本帖最后由 雨荷风 于 2015-10-7 21:02 编辑
求死
自你问起，许多时日我已忘却
我和衣而行，旅程了无印象
而后只有难以形容的欲望蓬生
我找不到生命的支点
但我清楚记得你提到的草叶
和你晾在太阳下的家具
自杀者总有特别的理由
就像木匠，他们懂得选用工具
但他们从不问如何打造
我两次简单断言自己
已控制了敌人，吞掉了对头
他的手艺和魔力也被我接管
就这样，沉重而深思
温暖甚于油、水
我已安息，嘴角流涎
我不去想处在针芒上的身体
角膜和残留的尿也没有了
自杀者早已出卖了身体
胎死腹中，他们并不总是死亡
耀眼啊，无法忘记那香甜的药片
就连孩子都笑望它
戳穿你舌头下的生活
同时，让所有化为激情
你说死亡是一具受伤悲哀的骨头
然而她仍年复一年等着我
为了治愈旧伤
为了解放呼吸
安定此处，自杀者常常相遇，
发怒因水果，和干燥的月亮，
扔下面包而误以为吻。
丢弃随意翻开的书，
无法表达，挂断电话
而爱，无论怎样，总会感染。
Wanting to Die
Since you ask, most days I cannot remember.
I walk in my clothing, unmarked by that voyage.
Then the almost unnameable lust returns.
Even then I have nothing against life.
I know well the grass blades you mention,
the furniture you have placed under the sun.
But suicides have a special language.
Like carpenters they want to know which tools.
They never ask why build.
Twice I have so simply declared myself,
have possessed the enemy, eaten the enemy,
have taken on his craft, his magic.
In this way, heavy and thoughtful,
warmer than oil or water,
I have rested, drooling at the mouth-hole.
I did not think of my body at needle point.
Even the cornea and the leftover urine were gone.
Suicides have already betrayed the body.
Still-born, they don't always die,
but dazzled, they can't forget a drug so sweet
that even children would look on and smile.
To thrust all that life under your tongue!--
that, all by itself, becomes a passion.
Death's a sad Bone; bruised, you'd say,
and yet she waits for me, year after year,
to so delicately undo an old wound,
to empty my breath from its bad prison.
Balanced there, suicides sometimes meet,
raging at the fruit, a pumped-up moon,
leaving the bread they mistook for a kiss,
leaving the page of the book carelessly open,
something unsaid, the phone off the hook
and the love, whatever it was, an infection.
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发表于 2009-8-18 09:50:00