Something old, something new...

When too much is not enough…

A gesture can initiate a tumultuously poetic universe
That silk tassel tickling along her spine
A jade disc resting on Kundalini’s sacrum
He covers her face with the black velvet of the night, of her hair
Pearls of the mountain, softly spoken,
Whispering songs to his muse, inside of his muse,
Melodies between the arches of two crescent moons
Vertebrae, ah vertebrae under translucent mousseline
Of her vein and of her skin
Of his heart and of

his poetry


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玉

蒼白，是血的原色與美學的逆鱗。
他舌尖的蓮消蝕一如
右頰的月光
聲音是時間與蛇的舞姿
交纏蜿蜒的連綴
而生存，歌詠著水波紊亂
殞落著無性之魅
猩紅，似卵與熱的曲線
錯誤的春花秋月
頹萎之靡交合在古印度的菱鏡
天人於是註定了五衰
水面下的墜
玉


Celadon

Paleness, the primary colour of blood,
aesthetics of one disobedient scale under the Dragon’s throat.
A single lotus on the tip of his tongue eclipses as if
awash with moonbeam on his right cheek.
Voices unfurl in the choreographed, lethargic wanting
between Time and Serpent,
movements interwoven of musical trills―
winding, meandering, murmuring.
And existence, an ode to unquiet rippling, to violent waters,
perishing allures of an androgyne.
Scarlet blood, resembling the curve of an embryo and of heat

I mistake those spring flowers and autumn moon
for the decadently beautiful unison mirrored in ancient India
And angels are thus destined to decline,
falling under the water surface.
Celadon


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死亡美學（獻詩三島之金閣）

戰後的廢墟，重建
赭色小提琴喤泣聲線
金箔剝蝕的蒸氣與躁動的香

月華清明塗抹石橋
一如滌淨生的 死亡的確知
我兀自佇立文字的金閣
美學修長的眼睫投影
蔭翳，光正自盡。

顫抖顫抖再顫抖，這齣劇本
與血的斑痕纏綿似水
海面痛苦地沉默
光，一如岩礫，一如陰影，光的自縊。

自縊的美學倫理糾結糾結死的似非而，是。
仁波切寂然誦經
呢喃破曉前刻精神與美的歸巢
逐步逐步，緊貼眼睫的哀悽

生的諷刺文體的，死
的潔白墓塚
光正瀉落一湖的私密，若水


Death of Beauty 
(dedicated to Mishima Yukio’s Golden Pavilion Temple)

Post-war ruins, reconstructing
Vocal lines of the ochreous weeping violin
Faded gold flakes steaming breaths impatient scents

The moon colours the stone bridge of dreams
As if she was certain of death, the death which purifies life
I stand alone, inside the Golden Pavilion of words
The long lashes of Aesthetics’ eyes projecting
Shadows, Light slowly takes its own life.

Trembling shivering and quivering, this play
Coos sweet nothingness to flecks of blood like water
Romancing
The sea, painfully in silence
Light, as if brusque debris, as if a silhouette, the
Suicide of Light

Beauty and the (im)morality of suicide, entanglement and love-making
Of that which seems wrong, of the wrong that seems right
Rinpoche’s silent chanting in solitude
Whispers the homing of spirituality and beauty
Minutes before daybreak
Step by step by step, sadness kissing my eyelashes

The satire of Life, of the
Perfectly white tombstone
Of Death
Light cascading down a lake of pearlescent
Secrets, like water


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奔馬

夢先於現實。
而純粹
似花，似血，似詩
，似枯腐前消逝的生。


Runaway Horses (Realistically Synaesthetic Purity)

Dreams, a priori, then reality.
And purity
Resembles a flower, resembles blood, resembles poetry,
Resembles life, a priori, disappearing before decay.


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曉寺

(薰息，我執，唯識)

緣起於鏡花水月的無常
存活涅槃之花瓣間的阿賴耶識，似
剔透的純藍火焰蘊蓄
鏤花之詩

桃花心木質的鏤空雕花
在蒼白哀傷的殘月撫觸下
散發似水晶斷面般清明露華
濕漉而冷冽的香氛


Temple in Vijñaptimātra

(…incense, Ātma-grāha, Vijñānavāda)

Dependant arising, from the impermanence
Of mirrored flowers, of moon water
Exists ālayavijñāna between petals of nirvana, as if
Transparency of pure blue flames, and
Within which a filigree of poetry

Rosewood reliefs under caresses
Of pale sorrowful moonlight
Scent of dewdrops at dawn permeates, like
A crystal facet; the soaking, penetratingly
Icy perfume


