The Poetry of Yan Jun 颜峻

Translated and presented by Maghiel van Crevel

An essay and translation by Maghiel van Crevel (Leiden University), followed by a selection of Yan Jun's poetry in the original with links to recitations (performed at the Thinker Cafe in Beijing, April 8, 2003). Click the "play" button on the audio controller bar below the titles to hear the recitation. You will need Quicktime Player. Best viewed with Internet Explorer. Be patient-there are some long instrumental preludes.


Published by the MCLC Resource Center, Copyright 2003.


 

THREE-DIMENSIONAL POETRY PERFORMANCE
by Maghiel van Crevel

[Originally posted on MCLC LIST; May 15, 2003] Peking University (PKU) is one of a number of schools that have left their mark on contemporary Chinese poetry, through the voices of poets as well as scholars and critics. Late last year, Huang Yibing, also known as Maimang, offered lively reminiscences on poetry at PKU in the 1980s and the early 1990s, in an informal seminar at the University's Department of Chinese. A few months on, it was time for the PKU May Fourth Literary Society [Wusi wenxue she] 21st annual Lake with No Name Poetry Reading, participants including Liang Xiaoming, Che Qianzi, Song Lin, Sun Wenbo and others. Since the 1990s, the Reading's date has been fixed in commemoration of famed poet and PKU graduate Haizi, who ended his life on 26 March 1989.

As in the past couple of years, the Reading marked the beginning of a poetry festival, including a series of events for the month of April. For this year's motto, si (think) had been replaced by shi (poetry) in the Chinese edition of Descartes' most famous words: "wo shi, gu wo zai," or something like "I [engage in] poetry, therefore I am." The program included a women's poetry recital in the Sculpting in Time cafe [Diaoke shiguang]. The cafe used to be located outside the University's small East Gate. But the remaining few blocks of hutong architecture there have long since been torn down to make room for the PKU Science Park, and Sculpting in Time has moved to Weigongcun. The recital took place in the garden of its beautiful second outlet, at the foot of the Fragrant Hills. Different generations were represented by authors such as Xiaoxiao, Tong Wei, Yin Lichuan, Cao Shuying and others including Zhou Zan, editor of Wings [Yi]. In the first half of April, the program also featured lectures by Zhou Zan, with special attention to the work of Mu Qing, and by Yang Xiaobin, on narrativity in present-day poetry. Presentations planned for the following weeks, by Zang Di and Tang Xiaodu, were canceled because of the SARS crisis, along with just about all other events in the city. On 8 April, a little over a week before the true proportions—well, the beginnings of the approximate proportions—of SARS in Beijing were made known to the public, a third poetry recital had still slipped through. It was well worth it.

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Fig. 1: Yan Jun, on the right, with his technician-artists. Pictures taken by Maghiel van Crevel.

Poetry in the time of SARS: let's hope the virus is contained soon enough, and funding for medical facilities beyond China's privileged coastal cities is increased sufficiently to invalidate the association with love in the time of cholera. By early April, rumors about the spread of SARS in the capital had been persistent enough to put one on the alert and create the sort of collective consciousness that will make one try harder than usual to suppress the urge to cough or sneeze. Yet, the atmosphere was not nearly as tense as it has since become, and if the technician-artists accompanying Yan Jun's poetry reading had donned mouth masks, that was theatrical behavior as much as anything else (fig. 1).

Yan Jun (1973) lived in Lanzhou, where he studied Chinese at the Northwest Normal University and worked as an editor, until he moved to Beijing in 1999. He has since become a central figure in the underground [dixia] or unofficial [fei guanfang] music scene: as critic, publisher and artist. He has also made himself heard in poetry, as contributing editor of the unofficial journal Writing [Shu], with three issues since 2001, and as author of Infrasonic Sound [Cisheng bo], a selection of his poetry from 1991 to 2000.

Yan's performance on 8 April took place in the Thinker cafe. Its English name is probably the original rather than a transl(iter)ation. In Chinese, the cafe is called Xingke, meaning something like 'Aware Guest' or 'Aware Traveler,' through association with words like xiake 'knight': a neologism of clear phonetic inspiration. The Thinker cafe is part of the wonderful All Sages bookstore [Wansheng shuyuan] on Chengfu Road, between PKU and Tsinghua University. All Sages was once based in a couple of rooms along the same alley as the original Sculpting in Time, and likewise shifted its location to rise from the rubble once the demolition crew had moved in to pave the way for Science.

