ends…the centripetal mourning of the implosion…the flush…the drastic plunge into a created surface…the concatenated reasonings of being right-here…in-the-world…the scintillation of chance…the specularity of the oculus…

                                                                                                                    identities crashed onto the shore…the turmoil of historicity…the exiled…the bleached…the enslaved…the vestige…the g-h-o-s-t…the un-incarnated…the possession of…the shrouded…the sesquipedalian name of god…the secular…the desecrated…the all-is-here-ness…the digital…brain and discectomy…the stasibasiphobia…the astasia-abasia…the failure of bipedalism…the befallen…

                                                                                  the missed…the dreamed…the diminished…the forgotten…the erased…the veiled…the amnesiac…the injured…the excreted…the decomposed…the delirium…the delirium…the delirium…the delirium and the sleeptalk…and the talk…and maggot devoured language…the tomb of communication…the Chopin that shocked my cat… 

                                                                                                           the embalmed heroic fantasy…the inner putrefied…the nectar of necro…the inflection…the incantation heard…from the fog…of perversion…the necromancy…the will to speak to…in the tone of equivocality…the telematics…to the counter realm…

                                                                                                     the giddiness…the nausea…the disarray of pages…the shedding of memories…the interspersed concentration… the hyperborean myths…the dubs of contingency…the cryptic and the warts and all…the faultage of totality…the geography and tempora-graphy of infinity…the sarcophagus of the poet…

                                                     the anguish for meaning…the fear of departure…the manacle for intimacy…the evaporated mystery…the too-revealed trope…the gnawed and corroded actuality…the paddle in the mild night…and the ever quenched…

    1. A RECIPE OF A FANTASTIC MAN                                                                                         a drop of tear of a horse

    a drop of sea water from the lips of an oyster

    steam collected inside a bull-leather bag, at 10:29 midnight

    three genital hairs of a youngster, soaked with leek juice

    a shin scraped off his father by the artist himself 

    sided a narcissus to offer his mother

    his left testicle to make wisdom

    the right to make heart/life

    a mirror to make eyes

    a tree branch to make flesh

    put the above inside his empty scrotum

    he will be brushed with his mother’s milk, dressed in her white robe,

    swim and dive

    in the pool full of his father’s blood

    embracing the beams of morning light

    thus makes the fantastic man

    The End of Meaning1

    roaming

    in the ocean of predecessors

    skeletons of knowledge

    afloat and endless

    a transparent boat

    drawing emptiness

    the sun veiled

    strings of rays, like a fountain 

    shattering 

    a perfect stage

    to offer a feast 

    for the vultures

    ah

    direst coldness

    the endless hyperborean 

    zone devoid of divine footprints

    THE END OF MEANING2

    Meanwhile I touched myself

    my eyes,

    lips,

    nipples,

    the jut of radius

    and the sparkling slight layer of hairs;

    I think of no possibilities in the world

    I don’t see the galaxy of reflections in my eyes 

    despite the truthful earth in-between my toes

    my paws and tusks were sealed 

    in the land of dreams

    I think of no possibilities in the world

    THE END OF MEANING 3

    dearest mother,

    I enquire

    in the land of bones and carrion

    do you make love to father?

    THE END OF MEANING  5

    I’m starving!

    I shall swallow 

    your totality

    the mountains and rivers

    the colony of skyscrapers

    I shall chew them into ashes——

    until when I shall implode and explode

    all is me,

    all is not endowed

    regard!

    what magnificent destruction

    THE END OF MEANING  6

    ‘I love you’, you said

    then skinned and devoured me

    my lover,

    how did my flesh taste?

    the gaze of orexis

    ate the vacancy in your eyes

    release your appetite 

    my lover,

    let my sufferings be inside you 

    RITUAL

    one must open eyes

    to the direction where heart desecrates

    and avoid the burn of radiating sun

    paddling in the upstream 

    and convey a section of history 

    on the waterfall

    aliased faults

    sprinkled on the mirrored river 

    —rotating white petals 

    one must cling to this poem,

    to hear 

    the thunders of its exhalation 

    in the temporal latitude

    a deviation

    a detour

    THE PRINCE

    hail!

