The wind is cold,
the rain is cold,
and the flowers
relive the parting pain.
I’ll hold fast and toil
in the fine dust.
Until spring passes,
and green mountains
rise under my eyes.

I read Ginsberg this morning,
all about the sad self.
And thought about myself,
walking miles drunk
on cherry blossoms.
Rain falling on all that I own.
What would Ginsberg
think of this?
A few scribbled notes,
and fate passing by.
He was never alone.
And so, I continue my journey
of brooding through blossoms.
But never stillness.

We talked of tomorrow
and the Spanish hills.
The infinite extent of life.
Then the arrival of the clouds.
Voluptuous cancer wrapped,
nothing spiritual.
Wanton, and wanton
with symbolic contours.
A tiny truth sealed… forever.
I did not speak,
what could I say.
A poet without a voice.
It was like an empty rice-sack,
suffocating me.
Right into the blue
bowls of my eyes.
And night spread through
my body, and the clouds
through yours.
No more words said,
no more.

爱她是我做过的最简单的事情

我们谈到了明天
和西班牙的山丘。
无限的生命。
然后云的到来。
包裹着性感的癌症，
没有精神上的。
云吞和云吞
具有象征性的轮廓。
一个微小的真理被封印了……永远。
我没说话
我能说什么。
没有声音的诗人。
就像一个空饭袋，
使我窒息。
变成蓝色
一碗我的眼睛。
夜晚蔓延开来
我的身体和云
通过你的。
没有更多的话说，
不再

Darkness hits the river.
Grey fish pass, silent.
In search of nemo,
who is finger writing
by the banks.
And open in hunger.
Better the devil
you know, the fish tell me.
Kissing the surface
one more time.
And hiding their
wounded flesh.

 
No spring breeze,
this time around.
Just winter clouds hanging on.
 
Plodding my way
through our frigid streets.
A desire to ease pain, make pure
 
When all my thoughts
are exhausted,
I know the final words.
 
A rose summoned from the futile,
pierced through by birdsong.
Today, and for all of us.

A holiday spirit,
blue sky aged brown.
Don’t talk of love,
history was on.
Star dangled dreams,
and the island never cries.

A thousand miles of lifeless streets..
I wake easily from my dreams.
Putting the morning sun
in empty space.

Taking the green of everything coming, my mind braces
in the slight morning chill.
Waiting to see the day.

Each breath still wondering.
Each word I write,
a cancelled memory.
Burried in the deceit of this soul.

A skies new wings appeared,
a greedy intake of smoke.
Strange faces ran through,
trying to grow intimate.
Snapping at everything that moved.
Wind along the grey road,
merging with distant memories.
Bearing my wounds, I cried.
A few falling tears
in a secret bidding.
And all that, is what makes
the fruit ripen.

Somedays, life stops working.
Spun about, a wind-uprooted tree.
With tears and aged-eating ants,
clutching for support.
In this melee, hard boiled
I set out to find another world.
A pine-needle wildfire
groping a blue island.
The reason I walk this barren road.
The reason I live on.

2am, unable to sleep.
The sounds I hear,
stiff and vertical.
Fluorescent lights,
our glorious and petty failures.
Waking up fragmented
disks of emptiness.
Years go by, I find
places for my thoughts.
Perhaps life is finding a path,
out of these thoughts
and back to itself?
But I’m always
immersed in your era,
and the smothering
of a vigorous life.
A deserted field and
stones crushing my body.
Turning away everything obscure.
This is how my life was to be.
Love and moonlight, hidden
between iron and steel.
But now I say to the trees –
these memories, these thoughts
they are my friends.
My dear ones…..
Sparse and unconvincing shadows.
But they are not the only
things coming my way.
In time, the era turns small-
just an existence of dust.
A pain no longer so bright.