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Fig. 2: Yan Jun during his December 2002 gig as support act for Hei Dachun and Vision

If Yan Jun is a young voice on the poetry scene, he is well known for the spectacular acoustics of his readings—and a good crowd had assembled when the lights in the cafe went out. Yan has a deep, powerful voice and is not shy about using it to the full to roar and sing, such as when he partook in the Guangzhou Poet's Voice [Shiren fa sheng] recital in November 2002, to an audience of about 500. What is more, he is in the habit of reading his poetry to musical and soundscape accompaniment. When he appeared, in December, as a brief support act for one of Hei Dachun's Beijing recitals with the rock band Vision [Muguang], he operated the sound equipment himself (fig. 2). It was a good reading, but nothing like that of last month. Then, the said technicians-artists provided the visual-acoustic surroundings for Yan's poetry, allowing him to concentrate entirely on the quality of his recital.

The overall effect was, in a manner of speaking, three-dimensional. In the first dimension, using computers and a beamer, the technicians projected a continuing and sometimes repetitive collage of documentary images on a large screen facing the audience. They included newsreel-type footage on the American-British invasion of Iraq, both of operations on the ground and of political leaders orchestrating the events, such as Donald Rumsfeld and Saddam Hussein. This was alternated with glimpses at other worlds. One was that found inside hospitals, with a double focus on the helplessness of patient-victims and the power, both comforting and macabre, of the 'army clad in white' hailed in the Chinese press as the vanguard in the fight against SARS, i.e. medical personnel. Another recurring image was that of a child learning to read, implying a vision of education as yet another System held together by relationships of power. The audience also got a good look at Chinese residential areas with the character chai 'disassemble' slapped onto the walls of houses that are to be torn down, an eye-catching bit of couleur locale in contemporary Chinese cities, and the sort of thing typically appropriated by the Hip & Disenfranchised for decorating T-shirts. If the collage's general political engagement needed any elucidation, unmistakable signals were delivered by the famous, long shots of a giant Lenin statue somewhere in the former Soviet bloc being decapitated.

But while many of the images had clear ideological themes, they also included pensive, stationary shots of a bird, of the stern of a boat traveling through the waves, of the mechanical choreography of traffic on an intersection. Moreover, the collage was visually manipulated throughout, by adjusting color and contrast settings and by double, overlapping projection of different images. While it displayed obvious socio-political engagement, that did not get in the way of its aesthetic qualities. The overall mood was one of alienation, oppression and bleakness—but also one of bitter-sweet melancholy, nostalgia and compassion, leading to association with Godfrey Reggio's Koyaanisqatsi.

One reason for such association is that in Yan Jun's collage, as in Reggio's cinematic masterpiece, the images are not accompanied by their own sound. In Koyaanisqatsi, astonishing views of natural and man-made environments lie amid music by Philip Glass, now majestic and then maniacal. This method is essentially one of defamiliarization. It intensifies both the visual and the acoustic experience in themselves—and yet, paradoxically, relativizes them too, becasue they can to some degree be separated by an act of will on the part of the audience. Similarly, the images in Yan Jun's collage acquired new meanings, because they were accompanied—in a second dimension to the performance—through a public address system by semi-musical, computer-generated soundscapes, as well as by Yan's recital of his poetry.

A third dimension was constituted by projection on the same screen of fragments of that poetry in its written form. But crucially, these "subtitles" rarely if ever coincided with the texts that Yan Jun was reading out loud at the same time. Thus, (1) tanks and soldiers, Rumsfeld or Hussein or Lenin, medical doctors and nurses, pupils and teachers, anonymous townsfolk and other living and lifeless matter would be (2) accompanied by Yan Jun's voice from amid an eerie soundscape, saying things like "abolish mental slavery" or "against ourselves, against everything we are against", and (3) simultaneously subtitled—and, as it were, translated—in lines such as "imprisoned in song, catching fire, like a dream vanished in valleys of art, forever...." or "welcome underground!" The effect was electrifying.

