朱朱：我走到人的唇与萨克斯相触的门
— Horizons 飞地·视野 —
李栋 梅丹理 译
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朱朱，一位致力于打磨汉语质地并彰显其音乐性的诗人，同时也是“造境”的高手。他的诗中营建的戏剧化叙事，似乎构成了对现实的某种精巧譬喻：朱朱那带有阴柔之江南气质的“怀旧”风格，从现实的原点起跳，侧身进入另一个崭新的诗性空间，继而得以呈现他在汉语中飞翔的姿态。
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UP THE STAIRS
This moment countless men up the stairs
Upstairs, chopin already in the dark.
Downstairs, die alone in a crowd.
楼梯上
此刻楼梯上的男人数不胜数
上楼，黑暗中已有肖邦。
下楼，在人群中孤寂地死亡。
SMALL TOWN SAXOPHONE
Men in rain, thin and fine halos of hair,
They walk like brown trees, so spread apart.
The street looks like a big thick saxophone running by.
A line of light plays out along undulating roofs,
Threads of rain fall upon children and dogs.
Leaves and lamp on the wall silently burn.
I walk into this small town on the flatland,
A basket of chestnuts sits in town.
I walk to the door where human lips and the saxophone touch.
小镇的萨克斯
雨中的男人，有一圈细密的茸毛，
他们行走时像褐色的树，那么稀疏。
整条街道像粗大的萨克斯管伸过。
有一道光线沿着起伏的屋顶铺展，
雨丝落向孩子和狗。
树叶和墙壁上的灯无声地点燃。
我走进平原上的小镇，
沿着楼梯，走上房屋，窗口放着一篮栗子。
我走到人的唇与萨克斯相触的门。
CLEARING IN THE WOODS
I gain peace,peace after execution, head left aside.
Around,sympathetic roofs line up, leaning close against each other. Shadows of
Villagers flit past, only after theydisappear into deep alleys, heated cries sound.
林中空地
我获得的是一种被处决后的安宁，头颅撂在一边。
周围，同情的屋顶成排，它们彼此紧挨着。小镇居民们的身影一掠而过，只有等它们没入了深巷，才会发出议论的啼声。
BLUE SMOKE
I
Clear bangs;
A coiled bun,
A standard little lady.
Her oval face looks like a peach
That repays the climate ahead of its time.
Crossing her legs, turning her body half-way around, an elbow on asmall table,
A burning cigarette between her fingers (once the cigarette is finished,
Someone will hand her another one and then walk away). In the room
She must maintain her posture until the end,
A photographer walks back and forth, a painter stares at his canvas,
A fly wants to fly through the glass, she watches and wants to vomit.
At night, she wraps her arms with a towel of ice.
II
They continue to work the next day. She sits again
On the small round stool, lights a cigarette. The painter
Talks to her briefly in a low voice, and asks where she comes fromand her name.
The photographer has not come yet, perhaps he will not come?
Through the window behind the painter’s back, she can see the bund.The river
Beats upon wood stakes. A sloop sails toward the deserted island onthe other shore.
A trolley rushes by in the ringing of the rickshaw bell. She
Thinks of soft cushions at guanshengyuan, thinks of her bottom
That is not round enough, not as bubbly as a black lady’s.
Now she forgets that she is being painted, and continues to smoke,
Rings of smoke slowly spit out.
Something behind the easel bangs on the ground.
The painter’s shady eyeholes scrutinize her again and startle
Her. She lowers her head, while smoothing
Over the cheongsam that has already curled up the deep of herthighs.
Today it goes by much faster.
III
The next few days she feels
That she does not have to be fully present in her posture, or
Leave it completely inattentive.
She sits there, as if wrapped
In a thin mask of expression, thin as her blue and white coloredcheongsam.
Inside the mask—
She is already wandering the streets, already
Lies lazily on a long couch and parts her legs
Yawning in a loud voice, already
Runs in the canola fields by the edge of the sky that yellows thestreams.
The photographer appears once again.
The thick and unbelievably long lens pokes out
Of the leathered body, so close that it presses on her face,
She yields and smiles him a sweet smile.