    I invite you

    to pay me raw blood

    and offer me semen

    to rub 

    unto the bottom of the well

    a blatant festivity 

    bloating atop clouds

    and his aglow cheeks 

    sing!

    arhats of slit throats

    pay spangles and cut-off limbs

    to ornament my flawless palace

    THE MIRACULOUS 

    a thunderbolt in daytime

    stroke

    the crack on the wall

    accidentally deprived

    your vision

    dizzying

    roaring from elsewhere

    steps 

    of the shadow

    the spring light

    dried 

    a summer corpse

    AN ARCHAEOLOGY OF MEANING 

    staggering

    in the 

    successive 

    dreams

    castrate 

    the arm 

    of unearthing

    and hunt

    clues

    esoterica

    to speak to the wind

    layer

    and layers

    of graves 

    cry 

    and cries 

    of a billion 

    an

    archaeology 

    of 

    meaning

    LOVE

    an extension of possibility

    or pink 

    sexual smog

    spiraling and ascending

    from the interior 

    —wondrous connection 

    of two labyrinths

    in which two abysses

    intertwines

    infinitely approaches 

    THE END OF MEANING  7

    fire is up on the top of cypress

    smoke arises from the ground

    unceasingly 

    rises

    an elevational 

    conversation

    no one speaks

    nor listens

    a conversation 

    of zenith and nadir

    THE END OF MEANING  8

    is there a poem

    for the land beyond you and I?

    a nameless horse 

    running towards the ebbing vertex

    perhaps it/ is called time

    is there an authorless poem—

    bodiless—

    is there a poem

    that erases itself—

    burns itself at the ebbing

    end of meaning

    THE END OF MEANING 9

    as soon as hammer hits the red flat iron 

    two worlds collapse into one

    no,

    leave the splashing scintillas 

    for they had already put up a fire—

    I am once dust

    you held pieces of fragmentations

    my reflective bodies—to conjure

    the drifting soul in history

    I don’t herd in Mesopotamia 

    nor do I collect water by Miluo River,

    the lute beside your ears

    it I didn’t play—

    exilic music—

    I am walking towards the dissolving point

    THE END OF MEANING 10

    my lingering ghost 

    in this grassless 

    grim land

    couldn't find to possess 

    a remain of a hero 

    LOVE 2

    since what time

    does it require a truthful heart

    to be exchanged by excavating one’s chest?

    what name is carved onto that dagger—

    the chest-opener?

    THE END OF MEANING 12

    we count starlights

    once and again 

    till sunken had our consciousness 

    alongside the setting sun to the bottom of sea

    we call for eternity

    thousands of times

    had the overlapped words/semantics failed to climax

    improper metaphors 

    we call it 

    poetic—

    too much sorrow

    too much epics

    too much, too much—

    I will repose

    THE END OF MEANING 13

    imagine 

    a bright sphere—

    the most convenient ideality—

    in which a dusk interior is compressed

    an apricot, sparkling image 

    of an entwining whimsy

    microns above the ground

    lovely

    fragile ideality

    in this contorted space do you witness your very own eyes

    and the ever lofty figure—

    a sacred moment

    how do one pick it up

    and slam it to the lighted corner?

    and question,

    as it eventually touches the ground—

    in the magnificent moment of agony—

    what does it break and make?

    THE END OF MEANING 14

    tell me,

    your name

    beside my ears, with soft breathe,

    please do not leave me wet sheets

    and empty echoes

    tell me,

    your name

    dark shadow ,

    in your world I couldn't find a trace of light

    to uncover your cloaked glares 

    tell me your name,

    my lover

    please do not declare your sovereignty of the gloom 

    by abiding nightly

    I finally lit up a faint flame with my flesh 

    to illuminate the spiral staircase

    and you stray—

    secret of two exits 

    ‘do not quench, here is the start—’

    I see it! your flickering face,

    is clearly mine—

    a burnt smell—

    ‘we must whirl anti-directionally,

    you will see you in that very end’ 

