夏天比冬天丧
作者：李鸬鹚
夏天比冬天丧
夏天在完成另外一种凋敝
你我都已经知道那是假象的繁荣
夏天的血被抽干了
它们卖不上一个好价钱
于是它只好踉踉跄跄
它只好回到乌斯怀亚
李鸬鹚，女，长居北京。
Summer Is More Depressing Than Winter
translated by PLS
Summer is more depressing than winter
Yet it is trying to achieve another kind of depression
You and I both know it’s just the prosperity of illusion
Summer’s blood has been drained
But it won’t sell for a good price
So it has to stagger on
Has to return to Ushuaia
Luci Li, female, based in Beijing.
Return to Sender
by Matt Schroeder
this feeling with–
out a name or a
home
having cast
the last stone lazily
will get you nothing but cast out into the wilderness where
even the figs will
vomit the wasps
that gave them–
selves
find a lake
& examine
the reflection
you've named
beloved above
all else
are we all
anything other
than address-less
or do I mold this clay in
too oblong a shape
staining
my hands with
earth blood that surely
should have been left alone
a lesson learned & re–
learned
until something
has flowered
been plucked
forced into hot water
held in the belly long
enough
to calm the senses
to print an address we can
no longer tongue through
sunshine teeth & a hole
the size of the moon
that takes
& takes
but never fills
Matt Schroeder is a poet and educator currently living in Shenzhen.
返回发送者
翻译：诗验室
这种无
名或家的
感觉
慵懒地
投掷石头
无法给你任何慰藉
反而将你抛至
荒野 那里
就连无花果都会
吐出向其
奉献自
我的黄蜂
找一条湖
然后仔细审查
你命名为
至爱的
倒影
难道我们
除了流浪者之外
还有其它身份
或者我得将这块黏土揉进
一个过于细长的形状
用本不该被侵犯的
地之血
玷污
我的双手
学习与再
学习一个教训
直到某些东西
已经盛开
被摘除
被强抛入热水
在腹中待得
足够久
才能让意识冷静下来
打印一个地址我们
不必再舔穿
阳光 牙齿和一个洞
月亮那么大
它索取
索取
但从未满足
Matt Schroeder现居深圳，是一名诗人与教育工作者。
诗人
作者：曹周鹏
我摘下诗人的头
放在双膝上
我杀了一个诗人
抢走了他的诗
我听诗人说
诗歌是咳出来的
我还听诗人说
要咳出血来
我的内心充满肿瘤
我以为我的肺部溃烂
我以为我的喉咙脓肿
我以为我要文思泉涌
我以为我要血流如注
可惜我没有
我听说诗歌是自由的
我张开双臂
飞出窗外
看见了万家灯火
看见了车水马龙
看见了无数摔死的尸体
我听说诗歌是奴役的
我在地上画一个笼子
站在里面
低下头
看见自己松了的鞋带
我踮起脚尖眺望大海
我没去过远方
我没写过诗
揉碎了几张纸
转了几个圈
我蹲在地上呜呜哭了起来
哭到天晚了
夜深了
我的喉咙里有一口带血的痰
我咽下去
它涌上来
憋不住
咳出来
砸在地面上
我用脚偷偷碾碎抹匀
犹如碾碎一朵花
犹如抹匀一个梦
曹周鹏是在深圳工作的动画师。
Poet
translated by PLS
I plucked off a poet’s head
Placed it on my knees
I killed a poet
Robbed him of his poems
I heard a poet say
Poems should be coughed out
I also heard him say
The blood needed to be coughed out
I am stuffed with tumors
I thought there was an ulcer in my lung
I thought there was an abscess down my throat
I thought I was fully inspired to write
I thought I was bleeding ceaselessly
But I was not
I heard poetry should be free
I opened my arms
Flew out of the window
I saw light from tens of thousands of households
I saw streets thronged with people
I saw countless bodies dropped to death
I heard poetry should be servile
I drew a cage on the ground
And stood at the heart of it
Lowered my head
Saw my loosened shoelaces
I stood on my toes to overlook the ocean
I’d never been to distant places
I’d never written a poem
I crumbled a few pieces of paper
And circled a few rounds
I squatted on the ground crying
And kept crying till late
It was late at night
There was bloody phlegm in my throat
I swallowed it
But it came back up
I couldn’t hold it for any longer
So I coughed it out
Spat it on the ground
Stealthily crushed it and blotted it evenly with my feet
Just like crushing a flower
Just like evenly blotting out a dream
Zhoupeng Cao is an animator based in Shenzhen.