Vijñaptimātra (唯識論): ‘Mere representation;’ the Yogācāra theory that the contents of everyday, unenlightened experience are merely a false superimposition upon actuality of dualistic concepts generated by the mind that prevent direct experience of reality as it truly is (yathā-bhūta). Some later forms of Yogācāra lend themselves to an idealistic interpretation of this theory but such a view is absent from the works of the early Yogācārins such as Asaṇga and Vasubandhu. (via)
Ātma-grāha (我執): attachment to self
Vijñānavāda (विज्ञानवाद, 唯識宗): the  Vijñaptimātra school of thought; see  here for more
Aālayavijñāna (阿賴耶識): The ālaya-vijñāna forms the "base-consciousness" (mūla-vijñāna) or "causal consciousness". According to the traditional interpretation, the other seven consciousnesses are "evolving" or "transforming" consciousnesses originating in this base-consciousness.
The store-house consciousness accumulates all potential energy for the mental (nama) and physical (rupa) manifestation of one's existence (namarupa). It is the storehouse-consciousness which induces transmigration or rebirth, causing the origination of a new existence. {via}


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Purple Crystal and an Ancient Serpent

gilded mirage drunken placards
float over pale grapes
wine honey wax oil and
tequila
his liquid tongue is moving back and forth her neck
moving back and forth the frightening lustful constellation around her neck
spirals around groins / you are confined in wild humidity as a fish in raw pleasures
your hipbone a deranged dream
a turn-around a temperature a kiss
her sombre secret cave abstracting mythical beasts and clouds
heavens fall the petals whirling the heavens
falling falling fall and fall
popcorns’ crying holy wrath spirits’ blasphemy
Death of life of life of Death
dying a life of a hundred years’ loneliness
philosophy below her breasts


紫水晶與蛇

紙醉金迷白葡萄
酒，蜜，蠟，油，與
龍舌蘭。
水舌游移/ 頸項的星群悸悸覬覬
鼠蹊的盤旋/ 你是狂熱的魚水之歡
你的髖骨是一場靡亂的夢
一回轉身/ 一種體溫/ 一個吻
陰晦的私處饕餮雲紋
天花亂墜天 花亂
墜墜墜，墜。
爆米花哭泣天神微慍
死的生的生的死
生生死死百年孤寂
胸線以下的哲思


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Decayed

birds fluttering feathers beasts secretly cringing
as if musk spreading in the mists astray, fading
then never a sound in Death/ nor breath/ not even heart
Death seals and stagnates the pale wax of light
in her mouth
as if a tooth-filing ceremony as if anaemia as if bleeding


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Vertigo
(Memories from a subconscious nightmare...)

It is the most lavish fragrance, the most devitalising. Does it make me want to kill? Or does it make me want to breathe. I could as if smell the flushes of crimson, and then they paled my hearing into avalanching silences. The silence was so poisonous, so decaying, so huge and hopeless; eclipsing all that was morally good or vital to my health - ceaselessly. It was my angel, my angel with waxen wings. "Was ascension such an unreachable dream?" Asked my angel. It was such a dark night, so dark that it blinded me. It blinded everything. The incandescence of the deepest night had burned the last speck of sombre stars with a lurid smile of bitter sarcasm. This humid and luxurious beauty, this lavish and choking fragrance, brought my extreme disgust and happiness into life and married them with the witness of my very own eye. May I shed my tears, which would never again be produced artificially? Or may I burst out laughing hysterically? If only I could cry out with the slightest sadness. Now this fragrance has turned its own veins into the most ecstatic earthly joy that seems so very vague, and yet so very real. Now this fragrance has left the residue in me the deepest grief. Could I have ever tasted an emotion as sharp? Or am I creating my indifferent tears woven so meticulously into my words - a world that can only be sensed visually but blindly, and can only be conceived of with such a harsh sound by an avalanching silence. I was about to woo, to woo this devitalising fragrance. And I was about to kill, to kill my angel after all the pleasure of worldliness has decayed to its core.

And now, I hear the river flowing in my body, with liquid so dark and polluted that I can hardly distinguish it from the unbounded night and the deceptively purified dream I am in. I have accumulated all my energy just to feel the retardation and inadequacy in me again, yet again. And now I hear your voice, my dearest pantomimist. Now I hear your voice, singing my song for me. You have given me a qualm, a qualitative change, and I can not even ask you to stay, to see me through the whole process - the whole process of passing. Yesterday we screamed together. I could almost feel your etherealisation, so beauteous you nauseated me. I wish I could cry, and ascend to the heavenly hell you have been presenting to me over and over again. Until I can no longer mumble, will I be led into a perfectly muted world, where I can only see your white sand dune, where I can only feel the flow of your words and murmurs of your voice crawling back into my blood, where I can only touch every single sound of your decaying petals by visualising my own pantomime. Now I see you bleeding, the sweetest nectar. Will I dream on? Whilst you live on.

And the next second I woke up soaking wet.



Les Larmes de Jacqueline (Jacqueline's Tears) Op.76 No.2 / Harmonies du soir Op.68 composed by Jacques Offenbach (1819-1880) and dedicated to Arsène Houssaye.
The performance is by Werner Thomas with Münchener Kammerorchester and it's dedicated to Jacqueline du Pré.