• 2009-11-08

    Oh..i am tired of presenting.


    i chang my mind.

    instead i will create.



    To the Poet


       ---if shallowness is your biggest horror


    Written by what you wrote, thought by what you think,

    Stopped by a sign as if what is real in front of my face.

    I am happy as a doll.

    I am played as a doll.


    Heard by what you hear, spoken by what you speak,

    Squeezed by a hand as if you are really that powerful.

    I should be happy as a doll.

    I should be staged as doll.


    Performed by what you direct, decorated by what you assign,

    Colored by brushes and powder as if you are the perfection.

    I look like a doll.

    You look at a doll.


    Tied up. Tied up. Tied up. I obey. I OBEY. And I am there.

    Then you are gone will everything you could grab from me.

    Pride. Marvelous. And the things that complicated and sophisticated you. As a poet you are. What a poet you are!



    You are a doll.

    In my eye,

    As well.


    When I define you. When I name you. When I understand you. When I admire you. When I agree you. When I read you. When I preserve you.

    You are nothing but a doll,

    With a dreadful desire of presenting,

    Here and there and everywhere.

    “Such a show off!”

    What a show off.


    I smile.

    You laugh.


    For me, my dear.

    For me.


    To the Reader, By Charles Baudelaire

    Foolishness, error, sin, niggardliness,
    Occupy our minds and work on our bodies,
    And we feed our mild remorse,
    As beggars nourish their vermin.

    Our sins are insistent, our repentings are limp;
    We pay ourselves richly for our admissions,
    And we gaily go once more on the filthy path
    Believing that by cheap fears we shall wash away all our sins.

    On the pillow of evil it is Satan Trismegistus
    Who soothes a long while our bewitched mind,
    And the rich metal of our determination
    Is made vapor by that learned chemist.

    It is the Devil who holds the reins which make us go!
    In repulsive objects we find something charming;
    Each day we take one more step towards Hell-
    Without being horrified-across darknesses that stink .

    Like a beggarly sensualist who kisses and eats
    The martyred breast of an ancient strumpet,
    We steal where we may a furtive pleasure
    Which we handle forcefully like an old orange.

    Tight, swarming, like a million worms,
    A population of Demons carries on in our brains,
    And, when we breathe, Death into our lungs
    Goes down, an invisible river, with thick complaints.

    If rape, poison, the dagger, arson,
    Have not as yet embroidered with their pleasing designs
    The recurrent canvas of our pitiable destinies,
    It is that our spirit, alas, is not brave enough.

    But among the jackals, the panthers, the bitch-hounds,
    The apes, the scorpions, the vultures, the serpents,
    The monsters screeching, howling, grumbling, creeping,
    In the infamous menagerie of our vices,

    There is one uglier, wickeder, more shameless!
    Although he makes no large gestures nor loud cries
    He willingly would make rubbish of the earth
    And with a yawn swallow the world;

    He is Ennui!-His eye filled with an unwished-for tear,
    He dreams of scaffolds while puffing at his hookah.
    You know him, reader, this exquisite monster,
    -Hypocrite reader,-my likeness,-my brother!

    Charles Baudelaire著名法国印象派诗人。