在遥远的1989
作者：曹周鹏
在遥远的1989
我路过一个村庄
没有鸡的叫声
没有婴儿的哭泣
我顺了一只西瓜和几穗玉米
看见了墙上计划生育的标语
我穿上了彩衣
吹起了魔笛
吹醒了无数婴儿的尸体
有的鲜红 有的淡绿 有的青紫
比灰色的天空和大地更美丽
婴儿跟随我蹒跚前行
路过的两个妇女
认出了几具尸体
娃娃哇哇哭泣
她们掀起了上衣
把美丽的娃娃塞进干瘪的肚皮
我停止了吹笛
娃娃没有了呼吸
老鼠啃食它们的脚趾
蛆虫吮吸它们的手臂
蜻蜓和蝴蝶在它们的骨头上停留栖息
我捡起几根散落的骨头
制成一支美丽的风笛
我坐在一棵树下
轻轻一吹
没有声音
它们没有坟墓
它们也就没有尸体
一阵风吹过
树叶还没有落下
它们就消失了
1989年
我走了好多个村庄和城市
我没有拐卖到一个孩子
In a Distant 1989
translated by PLS
In a distant 1989
I walked past a village
There was no cockcrow
Nor baby’s cry
I nicked a watermelon and some corn
Saw the slogans of one-child policy on the wall
I put on a costume
Played the pied piper
Woke up countless corpses of babies
Some blood-red, some light green, some purple
More beautiful than the grey sky and the earth
Babies followed me and stumbled forward
Two women passed by
Recognized some of the corpses
Babies started to cry
They stripped their tops
Stuffed the beautiful babies into their shrunken bellies
I stopped playing the piper
The babies stopped breathing
Rats ate their toes
Maggots devoured their arms
Dragonflies and butterflies paused for a rest on top of their bones
I picked up a few scattered bones
Turned them into a beautiful set of pipes
I sat under a tree
Played the pipes
No sound
They didn’t have graves
Therefore they didn’t have corpses
A breeze swept past
Leaves yet to fall
Had already disappeared
In 1989
I walked through a lot of villages and cities
I did not abduct any kids
Another Man
by Patrick Schiefen
I can put on
but I can never take off
this skin I try to shape
into a desired form
& these hands afraid to touch anything
because I tell myself:
I’m not him I’m not him I’m not him.
Which is, at the same time, both true & not true.
I can’t say anything
to convince you of a pigeon being flightless
but I can pluck the feathers off, fashion a crown,
& try.
Sometimes to love
I must hate not what I’ve become
but hate that I can’t become;
I must listen to every song
that pushes off your lips
& remember how long they’ve all been silenced
before the breaching of your body.
It’s the contrast
of my words
scribbled across my skin
that makes them so easy to read.
This I know.
I also know I am the trigger,
the trap
even if I tell myself:
I’m not him I’m not him I’m not him.
I’m just another form,
just another choice,
just another man,
white & given every opportunity
to be heard.
Patrick Schiefen is an expatriate writer from New York who currently writes and performs in Shanghai.
另一个人
翻译：诗验室
我可以穿上
但永远无法卸下
这张我试图穿成
理想之状的皮囊
还有这双不敢碰任何东西的手
因为我告诉自己：
我不是他我不是他我不是他。
这同时
亦真亦假
我不能用任何言语
来让你相信一只鸽子飞不起来
但我可以拔掉羽毛，用以装扮一顶皇冠
与尝试。
有时候为了爱
我必须不能憎恨我如今的模样
而去憎恨我无法成为的模样；
我必须聆听每一首
从你唇间挤出的歌
和记住它们在你的身体破裂之前
究竟被压制了多久。
是我皮肤上胡乱书写的
文字之间
的差异
让它们一眼就被看穿。
这我知道。
我也知道我就是触发器，
是陷阱
就算我告诉自己：
我不是他我不是他我不是他。
我只是另一种形式，
只是另一种选择，
只是另一个人，
白皮肤并且总能
有机会被倾听。
Patrick Schiefen是来自纽约的撰稿人，现居上海，从事写作与表演工作。
房间
作者：楼饱儿
在狭小的房间里的
窗外
一整夜能开过
189辆车
当然这个数字
是我瞎编的
然后在这房间
统治
空调，还有
床上四件套
不打开门
这里就是宇宙
只允许月光
进来避难
向我献出
黑暗
楼饱儿，写字的，画画的。
Room
translated by PLS
Outside the window
Of a narrow room
Throughout the evening there can be
189 cars passing by
Of course this number
Was made up by me
But then it started governing
Inside the room
Air conditioner, as well as
The beddings
Without the door open
It is the universe here
Allowing only the moonlight
To come in and shelter
And present to me
The darkness
Lou Bao'er writes and paints.