A record player:
“rose rose blossoms everywhere”:1
Yongchunhe2 sends someone over to keep them company.
IV
She starts to run out of the mask,
And stands by the painter to see the painting:
The lady in the painting looks like and not like her,
He puts on too much make-up on her face,
The hand that holds the cigarette too delicate,
Her breasts in his painting hide instead of bulging under her silkclothes
And he paints the wall in her shadow
As a strange waterfall
Stiff and static.
Only a wisp of smoke that rises from between her fingers
Which looks as if it floats, floating in the air.
She also finds out that this painter
In fact has long finished the painting,
And the long days after, every day
He does nothing but fiddle with that wispof smoke.
_______________________________
1 a paramont jazz song popular on the bund in shanghai during the1930s
2 full name is yongchunhe tobacco corporation, namely the firm thathired the prostitute in the poem as their advertising model.
青烟
Ⅰ
清澈的刘海；
发髻盘卷，
一个标准的小妇人。
她那张椭圆的脸，像一只提前
报答了气候的水蜜桃。
跷起腿，半转身躯，一只手肘撑在小桌子上，
手指夹住一支燃烧的香烟（烟燃尽，
有人会替她续上一支，再走开）。在屋中
她必须保持她的姿势至终，
摄影师走来走去，画家盯住自己的画布，
一只苍蝇想穿透玻璃飞出，最后看得她想吐。
晚上她用一条包满冰的毛巾敷住手臂。
Ⅱ
第二天接着干。又坐在
小圆凳上，点起烟。画家
和她低声交谈了几句，问她的祖籍、姓名。
摄影师没有来，也许不来了？
透过画家背后的窗，可以望见外滩。
江水打着木桩。一艘单桅船驶向对岸荒岛上。
一辆电车在黄包车铃声里掣过。她
想起冠生园软软的座垫，想着自己
不够浑圆的屁股，在上边翘得和黑女人一样高。
这时她忘记了自己被画着，往常般吸一口烟，
烟圈徐徐被吐出。
被挡在画架后面的什么哐啷地一声。
画家黑黝黝的眼窝再次对准了她，吓了
她一跳。她低下头扯平
已经往上翻卷到大腿根的旗袍。
这一天过得快多了。
Ⅲ
此后几天她感觉自己
不必盛满她的那个姿势，或者
完全就让它空着。
她坐在那里，好像套着一层
表情的模壳，薄薄的，和那件青花旗袍一样。
在模壳的里边——
她已经在逛街，已经
懒洋洋地躺在了一张长榻上分开了双腿
大声的打呵欠，已经
奔跑在天边映黄了溪流的油菜田里。
摄影师又出现过一次。
把粗壮奇长的镜头伸出
皮革机身，近得几乎压在她脸上，
她顺势给他一个微笑，甜甜的。
一台电唱机：
“蔷薇蔷薇处处开”；①
永春和②派人送来 陪伴他们的工作。
Ⅳ
她开始跑出那个模壳，
站到画家的身边打量那幅画：
画中人既像又不像她，
他在她的面颊上涂抹了太多的胭脂，
夹烟的手画得过于纤细，
他画的乳房是躲在绸衣背后而不是从那里鼓胀，
并且，他把她背影里的墙
画成一座古怪的大瀑布
僵立着但不流动。
唯独从她手指间冒起的一缕烟
真的很像在那里飘，在空气中飘。
她还发现这个画家
其实很早就画完了这幅画，
在后来很长的一段日子里，每天
他只是在不停地涂抹那缕烟。
① 20世纪三十年代盛行上海滩的百乐门爵士歌曲之一。
② 全称为永春和烟草股份有限公司，即雇用诗中的妓女做广告模特儿的商家。
THE WILD GREAT WALL
I
Label of the earth surface
Or a strangled trace deep in memory, vanishing
Upon invasion of sand-storms and droughts
Into mountains whose skin tone is ever closer to ours.
We were once here. Even
A young solider conscripted from a small town
Would stand tall and with the heart of a rich man
Judge aliens through piles of arrows,
The herd of people, no better than beasts crawling in wasteland.
