By Joey Chen
Joey Chen will graduate from Emory College of Arts and Sciences in 2026.
《早饭》
我在梦里死去了
和所有的人类
埋在明日的废墟里
腐烂的气息吸引了蛆虫
蚕食我尚存的气息
我惊醒了
发觉我尿湿了我的被褥
仿佛回到了童年冬日的早上
吃完那碗永远吃到的馄饨
在转角的苍蝇馆子
他们操着我不熟悉的方言
廉价地卖给了我油饼
因为糖油饼被比我早起的人
抢到了他们的胃里
我夺下单车
和红日抢夺的光阴
在喧闹中走出门外
填饱我饥肠辘辘的灵魂
我炙热的四肢浸没在冬日的寒风里
单薄的白色纤维
把我困在孤独的监狱里
起身下床
阴沉的思绪被遗忘在
清晨随意的手淫中
就像我浑身赤裸地带上墨镜
蔑视太阳的存在
踏入那家小馆
我打翻了半笼包子
它们被我不情愿地丢弃了
将奢侈的墨镜用布
轻轻地擦拭再放入包中
温热的豆腐脑昭示
昭示着我记忆的存在
被新的招牌掩盖在
灯火通明的早晨
我将被褥、床单、枕头
磁带、字典、笔筒、车锁、红色三角巾
扔进老旧的洗衣机
在南方潮湿的下午
晒干到七成
再用打火机点燃烟屁股取暖
可我止不住地发抖
我将五彩的药丸生吞进食道
等着他们将我的情绪活剥
酿成陈年的双桶威士忌
摆在通明的酒杯中
待我畅饮到天明
那梁上的床单也应该干透了
我也一样
07.10.23 2:03
“Breakfast”
In my dream, I died,
Alongside all of humanity,
Buried in the ruins of tomorrow.
The putrid scent attracting maggots,
Feeding on the remnants of my breath.
I woke up startled,
Realizing I had wet my bed,
As if transported back to a winter morning in my childhood.
After finishing that bowl of perpetually available wonton soup,
At the corner fly-infested diner,
They spoke in an unfamiliar dialect,
And sold me greasy pancakes at a low price;
Because the sugary pancakes had already been devoured,
By those who rose earlier than me.
I snatched a bicycle,
And raced against the stolen moments of the sunrise,
Venturing out amidst the clamor
To fill my famished soul.
My burning limbs immersed in the winter chill.
Thin white fibers,
Imprisoned me in solitude.
Rising from the bed,
Gloomy thoughts forgotten
In the casual morning masturbation.
As if I am naked, donning sunglasses
Disregarding the presence of the sun.
Stepping into that small eatery
I accidentally knocked over a half-basket of steamed buns
Reluctantly abandoning them
Carefully wiping my luxurious sunglasses
With a cloth and placing them back in their case
The warm soybean pudding declares
Declares the existence of my memory
Concealed beneath a new signboard
In the brightly lit morning
I toss the bedding, sheets, pillows,
Cassette tapes, dictionaries, pen holders, bike locks, red bandana,
Into the old washing machine
In the damp afternoon of the south
Drying them to seventy percent
Then using a lighter to warm myself by igniting a cigarette
Yet, I can’t stop trembling
I swallow colorful pills down my throat
Waiting for them to peel away my emotions
And ferment them into aged double-barreled whiskey
Displayed in transparent glasses
As I drink until dawn
The bedsheets hanging overhead should be dry by then
Just like me
07.10.23 2:03
《月夜》
在公园的长椅上
我们各自坐在一边
从你耳边袭来的风
径直撞向我的发梢
我嗅到春天的清香
即使在这无风的夏日
十五的月亮总是差了些
幸好我偏爱初三的新月
当它刚刚出芽时
连那一抹白都躲在纱帘后
悄咪咪的望我
可它却很亮
占据我整个瞳孔
圆的猩红
你伸着胳膊
跃过沟壑与平原
皮肤与木桌激烈的地亲吻
我向后仰去
让我的身影坠入
暗沉的水中
你的脸在路灯下翻起涟漪
刺骨的温度
折断了你的指尖
划破了我
等夏日的钟声再敲响
我便能看见十六的圆月
多么无瑕的月
我的身体臣服于木桌之上
触及到你的发梢
在这无风的夏日
我再次嗅到月夜的味道
“Moonlit Night”
On the park bench,
We sit on opposite ends.
The wind that grazes your ear
Sweeps directly to the tips of my hair.
I catch the fragrance of spring,
Even in this windless summer night.
The full moon on the fifteenth always seems a bit off,
But I am fond of the new moon on the third.
When it just begins to sprout,
Even that sliver of white hides behind a sheer curtain,
Sneaking a glance at me.
Yet it shines so bright,
Filling my entire pupils
With a round, crimson hue.
You stretch out your arms,
Leaping over ravines and plains,
Skin and wooden table fiercely embrace.
I lean back,
Letting my shadow sink
Into the dark waters.
Your face ripples under the streetlamp,
A biting coldness
Breaks your fingertips,
And cuts through me.
When the summer bell tolls again,
I shall see the full moon on the sixteenth.
What a flawless moon it is.
My body surrenders to the wooden table,
Touching your hair’s edge.
In this windless summer night,
I once again catch the scent of the moonlit night.
《残酿》
我轻数三声
从昨天数到明天
被点燃的烟灰
从昨夜燃到明晚
把写给你的信卷在烟里
用力地吸入肺里
再亲吻你干燥流血的嘴唇
刀斜着刺入皮肤
从嫩白的肉色直至血色
在痛苦来临之前
仍显得利落
喷涌不出的血液
从身上滴落到饥饿的灵魂上
从深夜到日出
我剥离下我的皮囊
碎成细细的碎末
装进床底的瓷坛子里
用水封上口
酿成陈年的酒
强迫你喝下去
直至你无法抑制地干呕
终于到了第三个夜晚
我也只剩下空荡的骨骼
所以用刷子仔细刷
洗净洁白抛面上的污渍
刷不净的地方
我便换上斧子
雇佣一位朴实的木匠
把它们雕刻成杯子
盛上酒
满怀歉意地敬给你
敬给草原上的那座房子
敬给田野里腐烂的稻子
敬给壁炉里潮湿的柴火
敬给你后背上面的烟疤
敬给谷仓旁燃烧的大棚
敬给墓园外葬下的尸体
敬到坛子不再剩下一滴酒
那它也就没用了
连同被杯子一起被摔碎在清晨
09/23/23 1:30 pm
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