by Anesce Dremen
May I settle into the curve of your memory —
Unraveling an intangible fragrance,
A blush lingering between eye lids
Of unspoken certainty, of treasured humanity.
Hands do not accompany one another this night
Yet unexpressed arousal interlaces these gentle, locked lovers.
Will you pause within the frame of my flame —
Imagination preserved in crumbled papers,
Tentative emotions awaiting within this satiated drizzle;
Here, where “almost” is sufficient solace.
Your restriction composed upon the curve of my lips,
Encouraging reckless embrace, names merging.
回甘（Aftertaste)
Anesce Dremen has lived in 9 cities across two countries within the past 6 years. When not writing creatively, she can be found brewing tea, dabbling in photography, learning languages and traveling sustainably.
翻译：诗验室
能否让我驻进你记忆的曲线——
拆解一种难以触摸的芬芳，
一丝羞涩徘徊在眼睑之间
未曾明说的肯定与珍贵的人性之间。
今夜双手不再相互陪伴
深藏的欲望将温柔而缠绵的爱人绕在一起
你会在我欲火之框内停留吗——
碎纸里封存的幻想，
在这蒙蒙细雨中摇摆的情愫；
这里，“几乎”已是充分的慰藉。
你在我唇线上勾勒的约束，
激起不顾一切的拥抱，名字正融成一体。
回甘
Anesce Dremen在过去六年内曾在两个国家九个城市生活过。除写作之外，她还喜欢泡茶、摄影、学习语言和环保旅行。
Morning
by Bennett Faber
a breath of orange
lights the world in sour smoke—
another day.
and now the concrete passageways
of green apartments streaked with grime
and lane houses piled with plants and plastic buckets
spill their life upon the street
to gather round its breakfast stands
in shuffled time, streaming shows in frozen hands
on oil drum griddles, the hiss of a city rising
and old men with radios in their pockets
arms locked behind their backs,
and babies overswaddled
like cannonballs of clothing,
insistent scooters, distant yells
form within the gore of noise
curl about the cooking smells
and float up, up to your window
to settle with the morning dust
as you lay in bed half naked
and meet the day with a blink.
Bennett Faber is a writer from Brooklyn living in Shanghai.
清晨
翻译：诗验室
一抹橙色
在酸涩的晨烟中点亮世界 ——
又一天。
此刻绿色公寓里的水泥过道上
污垢横行
充斥着花盆与塑料桶的里弄老房
将生活洒向街头
手忙脚乱中摆好早餐摊
冻僵的手上播着电视剧
油锅上，响起了城市滋滋的声音
兜里揣着收音机
双手紧扣身后的老大爷们
被团团裹住的婴儿
仿佛衣服制成的炮弹
来来往往的电动车，远处的吆喝
混杂着各种喧嚣
卷起饭的香气
飘至窗前
与晨灰一同落定
而你赤身躺在床上
将新的一天眨进眼里
Bennett Faber是来自纽约布鲁克林的撰稿人，现居上海。
Buddhism for the Anthropocene
for Norman Fischer
by James Sherry
Among the three marks of existence—
impermanence, non-self and suffering—
I understand transience, of course, I’m old.
Then noticing that Nagarjuna and Shantideva say
non-self means conditional selves
(the imagined self in each role we take)
and that suffering wasn’t that painful thing
all the time, but rather approximation,
that might be called estimating the future,
as climate change is unpredictable, rangy,
that is unsatisfactory only
through delusional expectations of purity, precision
and how as you say
humanity has been captured by measurement,
so it’s less insufferable a suffering,
what we can explore to lessen dread,
which is what I took you meant by meditation.
