本帖最后由 顽颜 于 2016-1-26 09:05 编辑
我望着蓝绿色蜡笔
融于你的指
间;迟迟不肯下笔
向日葵老奸巨猾
满面油光,笔刷
翻转,它是你仅
有的武器,粮绝弹尽——
发霉的糖纸扣紧
你无所顾忌
总想颠覆自己
的天地,在其
自重下,精美绝伦的貂皮
掀开时光掩埋的某个星期——
现出油腻,我整理,
清洁污泥
一般的颜料基底。
如同一名司仪
或长官,从颜料里
挤出一丝油亮。
停下,你嚷
嚷道,我的手肘印上
一本过期美食指南
对准了古代大餐
里一盘美味生蚝
——硬壳轻吻着盘中色调
状似彩虹,入口难嚼
色如珠宝,吐着泡泡
I watched the turquoise pastel
melt between your fingerpads;
how later you flayed
the waxen surface back
to the sunflower patch
of a forethought, your
instrument an upturned
brush, flaked to the grain –
the fusty sugar paper buckled.
You upended everything,
always careless of things:
finest sables splayed
under their own weight,
weeks forgotten – to emerge
gunged, from the silted
floor of a chemical jamjar.
I tidied, like a verger
or prefect, purging
with the stream from the oil-
fingered tap. Stop,
you said, printing
my elbow with a rusty index,
pointing past an ancient
meal’s craquelured dish
to the oyster-crust
at the edge of an unscraped palette –
chewy rainbow, blistered jewels. |