Here, we have already built a giant bathtub,
To soak ourselves in warm and languid routine.
When women play on a swing in the garden,
Men’s eyes seek out reflections in the water;
Barely-cooked bloody meat too uncouth,
The eaves of our civilization
Now exacting to the last stretch of an upward tip.
II
Now, go through
The most thorough of all destructions:
Forgetting—it is like
A reptile spine
Moving toward the end of its weathering,
Mountain ridges full of jurassic quietude,
As the setting sun moves away, the engine dies slowly down,
The remnant light falls like rusty arrows.
I come to trace the life that disappeared long before our birth,
As if the philological fingers knock in anguish
The ridge of an empty shell,
Whose inside has been picked clean.
III
In the peach trees on the steep slope,
Bees hum and buzz around,
They have set up a campsite
In a nearby beacon tower
That has been smashed like crockery.
Their song seems to say:
Everything returns to nature…
Wild grass like fingers deep in the earth,
Like a fiery ghost troop with halberds and lances held high
Climbs onto collapsed steps,
This moment, countless startled landscapes
Must be fluttering and fleeing off thewalls from museums everywhere.
野长城
Ⅰ
地球表面的标签
或记忆深处的一道勒痕，消褪在
受风沙和干旱的侵蚀
而与我们的肤色更加相似的群山。
我们曾经在这边。即使
是一位征召自小村镇的年轻士兵，
也会以直立的姿势与富有者的心情
透过箭垛打量着外族人，
那群不过是爬行在荒原上的野兽。
在这边，我们已经营造出一只巨大的浴缸，
我们的日常是一种温暖而慵倦的浸泡。
当女人们在花园里荡秋千，
男人们的目光嗜好于从水中找到倒影；
带血的、未煮熟的肉太粗俗了，
我们文明的屋檐
已经精确到最后那一小截的弯翘。
Ⅱ
现在，经历着
所有的摧毁中最彻底的一种：
遗忘——它就像
一头爬行动物的脊椎
正进入风化的尾声，
山脊充满了侏罗纪的沉寂，
随着落日的遥远马达渐渐地平息，
余晖像锈蚀的箭镞坠落。
我来追溯一种在我们出生前就消失的生活，
如同考据学的手指苦恼地敲击
一只空壳的边沿，
它的内部已经掏干了。
Ⅲ
在陡坡的那几棵桃树上，
蜜蜂们哼着歌来回忙碌着，
它们选择附近的几座
就像摔破的陶罐般的烽火台
做为宿营地。
那歌词的大意仿佛是：
一切都还给自然……
野草如同大地深处的手指，
如同蓬勃的、高举矛戟的幽灵部队
登上了坍塌的台阶，
这样的时辰，无数受惊的风景
一定正从各地博物馆的墙壁上仓惶地逃散。
SMALL TOWN
Là, tout n’est qu’ordre et beauté,
Luxe, calme et volupté.
–Charles Baudelaire “L’invitation au voyage”
I
Early in the morning before the window i
Drink coffee, before my eyes, the hotel’s
Big garden, flowers in bloom,
Bushes trimmed even;
Besides a gravel footpath
Stands a statue of a half naked goddess,
Around me, soft murmurs of people talking,
Their elegant manners, closely resemble
Glassware on the table
And reflective silverware.
II
Moored yachts fill the old harbor,
Ropes slack on the mast as if strings
Wait to be tightened to be plucked violently by wind—
Most tables in cafés along the shore still empty;
Thousands of tourists
Will come here in summertime.
When i walk along the pine forest
To the beach, past those mansions
And a big park—
In the cold and clean air
There is a void
Different from the taste of poverty and despair,
More like a velvet-carpeted prison,
Or a hospital with a fountain where the privileged stay.
III
Late night i stroll alone in the city,
And find a bar by its music,
And sink myself
In the golden foam of beer,
Deep in my dejected mind
The verse of baudelaire like a curse
Lingers still, as if i
Were him, half-way through the voyage
A night stuck in themauritiusbay,
Listening to slaves whipped in the deep forest
As if poems of mine written in the past
Echo in my face.