Yan Jun's poetry is perhaps, quite simply, best realized and experienced in settings like that of his recital at the Thinker cafe, but considered in isolation on the page, it is also definitely worthwhile. His prose poem "Against All Organized Deception" [Fandui yiqie you zuzhi de qipian], the source of the above quotations and of the performance subtitles, brings to mind an unlikely combination of intertexts: works by Allen Ginsberg and William Burroughs, as well as by Xi Chuan, specifically his "Salute" [Zhijing]. "Against....," and "Salute" are similar in stanza structure, sentence-level devices like parallelism, and occasionally even in particular imagery. The associative leaps in <Against....> are another feature that Yan Jun shares with Xi Chuan—and, in different fashion, with the novels of William Burroughs, especially in his negotiation of fragmented historical, fictional and dreamlike or intoxicated experience. Intertextuality with Ginsberg is clearest in Yan's dogged socio-political and ethical commitment, and his anarchist streak.

The literary-sociological context of Yan Jun's writing and its performance is constituted by other trends in poetry of recent years: socially engaged—be it decadent and arrogant or idealist—down to earth, direct, unruly and unassuming. Beijing-based "Lower Body" [xiaban shen] poets Yin Lichuan (1973) and Shen Haobo (1976) are prime examples, each in their own inimitable way. So is a poet pen-named Wenmang (1977), 'text-blind', that is 'illiterate', originally from Chongqing and now, after years in north and northeast China, living in Guangzhou. Wenmang's work, while occasionally self-indulgent, features aggressive indictments of social problems and is riddled with expletives and profanities. He has published in unofficial journals like Original Writing [Yuanchuang xing xiezuo] and put a number of his poems to music, for unofficial circulation of a CD called Our People Are Everywhere [Daochu dou shi women de ren] (2003). The music is extremely unconstrained, which is both its charm and its curse.

Yan Jun's April performance, too, was recorded in full. He plans to issue a 50-minute audio track followed by additional video + audio tracks on CD-rom, through his unofficial record label called SUBJAM or Iron Henchman Workshop [Tie tuo gongzuo shi]. Below is a translation of "Against All Organized Deception", which occupied a central, overarching position in his recital. The poem is all over the place, but in a strangely energizing manner. There is much China in here, most of it anchored in a rough-edged present. There is self-mockery and humor, there is anger and a vicious obscenity, there are (semi-) allusions to divergent sources: Yu Hua, Li Bai, Maxim Gorky, the May 1968 Paris riots, the Book of Jin, Mao Zedong, "The Internationale," John Lennon, Mao Zedong, and more. There is playful and serious contemplation, there is cosmopolitan rebellion and courage and style—and there is a relaxed self-consciousness of all that. Yan Jun makes things happen.

 

AGAINST ALL ORGANIZED DECEPTION

last night, i dreamed of soy sauce—last night, i began to germinate—last night, the vast desert moved far away, like a sigh. i heard the sounds of dark clouds, while under the eaves, the last of the young ones who had to move when their houses were torn down finished his cigarette. last night, for lack of a woman's tears, shanghai turned into a city of wooden stallions—last night, for lack of thin mist crossing the bridge, guangzhou turned into pill heaven.... and in xining, the streetlights went out, while a fellow hiding a knife in his clothes ran through the alley splattered with sheep oil—last night, the beijing god went out the door.

against all organized deception!

against meetings at dusk, stars twinkling. against yelling my name from a tree-top, against yelling in a drizzle. against capitalist contemplation. against those who are two-faced and triple-knived. against dead souls re-incarnating in another corpse. against your lowering of my IQ. against a movie interrupted halfway through—when the light rips through our overcoats, the nightmare fairy stops in mid-air, she's got not love and no future, and her loneliness is our loneliness.... against power.

to the flea market, imperishable and immortal!

yesterday you were a scholar, today you're a thug, tomorrow you'll be talking in your sleep and turn into a philosopher. could that really be what life is all about? could it really be that cell phones won't come through but airplanes can just strut about in public, scratching brittle skies? go out, together with the ox, prince of demons, go see that god—a year should be enough for you to learn to be silent, observe, go live in iron-n-clay caves and sob. winter is coming to an end, you must believe your memories.

sex is a cure-all!

