Source: Original Nongyou Pioneer Poetry Journal 2021-09-16 00:02
The poetry of "Pioneer" | consultant album | Jin Ruping
(Issue 73)
Selected: The Thoughts of the Heart
❖ Jin Ruping prose poem 4 chapters
◆Summer
In the dreary summer, how much paralysis of the spirit is bedridden.
The snake letter of the poisonous snake sprayed tenderness and sweetness into the high and empty sky.
At this moment, I looked up at the green window screen. Your little black cat turns into a slender weasel. The iron of the times, when it was burned red by the fire, spread to the alleys and streets, paper people, still soaked in green and blue ink, dancing a grotesque dance. And it makes a sharper and harsher sound than an ambulance.
Afternoon, silent afternoon. A sound changes from high to low, and from low to high. You, trapped in this voice. One hand toyed with the walnut, and the other, repairing the one-hundred-watt light bulb that couldn't flash. A thick fog is scattered in the history books you just flipped through.
There is a kind of love that suffocates people, there is a kind of hatred that makes people excited, that pile of broken faces, cut by three thousand years of blood-red moonlight, cut by holes, who is our enemy who does not share heaven? When all the sounds are heard and not heard, the answer is in it. Afternoon, this silent afternoon! You bounce soot in the sun until there's no ash to play.
What kind of spring dream does the cat curled up in an ivory chair sleep?
Only God knows. Make your own traps, drill into them yourself. I brew my own poisonous wine and pour it myself. Dig your own grave, bury yourself in it.
The morning glory flowers in the rainstorm were chewed and rubbed by a black dog, and the madmen's cutting of the burning pillar also clicked.
The pesticide that sprays into his eyes is sweet.
A small yellow flower on a cliff was broken by a black whirlwind before it spewed blood. A sickle, a piece of grass, a pile of Qin bricks and han tiles basking in the sun, is the newlywed home of the caterpillars.
◆ Write a letter to yourself
It's time to write yourself a letter. Throw it into Kinkaku-ji Temple.
It's time to write to yourself again and soak up the waves of the Mediterranean. The corn sorghum is constantly being cut down, and a sheep's head rolls out of the green leeks.
Why did you send us all the letters you wrote to yourself?
Densely covered with shiny sick sentence typos, it is the poem within a poem.
It's time to write yourself a letter. Write one letter a day. Sometimes write two letters. Gushing like spring water. Occasionally come a tadpole text. From morning to dusk, you sit alone under the window and write letters to yourself. Write, write. Delete again!
What kind of letter is this for a person with sores on his head and pus on the soles of his feet, who is hit by a bullet of poetry in his chest, who is paralyzed by softness, and whose red ink seeps into green ink, such as good in evil and evil in good?
They, as sailors, buried on the bottom of the crocodile sea, we herded a flock of ducks into the feast of the festival and went around making noise.
The woodland huts are quiet, who is being attacked?
Who, kidnapped? Who was murdered again? The shepherd who danced wildly with the leather whip also sat on the cliff, wrote letters to himself, and read them to the sheep. The sheep listen as they eat the grass.
What kind of letter is this? It should be read to the township chief of Wuyou Township.
Dead. How many times have you read your own letters to yourself? In the glow of the moon, you are in tears. Then write to yourself.
No, written to a woman named Akhmatova.
The roaring cavalry army on the steppe, the sabre volleyed down, the Russian ice and snow, the blood rolling.
◆ Stairs
Spiraling up and down the stairs, you can't reach the unattainable paradise, but you can slide into the unfathomable underground.
Underground, an unsolvable mystery.
The laughter and cries of the bugs were faintly audible, and underground, crazy dead men kicked and rolled over their impotent penises. You can't imagine it as black, black and red, red in red, underground, creating a truth for hell. Create a falsehood for hell as well.
People who live underground speak to us in the dialect of the underground.
Who deserves to write a Basement Notebook?
And I had just returned triumphantly and knocked on the door to go home.
The cat scratches the sofa and sharpens the claws. People dance sticks and scream in the sky. The cat scratches the sofa and sharpens the claws. People dance sticks and scream in the sky. Spiral down the stairs and rush down a pug. Pugs are furry and the Big Dipper is shining. And we are all fools, and it is clumsy to pretend to be wise.
Listen, the Eden of the earth is a nest of snakes and rats. The foolish man's violent applause to the fool shook between heaven and earth.
◆ A little black
A little red, but a drop of blood, a grain of fire.
A little black will swell into the ultimate of black, the infinity of black.
In the darkness of infinity, I learned to listen to the songs of the heavens, like weeping. A maker of suspense and science fiction, bad news came from the patients, because they were closed for years and suffered from lung disease. In his story, on the lake where the sun sets, there are always green dragonflies flying quietly.
Another palace coup was shattered, the princes and princesses were dead, so many martyred little eunuchs, crying.
And you, sitting on the heavenly train, drinking, nibbling on roast chicken. That fat chicken leg, flapping its wings and hitting your thighs, doesn't hurt but itches. In the universe, everyone is getting smaller and smaller a little black.
【About the Author】:Jin Ruping, poet, critic. He has published three collections of poems, including "The Crows Declare", and has authored many prose poems such as "Song of dead souls", "Absurd Words" in the form of proverbs, "Poetry and poets' caprice", and "The Secret of Writing".