IV
Is it that when a man walks too far,
He wants to return to pick up his name,
Family history, and the broken-down cradle?
Is it that he hates being trailed by shadows
And once gone,
Freedom means ennui?
Isn’t it that i am already twisted
Like a rusty spring,
Its elasticity lost?
Isn’t it that in complete darkness
I can only feel the truth of existence?
Like a whirlwind or engulfing torrents,
Sharp hidden reefs
And terrifying swirls of water,
That bring to sailors the feeling instead,
Of having a life squarely snatched in arms.
V
My memory heavy, in a split second,
Can turn lips to mud,
My love sticky, like an
Unbreakable umbilical cord—
My happiness, a perishable rope railing on a cliff,
My landscape, an ancient abyss.
Unable to sleep in this midnight hotel,
I open the window to suck
On the ice-cold sea wind, i long to return
—as i longed for the first sail.
Our entire life is
The peach blossom spring and its foe.
小城
一切只是整齐和美，
奢侈，平静和欢乐迷醉。
——夏尔•波德莱尔《邀游》
Ⅰ
当我在早晨的窗前
喝着咖啡，眼前是旅馆的
大花园，鲜花盛开，
灌木丛被修剪得平整；
在一条砾石的小径旁
矗立着一尊半裸的女神，
在我周围是低低交谈的人声，
他们优雅的举止，酷似
桌上的玻璃器皿
和反光的银器。
Ⅱ
老港湾里停满游艇，
松垂在桅杆上的绳索如同琴弦，
等待被绷紧、被更迅猛的风弹奏——
沿岸咖啡馆的大多数桌子还空着；
成千上万的游人们，
他们将会在夏天到来。
当我沿着松林走向
海滩，经过那些别墅
和那座大公园——
寒冷而清旷的空气里
有一种空虚
不同于贫困与绝望的滋味，
很像一座铺满天鹅绒的监狱，
或者是显贵们居住的带喷泉的医院。
Ⅲ
夜深时我独自在城中闲逛，
循着乐曲声找到一家酒吧，
将自己淹没在
啤酒的金色泡沫里，
而在我沮丧的大脑深处
波德莱尔的诗句好像咒语
始终在盘旋，好像我
就是他，在航行的半途
受困于毛里求斯的港湾之夜，
听见丛林深处抽打奴隶的鞭子
就像我往昔写下的诗篇
回响在自己的面颊。
Ⅳ
是不是一个人走得太远时，
就想回头捡拾他的姓名、
家史，和破朽的摇篮？
是不是他讨厌影子的尾随
而一旦它消失，
自由就意味着虚无？
是否我已经扭曲
如一根生锈的弹簧，
彻底丧失了弹性？
是否在彻底的黑暗中
我才感觉到实存？
正如飓风与骇浪，
尖利的暗礁
和恐怖的旋涡，
反倒带给水手将一生
稳稳地揣入怀中的感受。
Ⅴ
我的记忆沉重，转瞬间
就能使嘴唇变成泥土，
我的爱粘滞，像一条
割不断的脐带——
我的欢乐是悬崖上易朽的绳栏，
我的风景是一个古老的深渊。
难眠于这子夜的旅馆，
推开窗户吮吸着
冰冷的海风，我渴望归期
一如当初渴望启程，
我们的一生
就是桃花源和它的敌人。
THE CREEPER
She runs wild, soft palms
Now morphed to tiger claws and suckers,
Which, from the first leap, cover,
Overlay, devour the whole wall, stitch up
The whole room, dim all the lights;
She never backs off, even if stepping into a void,
Will turn into a shield of corkscrews;
Even if all the leaves wilt in winter, she still
Decorates her body with a string of holes
After the sewing threads are pulled out;
Her tenacity holds up in a stalemate, she takes the pleasure
In being crushed, and her self-congratulations inflated in spring,
Like tightly spaced pennants stuck in a sandbox,
As if thorny waves think they have slit the shoal;
She despairs, unable to enter the room,
But at least she camouflages everything outside,
Year after year, she truly loves.
