我只知道
沒有此刻不是此刻
除了如果
哪天你飛來
藍是我們之間遼闊又貼近

那天

我會相信
看過永恆的眼睛
都是海

早上的陽光還燙手
連續幾個晚上睡得太淺
把瞬間無限遼闊
一身是病適時放在這年紀
不免就要怨天尤人
可是冬天還有這種陽光
生命如此冗長
只能抱怨棉被 對 抱怨棉被

沒想到棉被曬到一半
連陽光也騙人
我只好把音樂開得很大聲
用以對抗
屋裡屋外巨大的風
和眼看要頹廢的日子

可是Nirvana和Kurt的一切仍是好的
無論喜歡或厭倦
至少不會走樣, 也來不及走樣

一切無用的都在這裡
詩，真實，和幻象
黑夜的身體草草蘸過白日

黑夜的身體
今天把昨天印上明天

十一月石板路上
只允許梔子花酒
和午夜的濕度
在戀人間永恆流浪

After Someone’s Death
第一種版本
Once there was a shock
that left behind a long pale glimmering comet’s tail.
It contains us. It blurs TV images.
It deposits itself as cold drops on aerials.

You can still shuffle along on skis in the winter sun
among groves where last year’s leaves still hang.
They are like pages torn from old telephone directories–
the names are eaten up by the cold.

It is still beautiful to feel your heart throbbing.
But often the shadow feels more real than the body.
The samurai looks insignificant
beside his armor of black dragon scales

第二種版本
Once there was a shock
that left behind a long, shimmering comet tail.
It keeps us inside. It makes the TV pictures snowy.
It settles in cold drops on the telephone wires.

One can still go slowly on skis in the winter sun
through brush where a few leaves hang on.
They resemble pages torn from old telephone directories.
Names swallowed by the cold.

It is still beautiful to hear the heart beat
but often the shadow seems more real than the body.
The samurai looks insignificant
beside his armor of black dragon scales.

一次死亡之后

曾有一回休克
留下一線蒼白閃爍如慧星長尾，
它延滯我們，使螢幕紛亂似雪。
終於凝聚成半空電纜上一滴冷雨。

人們依然可以在冬陽下滑著雪板，
慢行過的雜林去年殘葉猶在，
像是舊電話簿上扯下的紙頁，
名姓被寒冷吞咽。

能聽見心跳畢竟美好，
但陰影往往比形體更真實。
武士看起來微不足道，
在他黑龍的盔甲旁邊

多麼口渴 這劑量不足的晚風
以詩的曲折酒測
告別的眼眸
我們的日子呆站在我們身後

那些使世界美麗的
使愛死亡

That murmuring haste still lust

After every departing child,

But why my dear,

Are your eyes never damp?

Are the words in white and black,

Again the sole play we stage?

Your blossomed lips too red,

Trace the plague

Of my ripening blade.

Lost in the crowds we laughed,

Exchanging gazes to our remaining days.

If only this blue hasn’t forsaken Rue Ramey,

Say, Sacred Heart,

Where mine is to be laid?

We have threaded upon the steps of giants,

But why the morning sat us through

A mere bleak cityscape?

The last touch is always the tenderest,

Fresh as a stranger smile,

All too familiar, like

A white lily caught in her first rain.

.

然後你就可以
坐沒坐相
躺在我們的沙發上
反正

美麗的十月革命不是嗎