如此执着地驻留

在没有词汇的，乏味的清淡里，

人们向我伸出高贵的问好。

我的眼睛逗留在其他的眼睛上，

那些瞳孔里有青铜铸成的栏杆，

优雅的防御工事，以备

在观看的时候，保障群众

的人身安全。

夏季的正午没有蝉鸣，

鸟从天上掉下来，藏在

事物的后面，给予破获真相的概率。

无人可以解答的困惑，

给语言上了锁。

诗歌没有观众，它只是自赏时

为道德而营造的塔。

我放弃了去解答简单的问题，

像所有人一样，转而去解决复杂的问题。

到最后，我们竞争着高超的技巧，

忘掉了那是聊以自慰的杂技。

长椅上坐满了穿着白色上衣的人，

当他们抬起头的时候，

日光就掉进了他们的精神里，

此刻，他们中比较精明的那部分，

会选择将嘴巴闭紧，减少非必要的

自然摄入。

听闻，人和自然产生太强烈的连接，

是反动的生活方式。

高楼将人和鸽子圈在一起，

其余的一切都被装了起来，形成了很多

被填满的容器。

空气在楼宇中感到窒息，

它们呼唤着云彩下的兄弟们，

据说，在历史上的某个瞬间，

连鸽子也能飞到天上去。

An elder tree ambushed us,

Gazed us, pushed us,

Wielded his flowers at us,

Flat, demanding, calling our names.

We went, what can we do for you,

You pan-looking, weird piece of 

Herbaceous being?

The wind pushed his body,

Towards us, he thrust again,

That unyielding bundle of peddles,

Scratched the air,

Spit pollen,

Forwarded his body for an unwanted fight.

We sniffed it.

It smelled pretty bad. 

Approximately ten bugs are drawn to

My lamp.

The lamp is sturdy and comes with 

The rent.

I rotated it toward 

The window,

So when it’s 

Turned on,

I’ve got 

Two lamps. 

An unknown number of creatures 

Exit between an object and its Doppelgänger. 

A man with scars on his leg crouched down next 

To the convenience store that I went to as the

Bus proudly lumbered by at the

Speed of 10. 

With no more cash, I walked deliberately

Unbelievably moralistically unflinchingly

Passed him even though I did have

5 more pounds in my

Canvas bag.

My Shakespeare was next to the 5 pounds which

According to Horace must had

Greatly delightfully educated

Me. 

Every cushion on a London tube

Has a shape of a butt.

Some big, some small,

Some high, some low,

Like the vicissitudes their enforcers. 

When I decide on a seat,

My fate concurs with the cushion’s properties.

As I sit on a fat butt,

My bowels move faster and

I crave the Tesco sandwich 

Possessed by my left-hand neighbor. 

When it becomes unbearable,

I’d have to stand up for a while,

Fending off my destiny,

As I am destined to. 

Words in my mother tongue

Scare me.

I am drowned in a sea of familiarity,

Which suffocates and deafens me,

Like some of our mothers do.

The stories alienate me,

The phonetics estrange me,

And the great classics strut towards me,

Like confident chatters who don’t stand 

Any form of interjection.

It doesn’t matter what my mother tongue is.

I could speak Hamokutinanish and shake in the same manner.

When I speak the words, they lose all the possibilities

Except for getting salt passed.

When I swim myself to the shore,

Hopping onto the dry land,

Walking uncovered for miles and miles,

Starved, thirsty,

Trembling uncontrollably due to physical weary,

And finally reaching a small puddle,

I quench my thirst with the water that looks so strange to me.

At that moment, a new language bursts out of my mouth,

And that is when I start to speak.

Roommates are musicians,

Real ones,

Not like me, 

Who only makes sounds.

I always stop by the pantry

Even when I am not hungry nor thirsty,

Because I want to talk music. 

It is one thing to listen to,

Another thing to write,

And a whole ’nother thing 

To talk music. 

To talk something that is 

Untalkable.

But we always manage to keep the conversation going.

We hop into a driverless train, and as we keep talking,

Our carriage morphs into a cabinet. 

Music talks are wild.

Like this morning, the trombone player and I

Talked about how he changed the slide-end bumper,

Fixed our coffee machine,

With the hands just off of Respighi.

Speaking a second language is

How I am punished for my original sin.

I cannot point to the thing with the same

Elegant manner as the commercial guy

With shining teeth.

It teases me, mocks me, parodies me

On my incompetence,

Like the biggest bully from 

The pitifulest child’s childhood.

It seduces me in my throat,

Encouraging it to produce

The wrong words. 

Sweet, sweet,

A sweet temptation 

To express not what is in my mind.

To speak is to think,

And to think is to write.

With the demon lodging in my head,

I get to taste

The sweet, sweet

Feeling of poetry.

The world where

The guy with shining teeth

Does not live. 

edited by Andrew Shields

“将自重的力用来发电，我们将

成为最清洁的星球”，新市长将一只

卡顿的手臂向外延展，给予

整个城市无限信心。我和闺蜜坐在

一只昨天完工的石椅上，感受到屁股

传来的凉。据一位唐代的绅士说，这里

曾掉下一枚苹果，味道清甜。