爬墙虎
她是疯狂的，柔软的手掌
已经蜕变成虎爪和吸盘，
从最初的一跃开始，覆盖，
层层叠叠，吞没整面墙，缝合
整个屋子，黯淡下全部光线；
从不退缩，即使步入了虚空
也会变成一队螺旋形的盾牌；
即使入冬后枝叶全部枯萎，仍然
用缝纫线被抽走后留下的成串针孔
镶嵌自己的身形；她有僵持的决心，
被粉碎的快感，和春天到来时
那一份膨胀的自我犒劳，如同
在沙盘里插上密密的小旗，
如同蜂拥的浪尖以为扎破了礁岩；
她是绝望的，无法进入到屋中，
但她至少遮蔽了外面的一切，
年复一年，她是真的在爱着。
DUOLUN ROAD
Under a sky cold and grey like a clamshell
Rows of old red brick buildings. By the street corner,
Before a café that shows silent films,
A female model wears a cheongsam and moves about
Before a lens for the next month’s fashion cover—
Often this city has the need to return to that age.
There is a small building in the nearby block,
As if smoke and coughs still fill up the room…
On a large motley table by the window, he
Uses a scalpel-like nib, to open
The chest of old china, to check its liver and gall bladder,
Its lung, its stomach and respiratory tract—
Then, washes hands, goes downstairs and accepts
Revered gaze of a young wife and his disciples;
During dinner he attacks his peers and patients,
Attacks all the frail and maudlin creatures.
He plans to revive the nation’s woodcut business on his own,
And asks that the works look like kollwitz’s…
(in private he likes beardsley.)
He also attacks the surrounding foreign concessions,
Lipstick-wearing neon lights engulf
Country moneybags who come to taste foreign titillations;
Business ladies in cheongsam everywhere, and
“tune of backyard flowers” played in a jazz style,
Decibels of amusement overshadow xiang-lin sao3’s sobs,
Along with revolutionary speeches and approaching gunshots.
Cold, stiff, his voice points out
Every organ, every nerve and every imminent death
Of hope, stating that the whole old continent
Is a burning iron house, is a
Lone island beset by plagues and tsunami;
Do not wake anybody up,
For there is no way to escape…
He should be glad that he did not survive
Into the latter half of the century, for what awaited him
Was “either shut up or go to jail,” no,
Even if the mouth had been shut, he could not have escaped prison,and
Together with those he never intended to forgive
To be denounced and insulted…His
Combative days were no more than a game,
And when he realized his flaws it would have been too late—
In the face of shared fate, apologies were of little use.
Had he survived, it would have been in the deep
Of this living hell where tongues are ripped out, he would have borne
The pain of ribs being kicked, cleaned toilets with hunched back,but
Perhaps he would still never forgive anyone,
Because to the very end he could not emerge from that day—
Those slide shown in the anatomy lesson at sendai medical school4,
From that day on, he felt himself like giordano bruno
Thrown to death on a pyre, life’s flesh destroyed
And his morals flew straight up, like a vulture chasing after therancid;
His charred eyes can see nothing no more.