    1.他接起了一个电话,响了许久的电话,或许下一秒对方就会挂掉。 高铁的车窗此时因为暴雨变得像花窗一样,他眺望着外面飞驰的景色,视野里只是是透明的,被拆解粉碎的一片中国南方的绿色。再加上这雾霾,愈发看不清了。他对着手机那头喃喃道。与此同时车驶入了一条长隧道,通话讯号和光一起消失了。

    这车是驶向北京的,而它现在刚驶出浙江省的边境。

    他始终没听清楚电话那头究竟在说着什么,来电显示功能也未能显示对方的电话号码。今天他已经收到了23个这样的未知来电了,这让他几近崩溃。

    他只想行驶到边际绝非人们口中的边际然后消失在所有可能的视野里。

    他只是为了要去那儿找自己曾经的一位爱人,他们只见过两次面,做过两次爱。 说到底他甚至对他没有什么牵挂,更不要谈什么爱了,他鄙夷人们口中的爱情。只是,他想着,他需要一种温度。是的,每隔几个月他便需要这样的温度像戒不掉的瘾一样来确信自己的生命。这种纯粹的吸引力凌驾在性与爱之上。

    后座的婴儿爆发出了一阵哭声,这让他回过神来。手机在震动。他接起了第24个电话。

    喂?他只说出了一个字,却并没有问出你到底是谁?这个问题,似乎它并不重要。而那头传来的也只有空荡的回声。 

    2. 空景。

    因为这场连绵了一周的雨,灵隐寺的游客早都已经散光了。

    通往灵隐寺的那段路上的行道树像巨人一样伫立了好久。 

    刻满石像的山洞,回响的雨声。

    通往漆黑的深处,闪烁着将息的烛火。

    似是活的?

    3.浓稠的雾霾,天安门,太阳只剩下光晕来告知世人他的权威。

    监控器里,不绝的人流,加速状态下可视的迷你规模的迁徙。

    意志的图谱。

    4. 由大变小的景深。 从城市图景缩小到商场楼上的大荧幕,分别是巨幕led显示的海底生物景象,和大荧幕上的政治宣传广告。 大规模的红光映照着一对高中恋人,他们正在分手。 

    5.地铁末班车里一位癫狂的女人,身材失调,红斑狼疮。她极力的要向其他乘客讲述她的故事,用她癫狂的语言,政治,神话,个人历史的结合,充斥着脏话(只关乎操和杀)。delirium

    一位诗人在严谨的摘录这位杰出者的演讲,也许这是她的故事唯一被倾听的一次。

    着重捕捉场景: 纽约456线车厢,昏黄的灯光。 穿过隧道时,车窗里隧道灯的多重倒影,随着车的行驶闪现。

    6. 雨下的愈发大了。室内的黑暗让人只能通过暴雨密集的鼓点来辨清此刻的环境。然而似乎,这个内室外的世界没有任何阻碍物,连树都没有,于是雨水径直的冲向地面。这样的声音营造出的无边场域是十分可怕的。

    像是沉睡了几千年,从这场雨开始,一直到现在,只不过它还在下;他想着,拖着他的身子起身。 床垫发出了刺耳的吱吱声。他摸索着周遭的摆设,在他打翻一个铜盆的同时点亮了一盏灯。

    他看到四周的墙壁上挂着连续的红色丝绒做的帘子,每一个褶子下都装饰着金色的流苏。 厚重的红色丝绒除了雨声之外,把一切外界信息都隔绝了。在单一光源下,整个室内泛着让人晕眩的红光,不断让他联想到血。 

    是的,这个古堡的内室充斥着来自世界各地的历史遗物。在他还没有透过昏暗的灯光仔细勘探之前,他便在这一片血光钱昏厥了。 躺在不知道是谁的血泊里。

    然后是,在他的耳边,响起与这场雨一样连绵不绝的战争的声音。 

    我要再重申一遍,在这种只有声音的无边场域里,是很可怕的。

    7.