In response to these mutable selves
(in this way the first two marks are one)
and the inevitability of approximation of the ideal
rather than achieving it,
each step toward the ideal must be real,
linked and recoupled between
so that things exist composite
not in themselves but through connection
to begin environmental Buddhism
called, as you and Q, say Otherwise,
since leadership’s pilgrimage to authority justifies
why multiple selves transformed to non-self
to cut other ties to community, tying acolytes
to the evaluative hierarchy of power
rather than free both thought and action.
James Sherry is the author of 13 books of poetry and prose. Since 1976 he has edited Roof Books and Roof Magazine. He started the Segue Foundation, Inc in 1977, producing over 10,000 events of poetry and other arts in New York City.
人类世佛教
致诺曼·费舍尔
翻译：诗验室
世有三相：
无常、无我与苦 ——
我自然懂得转瞬即逝，我老了。
然而我也记得龙树与寂天菩萨曾经说过
无我亦即有条件的自我
（我们所扮演的角色中想象的自我）
还有，苦难并非始终是
痛苦的，反而是一种近似
它很可能是对未来的估测
因为气候变化难以预测、宽广无边
它也只在对纯洁与精度的错觉性期望中
才变得令人不悦
而且正如你所说的
人性已被度量所俘获
所以苦难变得不那么煎熬，
为了削减恐惧我们开始探索，
我想这就是你所谓的冥想。
为了回应这些可变的自我
（如此一来前两相便可合二为一）
以及近似理想的必然性
与其选择去实现它
倒不如使踏向理想的每一步必须真实
必须前后相连并重新耦合
这样事物就能通过联系而非在自我中
以混合体的形式而存在
进而推出一种环境佛教
正如你与Q所提及的“另类”
因为领袖对当权的崇拜已经证明了
为何多重自我已经通过转成无我
来与那个将寺僧和
可估量的权力等级绑在一起的社区
断开联系
而非旨在解放思想与行动
James Sherry出版过13本诗集与散文集。他自1976年起担任《Roof Books》和《Roof Magazine》的主编，并于1977年创立了”Segue Foundation“，在纽约举办过的诗歌和其它艺术活动达一万多场。
Blueish Blues
by Alessandro Rolandi
Concrete city is in the blueish fog,
Concrete city used to be different
Somebody still wishes there was something we could do
Somebody still wishes we could out-think the problems
Most of us would like to lose interest in ourselves too
Men have tried - We need women to try then
Of course we have been cornered into a vertical space,
The horizontal once safe and sound is now agonizing
Where is my friend? She is in Iron City – Off Concrete City – a little off the blueish cloud
Iron City, kitschy-fancy architecture in the poor countryside,
Bad alcohol, cheap cigarettes and good meals taste better and better
There was a taped WeChat laugh -hahahahahahaah-
In the unspoken instinct of the netizen,
it was an insider’s laugh, a little overdone
meant to be perceived as cynical-ironical, perhaps it was just drunk, dissociated, depressed a call to metaphorically kill or say goodbye
There were rumors of miscarriages
Babies born prematurely to serve the policy, the ones forbidden to be born before
Now they are welcome, they must come, they are needed
The blueish reverberate in the look of an older woman whose house has been torn down She collects scraps on the side of the new golf club fence, she has an ancient look,
every riddle gives her a profound beauty and a severe dignity
but she is not tragic enough in the entertainment age, she could be a video game character
We are so fucked up we look for fashion in bare life, and yet she has beauty.
Does she know we are looking? And to whom does this make any difference?
