三首诗

巨大的车间

我以为只有我一个，在密室里，在峭壁上写着古怪的句子。往四周一看，才发现我是在一个巨大的车间里，那么多人埋头在书桌上，犹如裁缝埋头在缝纫机上，辛辛苦苦，字斟句酌，废寝忘食，磨铁成针。我看到更多的车间，更多的人，每个人的身边都有一个麻袋，有人从里边拿出卡夫卡，博尔赫斯，卡尔维诺，有人从里边拿出《奥义书》《伪经》或者六十四卦，有人从里边拿出女人的一绺青发或者孔雀蓝的亵衣，有人从里边拿出干抹布一样皱巴巴的梦，有人从里边拿出父亲的书信祖父的照片曾祖的遗言，有人寒冬腊月穿着小背心，有人大热天套着老棉鞋，有人耳朵上夹根烟，有人钱包里放避孕套，有人不停地发短信给折磨他的小妖精。五分钟或者一辈子，他们完成那么多分行文字，押韵或者不押韵，抒情或者反抒情，他们把它叫做诗，靠它活命万万不能，但是如果你把它夺去，扔到阴沟里，那会要了他们的命， 他们会一起高喊，吓死你。

悲痛的星辰

今夜，那些悲痛的星辰都要开口说话。

所有死去的屋子里都有人活着，

嘴里喷出黑药丸的气息，无处申告的哀痛的气息。

那些暗哑的星辰!那些燃烧的星辰!

都要开口，都要痛斥，

为了让活着的死人醒来!为了让无边的厄运崩溃!

铁灰色天空

铁灰色的天空像一座传染病院，所有人都被它吸进去，所有痴呆的，狡黠的人，所有面相善良，面相凶恶的人，所有不想离开，不愿留下的人，都被它吸进去，吸进去。

寂静中，飞鸟像一块石头，笔直地砸在后院，发出嗡嗡的响声。

妇女在家中准备晚餐。她已经没有了姣好的身材， 她已经没有了从前的骄傲。窗外一股沁凉的甜蜜气味，可能是玉兰花，也可能是刚刚诞生的某种无名疾病。她毫无知觉，依旧忙碌。猪肉，洋葱，皮蛋，料酒，米饭煮上了，锅里炖着腰子。铁灰色的天空，把千家万户的灯盏压到腐臭的渠沟里。

成堆的病人哪儿去了，那些不想离开，不愿留下的人？天空何时变成可怕的烧焦的黑色？在她拍打过冬的被褥和发霉的枕头的时候？在她给肉汤加入茴香和胡椒的时候？

她的鼻子已经很迟钝了，无论窗外甜丝丝阴沉沉的威胁，还是过道里飘来的邻居冒着热气的幸福，她都毫无知觉。她放更多的盐，更多的辣椒。她望着"家庭录像"里摔个狗吃屎的男子和四脚朝天的儿童，笑不起来。

她想，丈夫正在回家的路上。是的，正在回家的路上，一个女孩在电话里哭喊，"我肚子疼，你来!""我想来，来不了!"他的回答带着一丝哭腔，他的脚步比铅还要沉重。这是意志昏沉的时间，这是幽灵侵袭的时间。

她看见一扇扇亮起灯光的窗户，远的，像银子的碎屑，近的，像矩形的白金钻戒， 漂浮在黑夜宽阔的渠沟中，犹如博览会上的婚戒陈列部。

她听见上楼的脚步声了，很沉重，仿佛一个疝气患者。她没有准备笑容。她想，她也不会见到他的笑容。在哭丧着脸的铁灰色天空中浸泡了一天之后，他们的表情都像是医院里等待确诊的病人。但是无论如何，这是他，回来了。他们可以一起平躺在大床上，犹如平躺在黑色的天空，忘记对光明的爱和盼望给他们带来如此多的屈辱。

Three Poems

Yang Zi

Giant Workplant

I thought I was the only onein a back room, on a cliff,writing odd phrases.Looking around,I realized I was in a giant workplant,where so many were buried in work at their writing desks,like tailors buried in work at sewing machines,laboriously, weighing every word,meals forgotten, little strokes felling great oaks.I saw more workplants, more men,each with a sackby his side.Someone took out Kafka, Borges, Calvino.Someone took out the Upanishads, the Pseudepigrapha or the sixty-four hexagrams.Someone took out a lock of green woman's hair or the blue underwear of a peacock.Someone took out dreams wrinkled like rags.Someone took out his father's letter grandfather's photograph great-grandfather's testament.Someone wore a singlet in the dead of winter.Someone put on old cotton shoes on a hot day.Someone stuck a cigarette behind his ear.Someone put condoms in his wallet.Someone kept sending short messagesto the little vixen torturing him.Five minutesor a lifetime,they completed so many verses.Rhyming or not,lyrical or not,they called it poetry.Impossible to rely on it for a living. Yet if you snatched it,threw it into a drain,it'd kill them.They'd yell together,scaring you to death.

Grieving Stars

Tonight, all those sorrowful starsopen their mouths and speak.

In all dead houses,the living

spurt out the breath of black pills from their mouths,mournful breath with nowhere to lodge complaints.

Muffled stars!Burning stars!

Opening their mouths.Lashing out.

To awaken the living dead!To ruin the edgeless doom!

Steel Gray Sky

Steel gray sky like a contagious hospital-all the people are sucked into it,all senile, cunning peopleall kind-looking, ferocious-looking people,all those who do not wish to leave or stay,are sucked into it,sucked.

In stillness,a flying bird is like a stonehit straight into the courtyard,buzzing loudly.

A woman is preparing dinner at home.She no longer has a slender figure. She no longer has the pride from the past.A delicious honeyfragrance blows from the window-perhaps magnoliaor the newly bornso-and-so disease.Unwittingly, shebusies herself as usual.Pork, onions,century eggs, cooking wine,rice is ready,pig kidneys are stewed in a pot.

Steel gray sky,pressing lamps of thousands of familiesinto a pungent trench.

Where are the stacks of patients-those who do not wish to leave or stay?When did the sky turn into a frightful, burnt black?When she was beating winter bedding and moldy pillows?When she was adding fennel and pepper to meat soup?

Her nose is already musty.Regardless of the sweetly dark menace outside,or the steam of bliss from neighborsdrifting from the corridor,she senses nothing.She adds more salt, more chili pepper.She stares at a man eating dog shit during a "family video" program,and children upside-down,but can't bring herself to laugh.

She reckons, Hubby is on the way home.Yes, on the way home,a girl is crying over the phone,"Come, my stomach is aching!""I want to come, but I can't!"His answer carries a mournful tune,his footsteps heavier than lead.This is the moment of muddled will,the moment for spirits to invade.

She sees lamps light up window by window,afar, like pieces of silver,nearby, like rectangular diamond rings in platinum, drifting in the wide trench of black night,like a display of wedding rings at an exhibition.

She hears footsteps upstairs,very heavy,like a hernia patient.She has not prepared a smile.She reckons, she'll never see his smile.After soaking a day in the wailing sky,they look like patients waiting to be diagnosed in a hospital.But no matter how,it is himreturning home.They can lie together on a huge bed,like lying in black sky...