    南方的冬天,湿的冷的。比如盖着被子,似乎还会有潮起带着寒意钻进来,想要触及捂不住的那种不安。

    上海下了一场大雪,三天四夜,这种天气老人们说这辈子就见过那么一两次。而且是不绝的大雪量的覆盖,因此这个大都市的基础设施几乎全部瘫痪了。除了一些带有自发电系统的大厦的外体荧幕还在放着慵懒的海底景象,这个地方正在经历他前所未有的寂寥。

    一些信号基站也被雪破坏了,此时沟通显得格外的困难。人们觉得,深深的觉得,自己像瘫痪了一般,或者说,打个不恰当的比方,像是一只蚂蚁困在一滩积水上。

    他喝醉了,再给他一杯热好的黄酒,他也许就会不省人事。酒精带给他热度,因此他踉跄着在雪地里走了好久。

    风掀起了他的衣摆,隐隐约约的可以看到他穿着古装,不清楚的人还觉得他是什么以表演为生的瘾君子呢。 嘴里喃喃着什么古语,一会儿他又跪在地上哭,冲着一个方向磕头;一会儿他又仰着头,张开他的双臂,似乎对着氤氲的夜空吟着什么。

    没有人听懂,这是毋庸置疑的。甚至没有人尝试着去听。

    他的出现显得格外突兀,然而他的存在又处处可以被证实。他的突兀也被证实。

    因此人们憎恶他,和他口中不绝的痴语,憎恶他的格格不入。但是人们又热爱他,因为他是这样的亲切他活了那么久似乎他要是某一天消失在那片氤氲的光和寒气中,这现实便会崩塌。人们不愿意接受这种非常态,他们有着一种天生的恐惧。

    2. THE EXERCISE

    redness

    reaching to my perineum from the tip of my toe

    flowness 

    along the direction of gravity;

    voracity 

    a sense of inflating mind entropy

    a raw, cylindrical sense of inflating mind entropy

    against the ejaculatory redness,

    descends.

    a fresh piece of horse skin

    flayed and hung 

    blowing in the salty, dry dessert wind

    a howling exercise;

    dripping

    sweat full of testosterone 

    full of redness

    3. MY FATHER MADE ME JEWELRY

    your virile shoulders

    exemplifies a father figure,

    your tooth deep-stained

    inside where the curses hide;

    you cast moulds

    that they are the ART of metal

    metal, 

    extension from flesh

    not a single line thinks tender

    your hands

    smells like rust infused perfume

    smell of straight lines

    of tenderlessness,

    smell I enshrined to discover intimacy

    I shall cast a set of moulds 

    carve this piece of offering onto them

    with you, if you will

    jewelry, or shackle

    you won’t tell

     

    enshrine them, I will 

    with my sincerity

    they say, RINGS MAKE YOU SINCERE.

    holy halo rings,

    kisses of cold matter

    make me sincere

    4. TRINITY

    O the unfathomable

    blurs the giant ocean,

    in its reflection

    I’m the moon, I’m the father, I’m I 

    5. THE MIDNIGHT SONG

    he(father) points at the darkness

    black doors ajar

    inside where- beyond horizon

    galaxy pours out silver 

    to trace his face;

    a smile,

    rear

    and singing,

    miles away

    silence,

    the collapse of a planet

    slowly tells

    its story about a roaring thunder.

    6. I SMELL MUD AND GRASS OF AN ANCIENT MOUNTAIN

    I smell mud and grass of an ancient mountain.

    7. THE LAST SUPPER

    you cried ,

    trembled for a young dead body

    it has been forever buried with the void/ the mortal goes with the immortal .

    A hare,

    ran into a trap of thorn

    alongside your tears.

    Trembling ,

    is the performance of the hare 

    before the last drop of blood.

    It is willingly to be the supper of the hunter.

    hunter: I made a trap to catch lions, how come it trapped a hare?

    8. COINCIDENCE 

    moon’s eyes are flashlights

    they flicker

    in the frequency 

    of whenever you dream darkness 

    they enlighten the whole world 

    O pathetic men

    the enlightened world is transient

    the frequency of moon light is 800 THz

    the same number as the craters on its surface

    the same number as meteorites kisses 

    the same number as your age

    9. UNTITLED

    waves, 

    crushed obsession

    man& woman,

    on a bamboo mat

    cold

    dark

    tranquil light

    spears of the moon

    clastic of statues/icons

    intrusion into the heart

    scrappy monkeys

    broken shadows in the well

    10. IRON

    he weld your life

    to the iron as long as the equator

    it is hell—

    you are pitiful

    without punishment

    your feathers are stripped 

    before descension 

    you are eager to become a free particle

    not being, not is.

    however you are named after you magnetic field

    your vibration prolongs your existence

    you are iron

    only iron

    what are you?

    when you deprive the strength that welds you?