against advertisement, against forgetfulness. against tearing up anyone's ID and ugly face. against coming through meteoric showers clad in a golden cape but forgetting your daughter's name. against carnivores dancing. against computers dying. against living like a sickle. against night fragrance dying at night. against faddish magazines and dotcoms. against day-dreaming, see-through garments, the heart exploding like goose feathers.... booze killing a man from ten steps away.... idiot cunts ruling the world.... porn magazines for exam papers.... against fear.

let the storm rage with greater force and fury!

against qigong masters, against rock stars. against electricity destroying earth's beautiful atmosphere. against closing bars where wandering spirits go. against a god gone around the bend. against breast worship. against selling flowers, against selling out nether world flowers with seven stars roaming above, against flowers for valentine's day and for mother's day, against eating flowers. against skin. against azure conspiracies.

free the grasslands from the artist's hands!

doubts come from blood pressure stimulating the brain, but could worship really come from hunger? hence, against the mantis' speech, against the mysophobic scientist—she has hurt me! and moreover, also against intellectuals disguised as thugs. likewise, against forests disguised as wooden homes to foreign birds, finally carried off by street acrobats selling their art, imprisoned in song, catching fire, like a dream vanished in valleys of art, forever....

free the computer's body!

one hears it said that sound going around can wake up night shift workers, that blood falling can hit black people born in the 50s. your casual drawings of air and wooden sandals will make the afternoon grow longer, until the thief comes down from the slopes and blankly stares into the sunset. and those fellows holding meetings in the sky, they'll dance and tumble down. people are gathering too, it's time to get going.

welcome underground!

there is no such thing as punk theory, only punk action.

if dead then bury me.

believe in the infinity of love and other articles for daily use.

the world is yours.

against entertainment journalists and their twisted grins.

sing a song on rusty nails.

leave a little happier.

noise can improve your life, but please don't perform inside a study filled with smoke—he says, with dark clouds packed overhead, science is but superstition. then he says, cigarettes give the angry a headache, snacks make hippies ponder, smoke will change the life of one's iron henchman. as for human life, a human being's full life, a human being's full life.... his territory is clean, the neighbors howling every day, he says, no savior from on high delivers.

gay love—so what.

learn from comrade li bai—
change the world, change ourselves.

do you believe in re-incarnation now?

cattle in the distance and their staring eyes: against matrimony.

abolish mental slavery.

one who has money needs a moneybag.

spring's every detail resembles a coastline.

into the trees! like a bird looking down on the struggle.
into the trees! and welcome the foxy women.
into the trees! disband america.

whoever can fly is a magician.
except mosquitoes, of course.

against. against everything.
against ourselves. against everything we are against.
against everything we are not against.
against everything about ourselves.
against everything we must not be against and cannot be against.

against.

5 december 2000

 

反对一切有组织的欺骗
[begins with 3rd stanza; does not follow text exactly]

昨夜我梦见了酱油;昨夜我开始发芽;昨夜,广阔的沙漠像一道叹息远远地离去了。我听见乌云的声音,房檐下,最后一个拆迁的少年抽完了烟。昨夜,因为没有女人的眼泪,上海变成了木马的城市;因为没有薄雾从桥上走过,广州变成了药片的天空……而西宁的街灯灭了,小伙子揣着刀,从滴满羊油的小路上跑过;昨夜,北京的上帝出门了。

反对一切有组织的欺骗!

反对在星星出没的傍晚开会。反对在树上呼喊我的名字,反对在细雨中呼喊。反对资本家思考。反对两面三刀。反对借尸还魂。反对你降低我的智商。反对一场中断的电影——当光线扯破我们的外衣,噩梦中的仙女停留在空气里,她没有爱情,也没有未来,她的孤独就是我们的孤独……反对权力。

旧货市场永垂不朽!

昨天你还是个书生,今天你就是流氓,明天你说梦话变成了哲学家,难道人生就是这样?难道手机打不通,飞机就可以公开行走,擦过脆弱的天空?出去吧,和牛魔王一起看看上帝,一年的时间,足够你学习沉默、观察、住进钢铁和泥土的洞穴哭泣,冬天就要结束了,你要相信你的回忆。

性生活包治百病!

反对广告,反对遗忘。反对撕毁任何证件和嘴脸。反对从流星雨中经过,身披金黄的斗篷却忘记了女儿的名字。反对食肉动物跳舞。反对电脑死机。反对像镰刀一样生活。反对夜来香死在夜里。反对时尚杂志和网络公司。反对白日做梦,穿上透明的衣裳,心脏像鸿毛一样爆炸……二锅头十步杀一人……傻通统治着世界……一本色情杂志就是一次考试……反对恐惧。

让暴风雨来得更猛烈一些吧!