多伦路
蚌壳般灰冷的天空下
成排的红砖老建筑。街边，
一家放映默片的咖啡馆门前，
女模特身穿旗袍，为下期
时尚杂志的封面走动在镜头中——
这城市经常有回到那个年代的需要。
邻近的街区里有一座小楼，
仿佛依旧满屋子的烟雾和咳嗽……
在窗边一张斑驳的大桌子上，他
用手术刀般的笔尖，剖开
老中国的胸膛，检查它的肝胆，
它的肺，它的胃和呼吸道——
然后，洗手，下楼，接受
年轻妻子和门徒们敬畏的注视；
晚餐时他抨击他的同行和病人，
抨击所有脆弱、多情的物种。
他有意以一己之力振兴民族版画业，
要求它们酷似珂勒惠支……
（私下里他喜欢比亚兹莱）。
他也抨击四周那围合的租界，
抹着口红的霓虹灯吞噬着
来开洋荤的乡下财主；
到处是穿旗袍的商女，和
以爵士乐来演奏的《后庭花》，
娱乐的分贝盖过了祥林嫂的啜泣，
革命党人的演讲，和越来越近的枪声。
他的嗓音冷，硬，逐一宣布
每种器官、每根神经，和每种
希望的垂亡，宣布整个旧大陆
是一座燃烧的铁屋，是一座
海啸时瘟疫也在蔓延的孤岛；
不要叫醒任何一个人，
因为已经无路可逃……
他该庆幸自己没有活到
世纪的下半叶，等待他的
“要么是闭嘴要么是坐牢”，不，
即使闭嘴也难逃铁窗的厄运，而且
是和他一个也不打算宽恕的那些人
一起，被批斗被侮辱……他
往日的好斗不过像一场游戏，
而他意识到自己的缺点已经晚了——
面对相同的命运，道歉已变得多余。
假如他能够幸存，一定是在这现世的
拔舌地狱深处，强忍住肋骨
被踢断的疼痛，弓身打扫着厕所；但
也许他仍旧一个也不打算宽恕，
因为终其一生他都无法走出那一天——
那堂在仙台医校观看幻灯片的解剖课，
从那天起他感觉自己像布鲁诺
被扔进了火刑堆中，肉体毁灭过一次
而道德感垂直起飞，兀鹫般追猎腐臭；
他焦灼的眼已经看不见更多。
INVISIBLEMAN
--InMemoriam, for Zhang Zao
Tr. by Denis Mair
I
An extended winter with snow
Still falling in March, branches leafless,
Yet migrant birds returned at their wontedtime;
A great passing on was enacted, in Tubingen,
Your place of departure; having shed yourwings
You were wound in death’s sheet, never tofly back.
Since a good while back you have been aninvisible man
Poems did your soaring for you, castingshadows among us.
Their traces were followed, their lineswere recited
Even before tank treads crushed that era ofrevelry to pieces
Even before I wrote my first staggeringlines of poetry
You went to a far land, a remote nest nearthe Black Forest,
Tiny wiggling dot in an aerial photo,anonymous flotsam:
There you experienced your flight path’sinitial shocks,
Like a red-hot branding iron you fell intothe Donau…
Following a hiss, what disappeared amongthe ripples
Not just chimera-shaped plumes withlife-denying claws but also
Seething youth and ears at large, swelledwith blood for beauty’s sake…
Lute strings not tuned to friendship’spitch, or homeland echoes,
Performance could only be an act of soulsummoning,
Anxious like Orpheus walking up from Hades,unable to verify
If the beloved followed close behind. Inthat place
Relief funds of freedoms could not becashed in for bread;
Outside your door of probation—stood K, androws of castle buildings.
Ah, cartographer of twofold emptiness, somany times
Silent snow covered the night as youtoasted the windowpane;
Your body craved drunkenness, like astiffening pair of scales
Tired of weighing out the crucial relevanceof words,
You let them drift off featherlike, to losethemselves
On a paper horizon, spit out by Mt. Lichtenstein’stypewriter.
II.
I first saw you in Shanghai, in a cramped elevator
Your pudgy physique looked even more corupulent,
The good-looking youth of hearsay was goneforever.
Later in a bar you performed little trickswith cards
As if you could redeem the magic of yourimage,
I was surprised by your childish ways, yourinflated sweetness.
But there was toughness at the core. I wasamazed
At your gravel-crusher snores that woke thestreet,
A jarring sound like those bad rhymes youspoke of,
With difficulty converting between twokinds of breath.
Rather than saying German is ice andChinese the ember, I would say
Present is ice and past is ember, sizzlingas one in your vitals.
China ischanging! We are all in the throes of a migration,
We view remembrance as regression,nostalgia as terminal disease,
We scuttle hurriedly like geckoes, fearingto fall behind
Because an abyss cracks open where wepass…but you
Folded your wings under that quiet Europeanroof, dreaming
Of timeless grief, missing our current epicof displacement.
You returned, like a watchman patrollingthe wrong latitude,
Like Diogenes in a daydream, with hislantern in hand
Long-suffering searcher…but the air nolonger held
That fragrance of discourse, the keennessof listening had faded.
Revelry set off fireworks in bleakoutskirts years ago,
Only you stubbornly laid out the precedingera’s map,
Until a dagger’s flash made you your ownassassin.