    TEXT FOR VIDEO 'DISARRAY OF DAY' 2017

    I’d want to confront those that need to be confronted,

    that people have been trying to evade from. 

    I’d want to make the most honest work, and it shall not be abstract, private and consecrated, I won’t call it art. 

    If we must, I reckon that everybody has made art so much better than mine. Please endow me the right to live as righteously .

    I’d want to stand aside you quietly, as if communing with a best friend, in a soft tone:

    Yes, indeed. there has been an unknown cloud, not ever diffused. 

    If you had the chance to see a thing,  please inform me. 

    I think we should converse in the directest words.

    We should not build up a dialogue upon any former structures, a simple gesture is pregnant with more possibilities. 

    I’m aware that tomorrow has arrived here when you wasn’t thinking of it. The future anticipated. 

    We pay attention to the community, the border, the locus and the path.

    A bird deviated from its migration group, and is trapped in the coldest land. The river infiltrates into the underground. I cannot sleep. 

    There appears a scene in my mind, in which I am constantly reflecting upon the ocean as if the permanent moonlight above. 

    It is haunting me.

    Whenever I contemplate, until I reached the nihilist corner, am I evolving or falling into decrepitude ?

    Please start a sentence without the capital ‘I’. The  subject unable to be erased. Who’s there to listen? Who’s there to view?

    Hey my friend, we have met quite a few times in the dreams. 

    Yes, I call this inevitable rendevouz the real , and the real the dream .

    The crossing point of polar day and polar night.

    My friend, it’s okay to think my language is in chaos.

    I’m not ebbing poems.

    I feel powerless if you think so, my somniloquy  is word from my chest, I beg you, to listen to it.

    Just like those spoken by a madman, his/her soliloquy is the most powerful and sober. 

    I beg you, to listen.

    Just like my incoherent essay, my illogicality, and my semantic disorder.

    The illness of history, the aliased reality. 

    The display of inorganic content in an empty space. We dig for significance in the accumulation of materials, in the field of artificial light.

    We talk about agency, spheres and the interrelations. 

    And there’s imminent fire upon my vision .

    I cannot tell whether it fulfills the vacuum or amplifies it.

    We are garbage. Those discarded, marginalized, countered, suspended are called garbage.

    Listen, it does not mean we are not important, just as vital as my mumbles. 

    The synthesized, conjugated, shaken-up, interweaved, and suspended. 

    Indeed I’m in deep sleep. Although I’m able to speak, and walk—I’m asleep, I’m also dreaming.

    Please tell me how to capture the whole, how to dissolve the past and the future, how to fold memories, and how to become now. 

    Will I flow to the frontier of entirety? and exceed the facade? 

    In the trash light sheds out from the ash and cracks, maybe in only that moment we are able to take a glance into history—its true appearance veiled.

    People are staring at me when I write down these words, as if I’m a monster. I’m a monster, Im a monster. 

    The split truly exists,. The world outside the world outside the world. 

    ‘Kharlegax’ the  beautiful Kazakhstan song is still beside my ears. However I cannot find a place to settle down. Our heart exhausted. Perhaps the place to belong is in the unreachable distance away, beyond the capability of of rockets. 

    I hear your solitude, I hear your sense of elsewhere, I hear you powerlessness. 

    I hear your rage, I hear your desires, I hear the unsourced source. 

    I hear your impotence, I hear your sleepiness, I hear your cravings, I hear that you don’t want to depart.

    I hear you history, i hear your time, I hear your every voice.

    In this moment we sleep.

    ‘is there a poem

    for the land beyond you and I?

    a nameless horse 

    running towards the ebbing vertex

    perhaps it/ is called time

    is there an authorless poem—

    bodiless—

    is there a poem

    that erases itself—

    burns itself at the ebbing

    end of meaning’

    in this second I say I renounce the name of artist, the useless title; however I did nothing.

    In the next second you may forget and cast away this piece of soliloquy.