反对大气功师,反对摇滚英雄。反对电流破坏美丽的大气层。反对关闭游魂的酒吧。反对拐弯的上帝。反对乳房崇拜。反对卖花,反对出卖七星游动的幽冥之花,反对情人节和母亲节的花,反对吃花。反对皮。反对蔚蓝色阴谋。

把草原从艺术家手中解放出来!

人们怀疑,是因为血压刺激着大脑,但人们也崇拜,难道是因为饥饿?所以要反对螳螂的演说,要反对有洁癖的科学家,她伤害了我!并且进一步反对知识分子化装成流氓的样子。同理,反对森林化装成鸟类旅居的木屋,最终被卖艺的带走,囚禁到歌里,失了火,像梦一样消失在艺术的峡谷中,永远…

解放电脑的身体!

听说,声音循环着,可以唤醒夜班工人;血液坠落着,可以击中50年代出生的黑人。因为你随手记下了空气和木屐的样子,所以下午会变得更长些,让小偷从山坡上下来,呆呆地看着落日。那些在天空中开会的家伙,会跳着舞,掉下来。人们也聚集着,可以出发了。

欢迎来到地下!

从来就没有朋克理论,
只有朋克行动。

死便埋我。

相信爱情和其他日常用品的无限性。

世界是你们的。

反对娱乐记者扭曲的笑容。

在生锈的钉子上歌唱。

走得开心点。

噪音可以改善生活,但请不要在烟雾腾腾的书房里演奏——他说,在乌云密布的时候,科学就是迷信。他还说,抽烟使愤怒者头疼,零食让嬉皮士沉思,烟雾改变了铁托的人生。至于人生,人的一生,人的一生……他的领土是干净的,他的邻居每天嚎叫,他说,从来就没有什么救世主。

同性恋又怎么了。

向李白同志学习——
改变这个世界,改变我们自己。

现在你相信来世了吧?