Three women and three men stand around a fire
They are burning fake money to fake gods asking for real fortune and protection,
but they are also chatting and passing rumors back and forth
I’m a foreign witness, not so foreigner anymore and never local nevertheless
I had a friend, an artist, who killed herself in despair
She was too gifted, too charming, too honest and too smart to live in a mediocre lie
They say she cast a spell on all those who abused her
Provincial parents, corrupted teachers, silly lovers
They say she staged one last black magic act
The people who reported these pieces of unverified information did so with a certain respectful dread,
bouncing on their toes in the cold, arms crossed on their chests
They were fearful that the story might be all true, but still impressed by its drama
They did not know if the black magic spell was for them too
They thought about rebellion for a second
then they diverted the impulse towards more re-assuring petty matters of cheap jealousy, targeting people they did not like for some reasons they did not even remember
The toxic event had released a spirit of imagination
So the imagination was floating among the heavy particles of the blueish fog
Some people span tales. Others listened spellbound
The vivid rumor diffused through the cloud gained respect
The most chilling tale diffused in the blueish cloud
A beautiful angry ghost floating in the blueish cloud
The marvel grew for everyone’s ability to manufacture awe
I saw 4 black Audis, with rich-and-powerful-looking people cruising fast
I picture them prowling the empty streets, heavy gaited, alert
I pictured them able to hear sounds we couldn’t hear,
Able to sense a change in the information flux
Able to pull the right strings
Able to push the right buttons
To become richer and more powerful
They were clean and smelled of pristine and fake hotel lobbies
They drank expensive alcohol the same way they drank the cheap one
They were so fast, so unreal before the blueish cloud swallowed them
Then I heard her singing between the trees,
in the park at night, in the glittering blueish fog
under those mind-sucking public neon lights,
where I stood with my little daily alcohol ratio
I struggled to understand I was convinced she was saying something
— fitting together units of stable meaning –
She was singing, just singing, but in my state ---bearing the impression of death –
I was ready to search anywhere for signs and hints
But all was made of that same matter of the blueish fog
Moments later she sang again, after a few more sips of scotch I could hear something
in a language not quite of this world
I did not understand; I was after some intimations of odd comfort
Her words seemed to have a ritual meaning, part verbal spell, part possessed chant –
it was good to meet you --
It was just that simple sentence and its unquestionable logic amazed me even more
It sounded like a joke with the name of an ancient and faraway spell
Encrypted in the lines of a 1000 year old tortoiseshell
Stored in a billion users’ shadow text cloud
Shouted and silent
There must be something, somewhere, larger and real enough,
To justify this shining reliance and implicit presence
It spoke of huge distances and subtle forces but they were not
Cosmic in nature, but immanent in time and full of reachings
