That Night, His Bodily Fluids Sprayed All Over Me (XXV, XXVI, XXVII)

2007/12/5 21:10:24

XXV

Zhongguan—Palace Eunuch also; Zhongguan Village—Eunuch Village also.

In the days without eunuchs, Zhongguan Village became Zhongguancun, everywhere Brownian-motioning with those who, through Reform and Opening Up, crossed the river by feeling the stones, regardless of whether it's a white cat or black cat as long as it catches mice, coming from the five lakes and four seas of our divine land, a few flies buzzing around, this tiny globe, it's very dangerous here, go back to Mars quickly, mistakenly thought to be Lushan Waterfall, hung in the wrong place, annually luring a hundred-odd magpies to sloppily build a tofu-dreg bridge only fit for one pair of dog-couple to copulate over a narrow narrow ditch, whose general-relativistic cosmological equations Big-Banged into hoodwinking above-below-left-right-past-present-future all manner of so-called certain-sex objects claiming to possess slightly more apparatus than eunuchs.

As many eunuchs as there ever were, so many apparatus-that-eunuchs-lack have there been. Nowadays, they all dangle at varying lengths, heights, and girths beside the blood-red long streets piled with mobile coffins. In a city without eunuchs, the eunuchs' bequeathed apparatus ceaselessly rises in varying lengths, heights, and girths, GDP-ing climax upon climax.

The winter sky—a colossal tomb-pit—by five o'clock each afternoon begins burying everything, leaving only scattered ghost-fires, flickering in the murk.

This year's winter, December's sky—that first snowfall still has not come.

XXVI

These are northern December days without ice and snow

Northern days

December's ice and snow still have not come

The sky is grey and hazy

The days of yellow leaves drifting are long past

Late-arriving ice and snow

Late-arriving winter

Weary waiting scattered in the air

Grey hazy sky

Grey hazy tree shadows

Grey hazy existence

Northern December days

Dusty mornings and noons

Dusty midnights and dawns

Dusty you and me, existence

Northern December days without ice and snow

They say

Today there is fog

XXVII

Today, there is no fog.

The sun has just risen. On the enormous ring road, the traffic is still an inextricable tangle.

Cold wind blows down the grey shadows interlocked by enormous buildings above the city, shattering ceaselessly on the streets where wheels roll, each crushed into grey dust that fills the ground and flies through the air.

What falls to the ground is not just grey shadow. There is also, trailing grey shadow like a meteor plunging, a severed head and the body of one who proclaimed they would not sell even in death.

Breaking ground requires human blood. They say beneath every building lies at least one wronged ghost. And every wronged ghost demands fresh human blood.

Blood is spreading, growing into an enormous rooster, head raised toward the rising sun. So red and bright, so fresh—putting to shame the little sun just beginning its daily peeping between the buildings.

Traffic still inextricably tangles the enormous ring road. Occasionally an impatient horn sounds, barking like a dog on a cold mountain-village night.

Not far away, the sun has climbed higher into the sky.