远方的牛羊瞪着眼睛反对婚姻。
废除精神奴隶制。

有钱人需要钱包。

春天的每一个细节,都像是海岸线。

上树!像鸟一样俯视斗争者。
上树!欢迎小妖精的到来。
上树!解散美国。

谁会飞谁就是魔术师。
当然苍蝇除外。


反对。反对一切。
反对我们自己。反对我们反对的一切。
反对我们没有反对的一切。
反对我们自己的一切。
反对一切不可以反对的和不可能反对的。

反对。

2000.12.5


——致一位善饮者,翟永明

是啊我并不在这里
我在打火机里面 苦恼地笑出了声
吃掉声音 连同你的
你的饿和火苗 从睡衣边沿的野花
到河流内部的星座

在梦被糟蹋的地方 嚎叫
像一群蚂蚁喝醉 打翻了烟灰缸
染白头发 以灰的名义到达

那么在一切盲目的旋转中
为什么我和你一起出现
为什么把火举起来
就看见了你耳垂的反光
不是灰 但是我正在降落

我捏着 我分解 我起立 像微弱的呼吸
打听你 和你分享黎明前的黑暗
所以一切坍塌的 都有未来
一切漂浮的 都快得像水
至于另一个白夜 其实是一场昏迷

没有电 我们发明了飞碟
所以这都是另外的空气 要更快地升起

2001.7.22

他走了
——献给保罗·瓦雷里

像掉进了信纸的另一面
飞机场的早晨 反转过来的露珠
装着50美元和一个梦
害怕死去的人用光了运气
他走了

擦着眼睛 拉小提琴
他溶化成盐水
他飞向他的背影 轻轻地
取消着自己 像掉进电子邮件的哭泣

但是他走了 或者她
像一座失眠的青年旅社越过海洋
她起身 披着大麻床单
在肚皮上画下星座
在口袋里 请朋友们喝茶

一个中国人 怎么能够
用草药煮礁石 她的新弟弟笑了
在邮局褪色的窗户上留下了电话
他们来到飞机场的另一面
划下弧线 永不死去
但这一切尚未发生

2002.9.18


——给乔颖

来吧 但不要胡来
睁开你的眼睛 让我看见
欲望的结构 在花下 水声之前
让我看见得更少 忘记得更多

来吃 来狂奔过沙发和沙
然后落下 让我去 并因此昏睡
我将原谅 因为我将衰老
神经线错乱 攀向猫王之塔

你得到四爪 冰凉的月季
反弹的下午 比较绝望的下午
我下陷 爱所爱 哭所哭 胖所胖
并产生复杂的器官

比如另一只眼睛 把血倒在黑暗中
运行 我搅拌 点着骨的头致敬
你来 我给你一只名叫不一定的狗
你可以飞越它 像所有的灯

要么来 要么做梦 要回答吗
要我抽烟还是抽回手
你的名字 是结冰的地铁
但长出了冰激凌 你是猫

在文身上挣扎 迎接雨
我不知道 我再次不知道 你的意识
会中途转折 抖动 因此潮湿
末日有末日的道理 看

一系列抽象的扇子 告别东风
我被打 也被探索 美好的一天啊
我早已到来 你将随便旅行
请先向饥饿鞠躬 变得暗一点

如此 好 我扩散 冰了吧
你将回来 门将属于时间 有轴
经过我内心的储藏室 跳舞毯上
拎着酒 微笑的你也是你 来 喝

2001.2.22

不飞
——致一位苦闷者,唐丹鸿

我们一再死去 获得高潮和爱
在被雨淋湿的矮房下 在蓝火边
旋转并记录 像两个不飞的世界

隔着肉我们拥抱 互相喝
又把水还给节奏 我们事实上像蚊子
进入着惨淡的舞蹈 爱上了毒

有时候分开 最终被压缩
变成有翼的公牛 露出了道路
再集中一些吧 集中是苦闷 是鸟叫

我们同时看见柏桦 像一个凶手
使地球紧缩 落进口袋
我们相互雕刻 在街边昏倒

我来自火车 你离开树叶
我们的不同产生了烟 现在
从半句带血的梦话 我们开始了不朽

2001.7.21

情诗·路上

路上我呼吸着你 朗诵着你
我谁也不原谅 咆哮 傻笑 跟石头说起你
当然这太不真实 我只是驶向你

我五岁 我狂奔在另一条路上——
脚下是水 是永不发生的幸福 我诅咒
酒吧开着而天空关着 我孤独地飞了

我只是飞向我自己 刮风的路上
我说着你 以及其他的迷惘的女士
你是其中的第一个 住在五楼
但不失眠 好象困在身体里无处可去

我提到了三条路 还有很多 越来越多
我在比喻你 夜莺 星星 夏粮 空心人
但不敢肯定你 旧巷 剃刀 心肝 花或泥石流
我只要一个 我只是驶向你

1997.4.14

黄色潜水艇
——献给乔治·奥威尔和朱立安·列侬

我用光了所有的精液 逆水而上
两次被党杀死 被放大成迷宫

在赞美中死去 下降的过程中我成为焰火
你的每一次呼吸 都通过我 轻轻爆炸
把硫磺烧成大麻 喷向虚拟的眼泪

这是钻石密布的天空 而我在坠落

在你幸福的蒸汽中我意识到了金树叶
飞吧热乎乎的子弹 飞吧船长
春风不过是一阵烟 而你 你是我的燃烧瓶

在经过地狱的那个晚上 你迷失在我身体里
而我噼啪地 流银色的汗 喝墨绿色香水
像一群鲸鱼 失望地 坠毁在车站

我将不能在潜水艇里爱你 或同归于尽
我选择了哭泣 并哭得像一座火山

2002.5.28

白狗

阿童木 吹着革命的灰 吹着坏血的颤音
如果他是另一只白色的小狗
如果我是年轻的刀疤 让我欢送你

当我安眠 在山坡上另一朵向日葵带刺的叶子下
你取消了雪 来做这孤独的游戏

当我吹起破小号 红色风筝 当我吹起风
这小小的精神 骄傲地竖起来
咬你的头发 阿童木和绝望的银河
飞向了未来 就让我容纳三分之一个宇宙

纠缠起你的微粒 向另一些角落 眺望
我们的日记啊 一些放纵的脚印 汗啊
向银项链蒸发 未来 应该是柔软的

2002.5.25

出发

"我喜欢她.”我说。

我的脸上挂着露珠,一些细碎的草屑还沾在额角边,淡淡的蒸汽从头顶升起来,在到达月亮之前消失在寒冷的夜气里。天快要亮了,我身体里充满感激,从肩膀、胃、跟腱、脊椎,一直到两个膝盖内侧磨得粗糙的皮肤,全都被金黄色的稀薄的光芒贯穿。我感到冷,也感到加倍的快活。

