Ode to the sea
The whitecaps didn’t tell us they would break onto our necks
— Brecht
A white cap on official duty
Is stirring up flash funerals in the neighborhood
Funeral of a stranger
Funeral of a colleague
Funeral of a three-year-old baby
And your funeral
The one you are yet to attend
nostrils piqued with the impertinent probe
groping and swabbing towards the shadowy interior evil
Every street your eyes touch upon
become cleaner than ever before
Thank you thank you
although our pockets are ever more empty
and the misfortune we collectively order
proceeds uninterrupted
Our lives shaped by the window slits
are bound by the sermon of the white caps
as they assassinate you before you’re born.
As I face assassination tomorrow
I must keep vigil long the night
with visions of forbidden potatoes
and the green onions I’ve grown
the joke of death digested at the slowest speed
shuttling to the makeshift hospital
White cap, White cap,
May I ask how many hearts are left in the fridge?
Sorry, only nightmares remain
—nightmares can live without air and water
Is it April or May? Or it is all the same.
Howls and cries spouting from our bones
I cannot hear anymore
Yes, no matter where I go
My left foot is confiding to my right
My sinful head is shaking the forgetful shackles
homes are afterall imaginary inventions
picked up along the way
You and me
Please listen to the orders of the white cap
We shall bury ourselves as we bury the wheat
— the dead becoming compost
that will not endanger our national park
we decay with the land
can transform into lovely poop
forever standing side by side
full of joy like a swan on the riverbank
from morning to night just by reading the newspaper
our auspicious arms can dance
See, today, the moonshine sprinkled as dressing for salad
Romance. See, we didn’t love each other while we were alive
Now that we’re all dead this April
we were able to obliterate the class conflict and sleep together
If you ask, how was your year?
I’ll be honest: I don’t know. I don’t get involved. I don’t exist anyway.
Indifference is our heritage, our prenatal training
My mattress was washed away by a white cap at 2am
My dreams fell out of the broken womb
My cat did not return to the dog bowl
But I refuse to admit
I was asking for help with my silent breath
Shanghai, a homonym for damage,
is the city I love but never possessed
standing at its quiet and noisy, sultry and desolate edge
My hearing is perfect as ever
Every shanghai sycamore seizes me
compressing the infinite jokes into a kind of highlight
a self-justifying international gift
All the filth reaches up and strokes its barrister-style blond wig
exclaiming: greatness, glory.
Will the white lightning and torrential rain
seeping in from the roof to revive my body and my language?
At a funeral centered on myself
I no longer hunger or thirst.
海上颂
白浪没跟任何人说它们要淹上我们脖子
——–布莱希特《赞美诗》
一个执行公务的白浪
正在小区闪送葬礼
陌生人的葬礼
你同事的葬礼
你爷爷的葬礼
和你的葬礼
你暂时没有参加的那次
喉咙还富余着西西弗
杵着小拐棍向恶的内陆浅滩摸索、集邮
眼看每件被你视觉抚摸过的街道，
都在拐弯地带变得更加洁净了
感谢感谢，尽管我们两袖空空
团购的语言、戏剧和排练却没中断过
“害人精，害人精”
门缝中有似曾相识的塞壬歌王
教学指点我们错错错的乡愿，
我们耐以栖居的费克琉斯
被狭窄窗缝塑造的眼睛
无休止的凝视着死亡大人的布道
和它对律法的篡改
原来，我还没出生就被明日堕掉了
既然明天就要被堕掉，
我今晚就不睡觉了
关心健忘的土豆，令人崇拜的青菜，
和教书育人的胡萝卜
被枪决的玩笑要用转运车最缓慢的速度消化
大伯，大伯，
请问冰箱里心脏的存货还剩几个呢？
抱歉，只剩噩梦了。
这东西不容易死，水培生长，繁衍快。
四月的绿色枝丫上生出了熟悉的监啸
像是从我的骨头里溅出来的。
是的，不管走到哪里，
我的左脚都在向右脚告密
我罪孽深重的头颅总摇晃着失忆的脚链
我并非没有在持续刺杀想象的故里
我只是缓慢的在沿途埋葬自己
我们和远方的你们，
都不要不可自拔，
请听医生的嘱咐:
我们当像埋葬麦子一样埋葬自己
死了的人，才会如同堆肥
不会置国家公园于危难而不顾
穿过炉火我们才能和土地一起腐烂
成为可爱的便便，永远热闹的并排站着，
充满喜悦像天台上舒展又饱腹的天鹅
清晨到夜晚，只用读读报纸
吉祥的手臂便能翩翩起舞
看，今天月亮大概被坎去当绿化带沙拉的拌料了
浪漫。看，我们在活着的时候并没有爱过彼此
现在我们死了，在这个四月，
反而能够泯灭了阶级矛盾同宿了。
如果你问，这个月过的好不啦：
老实说：我不晓得。我不参与。我不存在。
静默，是我与生俱来的胎教和遗产。
我的床垫在半夜两点被撬门拖走
我的梦境从破碎的子宫里堕出
我的枯叶没有回到股票和黄金的形态
我的猫儿没有回到狗盆旁边
但我拒绝承认，我是在用呼吸呼救了。
站在这个静谧又喧闹，闷热又萧条
我热爱又从未占有过的城市边界
我的听力完好如初
每个我幻想过的声音都变成了秃头街道上稀稀拉拉的梧桐，
将无限外扩的笑话压缩成一种高光，一种自圆其说的国际礼物。
所有的肮脏都伸手抚摸着自己大法官式的金色假发，赞叹：伟大，荣光。
屋顶渗漏的白色闪电和暴雨会复苏我的身体和我的母语吗？
在以我自己为中心的葬礼，
我不再饿了，渴了。
Jiaoyang Li is a poet and visual artist from China, currently based in New York. Her work has appeared in New York Live Arts Center, The Immigrants Artist Biennial, The Los Angeles Review, Life Magazine among others. She was the poet in residence at Chashama gallery. She has received grants and support from New York Foundation For the Arts, British Council, Pen America, Foundation for Contemporary Arts, Breadloaf Conference, The Performance Project at USS and others.