Generative Branding & Interactive Systems
At Night
（在夜晚）
（在夜晚）
At Night,
I often think of writing poems.
It’s a habit—
in the countdown hours before dawn,
I wrote a long one.
I trace the stream backward,
thunder overturns in a storm.
A sparrow,
flapping its wings,
lingers in a garden
without an owner.
I want to write poems.
The singer in my chest
plays through resonance.
My small spring of love
flows, flows
beneath the deep roots
of your awakening tree.
I want to write poems—
even if the words
are pecked away by flies,
torn into cracks.
The dark patch under the lamp
casts a shadow
like the stubble
on your lips—
a cave in high latitudes.
I want to write poems.
Automatic writing
robs people of thought,
like a lawnmower
flattening the paw prints in mud.
When you look at me,
I color in
every circle
with oil pastels—
they are red, orange,
and green.
I suddenly forget
how to write poems,
as if a corner of memory
is cluttered with junk.
I need a cleaner
with tools,
though I hope
I won’t have to pay
twenty pounds.
Your heels hide
and reappear
on the damp carpet.
I shrink into the rain,
staring through the window.
It is a night
stripped of sunshine.
Then I remember again
how to write poems,
but I’ve lost my pen.
The clock hand points to ten—
time to go home.
You pull me close,
like a flower bowing
to the spring.
In the great fountain,
we bathe, we play.
Under the wide sun,
we are indistinguishable.
My dear,
I want to write poems.
I am half a vulgar poet,
half a puppet
kept in a cage of kindness.
I hold you tight—
your waist
a thick rope
that unties me.
At night,
I often think of writing poems.
But really, I’m just thinking
of you,
my dear.
Just thinking of you.
在夜晚，
我常想写诗。
这是一贯的做派。
凌晨的倒数声中，
我写了一首长诗。
我回溯溪水，
在暴雨中打翻惊雷。
扑棱翅膀的雀，
徘徊在
没有主人的花园。
我想写诗，
胸腔里的歌唱者，
用共鸣在演奏。
我的一汪爱泉，
在你勃发的大树深根下，
流淌，流淌。
我想写诗。
即便这些字眼被，
蝇虫啄去，
撕咬成裂痕。
灯下乌黑的一片，
投在你的嘴唇
上的胡须，
深邃如高纬的洞穴。
我想写诗。
自动主义剥夺人
思考的能力，
就像铲草机
砌平泥土的爪印。
你看着我时，
我用油画棒涂抹
每一个圆形。
它们是红色、橙色
和绿色的。
我突然忘记如何写诗。
就像记忆的角落里，
堆满废弃的杂物。
我需要一个
带着工具的清洁工。
但愿，不需要
付20英镑的
薪水。
你的鞋跟在
湿黏的地毯上，
躲躲藏藏。
我缩进雨里，
望着窗外发呆。
这是一个
剥离掉晴天的夜晚。
我又想起如何写诗，
但我丢掉了笔。
时针指向十点，
我该回家去。
你搂住我的肩膀，
像花儿向春日低头。
在大的喷泉里，
我们沐浴、嬉戏。
在大的阳光下，
我们不分彼此。
亲爱的，
我想写诗。
我是半个庸俗的
诗人，
半个傀儡，
养在善意的笼里。
我抱住你，
你的腰身
是粗大的绳索，
它解脱我。
在夜晚，
我常想写诗。
只是想想你，
亲爱的。
我只是想想你。