Your heart in pieces, you came back to anew invisibility.
You were brought down to a teacher’s ruler,a barroom table
By your own literary inquisition,preferring muteness,
Behind the clamor, your lute strings cameunstrung,
Done with lingering in the arena ofrhetoric, the rappers’ stage.
Tonight I pull a thin volume of yours fromthe shelf,
Closing the leaves, I see a comet with tailfanning behind,
Down below, two cages stand open on theMainland—
A poet becomes a myth after death, the sameas ever,
Of the family Avis in the order Primates,monarch without land
Perhaps you never really landed.
隐形人
——悼张枣
Ⅰ
一个延长的冬天，
雪在三月仍然飘落，枝头
没有叶子但候鸟们如期归来，
履行了一场伟大的穿越；在图宾根，
你的出发地，卸下了翅膀的你
被卷进死亡的床单，永不再飞还。
很久以前你就是一个隐形人，
诗代替你翱翔，投影在我们中间，
被追踪，被传诵；早于
那狂欢的年代被坦克的履带碾成碎末，
也早于我踉跄地写下第一行诗，你
就已远走他乡。黑森林边一座偏僻的巢穴，
航摄图上蠕动的小黑点，匿名的漂流物；
那里，经历了航线最初的震撼，
你像通红的烙铁掉进冬日的奈卡河……
随一阵嗤响消散在涟漪的，不止是
那团貔貅般挥舞禁锢之爪的浓烟，还有
沸腾的青春，遍野为美充血的耳朵——
琴弦得不到友谊的调校、家园的回声，
演奏，就是一个招魂的动作，
焦灼如走出冥府的俄耳甫斯，不能确证
在他背后真爱是否紧紧跟随？那里，
自由的救济金无法兑换每天的面包，
假释的大门外，兀立K和他的成排城堡。
哦，双重虚空的测绘员；往往
静雪覆夜，你和窗玻璃上的自己对饮，
求醉之躯像一架渐渐瘫软的天平，
倦于再称量每一个词语的轻重，
任凭了它们羽翎般飘零，隐没在
里希滕斯坦山打字机吐出的宽如地平线的白纸。
Ⅱ
我第一次见你是在上海。在
逼仄的电梯间你发胖的身体更显臃肿，
全无传闻中的美男子踪影，然后，
在酒吧里你卖弄一种纸牌的小魔术，
好像它能够为你赎回形像的神奇——
我惊讶于你的孩子气，膨胀的甜蜜，
但有一个坚硬的核；我惊讶于
你入睡后如同渣土车般吵醒着街道的
鼾声，它如同你说过的“坏韵”，
困难地转换在你呼吸的两种空气——
与其说德语是冰，汉语是炭，不如说
现在是冰，过去是炭，相煎于你的肺腑。
中国在变！我们全都在惨烈的迁徙中
视回忆为退化，视怀旧为绝症，
我们蜥蜴般仓促地爬行，恐惧着掉队，
只为所过之处尽皆裂为深渊……而
你敛翅于欧洲那静滞的屋檐，梦着
万古愁，错失了这部离乱的史诗。
你归来，像夜巡时走错了纬度的更夫，
像白日梦里的狄奥根尼，打着灯笼，
苦苦地寻觅……空气中不再有
言说的芬芳，钟子期们的听力已经涣散，
欢笑如多年前荒郊燃放的一场烟火；
只有你固执地铺展上一个年代的地图，
直到闪现的匕首让你成为自己的刺客，
心碎于乌有，于是归来变成了再次隐形，
落脚于一根教鞭，一张酒桌，
一座自造的文字狱；宁愿失声，
在喧哗的背面崩断琴弦，
不愿盘桓修辞的政坛，饶舌的舞台。
今夜，抽取书架上你那薄薄的一册，
掩卷后看见一颗彗星拖拽开屏的尾巴，
下方，两座大陆的笼子敞开——
一如诗人惯来是死后的神话，
类人猿中的鸟科，无地的君王；
或许你从来就没有真正地着陆。
本文选自飞地第11辑《十年的变速器》，点击阅读原文购买
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