语言形成了思维,你看,我一说到她的名字,心里的不安,那种暧昧的、夹杂着冲动和羞耻的感情就立刻被冲洗干净,只留下清晰的海岸线一样的爱情。我要唤出语言,我要通过语言,唤出更高级、更有力的爱情。我要谈论起她,用整整一分钟时间,甚至整整一支骆驼烟那么长时间,疒楼顶上p诓菖锢铮疒夜晚的最后一分钟,在一个从来没有存在过的出租房门口。

"我喜欢她。什么时候你才能带我去见她?亲爱的,带我去她的世界,和她一起赌博、洗澡、消费,我要把精液洒在她的脸上,推着她的腰飞向城中央的雪山。我已经等不及了,现在,我感觉她好象就站在门外一样,而这扇门,已经是透明的了。”

“哈哈,傻乖乖,我还是再亲你一下吧。你太冲动了,你的热情说服不了她,你会受尽煎熬,做出许多可笑的事情,直到有一天,花完所有的钱给她买最后一次玫瑰花,连回来的路费都不剩下;你会住在朋克和骗子的家里,每天晚上都失眠,跑到网吧为她写电子邮件,里面有诗,有你的嚎叫,可是最多的还社是胡言乱语,也有一些有用的逻辑和完美的新比喻,但是没有用,她只谈恋爱,她不网恋。让我再亲你一下,告诉你,她连手机都不会为你开。”

“那怎么办?你是我的爱人,只有你能帮我。”

我等待着,呼吸在变得平缓,像神仙住的别墅周围的晨雾,眼神也不再急切。四周围多么冷,而我们是惟一的热源。我静静地躺着,想起了即将到来的伤害。

她终于睁开眼睛,像所有刚刚醒来的善于偷懒的女孩子一样,回味着毫无意义的、香甜的睡眠。她足足睡了5分钟,我的爱,在我提问之后她又一次昏睡过去,像所有纵欲过度的女孩子一样抱着我的胳膊,散发出浓浓的、幸福得让人流泪的体香。她终于看见了我潮湿的眼睛,那里有一个刚刚毕业的电机学员的慌张,有一个沙弥饥饿的祷告,有数不清的制鞋厂女工的疲惫的兴奋,我闭了一下眼睛,发出轻微得刚好能听见的呻吟,像一张停止振动的鼓皮一样睡着了。

我要用至少一分钟来梦见她,如果可能,我要在传说中的白沙滩上梦见她。那里有一些最高明的广告商,抽着雪茄,那里有从一生下来就沐浴着香水的女仆,那里有人在架着明太鱼的烧烤摊前跳舞,我要在那里梦见她,并且传递出不可抗拒的信息,用一些符号、手势、眼神、废话,让皓也立刻梦见我。你看,我的呼吸均匀,胸口微微地起伏着,颈部的动脉在发热。她应该梦见我,在梦里和我说话,说一切超越了现实的陈词滥调。而这两个梦,将导致我们的第一次抱头痛哭。

可是我们要出发了,天马上就要亮了。她用腿缠住我的腰,用乳房擦我胸口的汗水,用牙齿紧紧地钳着我的耳垂。

“快起来!快起来!快起来!天亮以后,我们要走一公里路,到警察的工地上筛沙子。”

“让我再睡45秒吧,你不带我去找她,至少我可以自己梦见她呀。”

“哦?那么你梦见她了吗?这么说你已经见到了她,你看清楚了那双瘦削的手吗?还有她发出夜来香气味的脸颊?她感动过无数情人的皱纹?”

我想她没有那么美,她的脸颊和手背,她的脖子,她的汗味,她的呼喊,我想她没有我们想象中那么美。但我还是愿意再睡着一次,试着和她交谈,也许,我会死在工地上呢。

“亲爱的,再抱紧我一点,天有点冷了,我们再睡一会儿,然后就这样出发吧。”

2002.2.13-15