The utterance was mysterious but not vague,
just as preserving eroticism through a veil, Incredibly sad and seductive
I looked again in the dark, into the glittering blueish fog and beyond,
As if by looking more intensely, I could also hear more intensely,
As if by seeing I could even be listening
An unbearable sorrow swept over me, and as I gave in, it changed into a selfless and unpronounceable one
Nothing came from the neon glittering blueish fog
Nothing but its cotton-like silent spell
And then I fell into cold marine-like oblivion,
A dreamless deep-dwelling lobster consciousness
Concrete City has its own white noise
dispersed into the blueish fog like unfriendly ether,
Concrete City is roaring and silent at the same time
The blueish fog’s lullaby is a sticky anxiety
in the firing knots of our neural web,
a remote murmur around our sleep
occasionally smothered by the warm vamp of alcohol
We are hosts for all the viruses and prisoners of all the ghosts,
Defeated but not yet soulless, at the edge of a chemical-air lucid dream
Pulsing in the blueish fog
Alessandro Rolandi has been living and working in Beijing since 2003, as a multimedia and performance artist, curator, researcher, writer and lecturer.
似蓝之蓝
翻译：诗验室
混凝土之城在似蓝之雾中
混凝土之城曾经很不一样
有些人依然幻想着我们能做点什么
有些人依然幻想着我们会比问题更老练
很多人也想过放弃自我
男人已经试过——我们需要女人也来试试
我们无疑被逼到一个垂直的空间
曾经安全与稳固的水平焦虑无比
我的朋友在哪里？她在钢铁之城——混凝土之城以外——在似蓝之云的边缘
钢铁之城，坐落在贫困郊区低俗而华丽的建筑
糟糕的酒精、便宜的香烟和美味的快餐越变越好
一阵被偷偷录下的微信狂笑——哈哈哈哈哈哈
在网民的不由自主中，
这是知情者之笑，或许稍稍有点过分
但它本是悲观与讽刺的，它也可能只是一个烂醉的、毫不相关的、压抑的
造成象征性杀害或用于道别的通话
我们听到一些关于流产的流言蜚语
为了迎合政策而早产的婴儿们，那些曾经被禁止的婴儿们
现在他们很受欢迎，他们必须到来，他们被需要
似蓝之蓝在那些房子被拆掉的老女人脸上回荡着
她在新的高尔夫俱乐部围墙外捡着破烂，她有着一张远古的脸
每个谜都能给她带来深刻的美与严肃的尊严
可惜在娱乐时代她似乎还不够悲惨，她可能会成为一个网游角色
我们是如此混乱以致于必须在荒芜的生命中寻找时尚，恰好她有着美好的一面。
她知道我们在注视着她么？谁又会去在乎这一点呢？
三个女人和三个男人围着站在一个火堆旁
他们给假菩萨烧着纸钱，乞求真财富与庇佑，
但是他们同时又在聊天和互传绯闻
我只是一个来自国外的看客，不再是外国人也从未是本地人
我曾经有位艺术家朋友，她在绝望中自尽
她有太多的天赋与魅力，她过于真诚与聪慧以致于不再适合于生活在这个无趣的谎言中
他们说她给那些曾经虐待她的人下了毒咒
守旧的父母、腐败的老师、愚蠢的恋人……
他们说她施了最后一道巫术
那些举报不实信息的人在举报时怀着某种敬意的恐惧
在寒冷中弹跳着，双手在胸前交叉
他们害怕这个故事可能是真的，但仍旧对这出戏表示出好感
他们不知道这些妖术是否也被用来针对自己
他们曾想过反抗一下
然后他们就把注意力转向其它琐碎的事情上，比如无耻的嫉妒，
将锋头转向连他们自己都不记得为何不喜欢的人
这一惨痛的事件带来想象精神
想象飘荡在似蓝之雾的重粒子之间
有些人散播着故事。有些则失魂落魄地聆听着。
逼真的流言在受敬重的云层中弥漫
最寒心的故事在似蓝之云弥漫
一个美丽而愤怒的鬼魂在似蓝之云中飘荡
奇迹在人们虚构的惊叹中蔓延
我看到四辆黑色奥迪，看似有钱有势的人飞驰而过
我想象他们在空荡的街头巡逻，拖着沉重而警惕的步伐
我想象他们能够听见我们听不到的声音
能够在信息流中感觉到变动
能够动用对的关系
能够按下对的键
只为变得更加有钱有势
他们是清白的，闻起来像一尘不染的假冒酒店的大堂
他们像喝便宜的酒一样喝着昂贵的酒
在被似蓝之云吞掉之前他们是那么快，那么不真实
之后我便听见她在树丛间歌唱
夜晚的公园里，在闪烁的似蓝之雾中
在那些将大脑吞噬的公共霓虹灯下
在那里我拿着我的每日必饮酒精站着
我无法理解但又确信她说了些什么
——将一些稳定的信息片段拼凑在一起——
她在歌唱，只是唱着，但是基于我当时的状态——怀着对死亡的印象——
我开始四处寻找标记与暗号
但是所有的一切都是由同样的似蓝之雾组成
不久之后她又开始唱了，几口威士忌下去之后我仿佛听到了什么
但它又不太像是这个世界的语言
我没听懂，我只是在寻找一种类似奇特舒适的东西
她的话里好像包含着某种仪式性的意义，部分是口头咒语，部分是着了魔的反复吟唱——
很高兴认识你——
这句话虽简短，但它清晰的逻辑却让我更加着迷
它听起来像是带着一个远古咒语称谓的笑话
刻在千年龟壳的白线上
在十亿用户的阴影文本云中保存着
呼喊并沉默着
肯定有某种东西，在某一处，它更加庞大且足够真实
来解释这一超凡的信赖和暗示性的现身
它提到遥远的距离和微妙的力量但他们并非
本来就属于宇宙的，内在于时间且无所不及的
这些语句虽神秘但并不模糊
就像通过面纱来维持某种愉悦，虽无限伤感却也迷人
我在黑暗中又看了一眼，闪烁的似蓝之雾及其它
仿佛看得更仔细，我就能听得更清楚
仿佛只要看到我就能听见
一种难忍的悲伤吞噬了我，在我屈服的时候又变得无私与难以言明
霓虹闪烁的似蓝之雾并没有泄露什么
只有棉花一样沉默的咒语
然后我就陷入寒海一样的昏迷
一种无梦的深海龙虾的意识
混凝土之城有它自己的白色噪音
弥散在无情太空般的似蓝之雾中
混凝土之城正在同时崛起和沉默着
似蓝之雾的摇篮曲是一种闷热的忧郁
在我们神经网络散发散的结中
在我们的睡梦中遥远的低语
偶尔也被酒精温暖的伴奏给扼杀
我们是所有病毒的主体和所有鬼魂的囚禁者
一败涂地却还未丧失灵魂，在化学气体那般清晰的睡梦边缘
在似蓝之雾中苟活着
Alessandro Rolandi自2003年起在北京生活与工作，是一名多媒体与表演艺术家、策展人、研究人员、撰稿人兼讲师。
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