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| 现代诗歌 | | 古韵新音 | | 西方文学 Western Literature |
 
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 英文版《后模拟现场》《迟到的拳》，请批！
后模拟现场
殷晓媛
往后快退的镜头，被拉回巨坑的橡树根系
和东沉的朝阳。成为一摊血迹元凶的子弹缩回膛
安静得像一颗银杏种子。回鞘的剑，也许并不是为
审判的需要。大部分物证都在变色变形变质，
油漆一样涂满记忆的街道，长出新的轮廓和棱角
甚至原本经由的路径也在被推翻。卷宗中提到
一个大湖，它足有一整页A3大的黑白照片，宽阔得
足以弥盖四季的线索。没有人在背面用鹅毛笔
注明可能的动机。嗨！一个背着沉甸甸袋子的乞丐喊道：
你们在干什么？原告这才发现自己和被告面对面
正襟危坐在空屋子两头的椅子上。这是一个尴尬的位置，
印象派的面孔结满霜，模糊到不能说明
任何症结。谁也解释不了窗玻璃什么时候变成了
几个干裂的眼眶，树枝一样的纹褶又是怎样
把墙纸爬得褴褛不堪。一只大蜘蛛在被告的脸上
安闲的坐着，以为自己是在一座死火山
脚下扎寨。乞丐无情的惊醒他们
从走开并各自欢腾的未来中，像穷追失物
一样找回。现在又置身事外的消失，比一场
莫名的月食更唐突。他们唯一知道的是
在这场恶作剧般的模拟现场中，时间作为
唯一的目击者，已经提前销毁了证物。一切不能被
原封不动的存在证明的片断，都将被宣判为幻想。匕首呢？
鲜血呢？凶手印在墙上的影像呢？还有窗外飞驶穿梭的车
嘶哑的灯光呢？仁慈！宽恕！不知道在多少个
错乱的场景前，原告记得被告的胸前悬着
一枚黄金的十字架。静止。他们所在的阁楼
蝙蝠开始预兆黑夜。原告指着远处的教堂
说：“那里，是唯一没有变的。”被告一脸懵懂
身上的碎片开始掉落：“可惜，我从来
没有信过基督教。”
Post -Simulated-Scene-of-Crime
Églantine Yin
Footage played backwards, oak roots drawn back to its cave
and a sinking morning sun. As humble as a ginkgo nut, a bullet-the cause for this lurid scene
recedes into its bore. The sword back in its sheath, might probably be for other purposes than to meet
the demands of justice. Most of the material evidences were discolored, converted and transmulated,
the streets painted with memories also took new outlines and edges on.
Even their courses were changed. According to the old dossier, there used to be a big lake
the black-and white photo of which covered the whole A3-sized page, wide enough
to conceal clues of the vicissitudes of seasons. No one made notes of possible motives on the back
with a quill. Hey! A beggar shouted, bag on shoulder：
‘What’s up?’ Not until then did the plaintiff realize that he was confronted with the defendant,
sitting in chairs on ends of an empty room. He was in chancery,
with his impressionistic face covered with frost, too vague to give
any directions. Neither could they explain how the windowpane became
wrinkled eye-sockets, and how branches of cracks crept up
the wallpaper. The tropical spider sitting on the defendant’s face
leisurely, mistaking it
for a dead volcano. Both of them were waken up by the merciless beggar
from jolly futures too grandiloquent for them, who did that like a hound
scenting out game, then effaced himself like a mere outsider, as swiftly as
starting a moon eclipse. Everything is beyond their knowledge except
that, in this simulated scene of crime, as the only witness, TIME has
removed all evidences in advance. Anything unproved by substantial existence
was supposed to be hallucination. What about the dagger?
What about the blood? What about the shadow of the murderer on the wall？Or hoarse tone
of headlights of cars rushing by？Mercy！Pardon！The plaintiff remembered that, before thousands of
illusive episodes, there used to be a gold cross
dangling in front of the defendant’s chest. Stillness. The pavilion that they were in
started being haunted by bats- Night’s forerunner. The plaintiff pointed to the church in the distance
and said: ‘That, is what remains.’ While the latter responsed with an innocent look
fragments falling off body, ‘It’s a pity that, I never was
a Chiristian.’
迟到的拳
殷晓媛
夜幕锃亮。一记喑哑的左直拳击出，
没有钢花溅起。我来自镜面背后，眼睛里
淌着橘色的水银。皱褶的宇宙在你背后
陷落成360度锋利的黑色的角。这个令你困惑的位置
使你失忆，无法想起与撒旦交换躯体的野史。
杀气让镜面浮动缥缈，玄机重重的空间寂静无声
掩护着你的眼神。如果你接到来自冷拳的信号，像一个标满
红色刻度的透明靶盘。你一定会怀疑它来自一个
错位的自我。手表刻度盘上鲜血在抑扬顿挫
矜持的走着，你怀疑是不是该用枪指着虚拟影像中
那个与你完美对称的敌人。真正的死亡缺乏先例。杀手总要神情忧郁
狂热嗜好交响乐，所以错觉的影子优雅得出奇。在我的拳
到达之前，你还有半个世纪去嘲笑映像的被动和封闭，半个世纪
举起圣经发誓你再无克星，半个世纪回避是否拆开镜中
那个貌似可怕的傀儡身体，和貌似和善的灵魂表象，还有半个世纪
去猜测最后会是哪一颗流弹，结束你的跋扈和焦虑。
拳在路上，你不用像等一班午夜列车
为它的到达找出先兆。点上一支烟，把头仰到
秋分时日光斜射的角度，你会看到端倪和结论之间
那条些微弯曲的轨道。燃烧的拳挣脱它融化的主人之后
就变成一颗悲壮的彗星。纵使你没入坟墓，几百年后的夜晚
它依然敲响你的墓碑。如大白话所说，不是不报，
时辰未到。
A Suspended Fist
Églantine Yin
Metallic night. A dumb straight left was delivered
but it triggered off no volley of sparks. I emerged from the inner plane of a mirror, with
crimson tears running out of my eyes. The shriveled universe behind you
subsided into a perigon of sharp black blades. The confusing location that you are in sponged out
scrapes of your memory, including that once you changed your husk with Satan.
The rusty smell of daggers blurred the mirror, while the cryptic spaces of silence
sheltered your eyes. If you have got a sign from the fist sniping at you, you must feel as if you were
a transparent target with blood-colored scoring rings; you must be suspecting that it was from
a perverted self. Blood is gurgling across the dial plate
elegantly, hence wondered you whether you should shoot at the figure there within
-an enemy so fantastically symmetrical to you. Witnesses were lack of examples of typical death. Killers
were supposed to behave like melancholy symphonyholics, therefore the one opposing you also moves with grace. Before my fist reaches you,
you have half a century left to mock at the image for being passive and reclusive, half a century left
to swear by the Bible to be invincible; half a century left denounce the body in the mirror as a dummy,
and the soul there as an illusion; half a century left
to guess which one of the bullets, would put an end to your insolence and anxiety.
The fist is on the way. Unlike the arrival of a midnight train, it is barely heralded
with flaunty omens. Lit a cigarette, and turn your head towards the sun’s trail
at the time of the equinox, then you will recognize the curved orbits between
forebodings and dooms. The flaming fist, breaking away from the melting trunk
turned into a wrathful comet. Even if you have sunk into your grave, it would be
knocking upon your door, hundreds of years later. Just as what the old saying says: It’s never too late
for a judgment by nature.
2009-01-22 18:02:51 |
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