Record of Swine

Open a history of walking.

A perpetual-motion machine
keeps striking at my crystallised core.

Inflammation,
wrapped in a soft resilience.

Downward,
a metal plate cancels the echo.

Please, keep going like this:

push me,
pull me,
strike me,

drag me, press me, scald me.

An unknown route
is no different from a chance encounter.

From positive pole to negative,
I swim immersed in anticipation.

I am exhilarated.

Please—
one command after another.

Tomorrow,
I will be your cavalry.

I stretch out my body
while keeping my mind taut.

I drift now and then
but am never absent.

Tomorrow,
I will be your cavalry,

until you break down my collagen
and draw out
my final sinew.

Only when the pheromones
are trapped inside a double-layered blister

do you cradle a bouquet
and recite the manifesto.

I grow
from the side of a skull.

Whenever an ill-fated wind
passes through grass, trees and rubble,

I secretly weep

behind the rash.

A curve is proliferating there,

somewhere between
chewiness and collapse.

After learning to cast iron,
you place a stethoscope against me.

Now and then,
a magnificent symphony

stirs the crescent-shaped fertile ground.

Inside a bundle of nerves,
a flower opens.

I bend down to listen.

May it not be
a malice gathering force.

I rise upright,

riding a crimson track
towards you.

The conductor raises the baton.

In the distance,
the entire orchestra

sounds for me at once.

If I wrote you a letter,

asking you
to carve away my fat

and make the hardest part
into a cross;

if I sang you a song,

calling you
to walk upon lunar soil,

to borrow a single breath

and burn away my face;

if I carried sand for you

and accidentally spilled it
over the scarecrow,
the washstand,
the coffin board;

if I turned myself over for you,

I would offer you
the entire hardest length of me.

From collapse
to rising—

that is the distance

from me
to you.

A cold compress
carries fantasies in rhythm.

Every night,

I struggle against the black,

practising
how to find my bearings in tears.

No matter how
my kind nearby may cry,

I continue to magnify,

unwavering.

Beyond the lattice window,

fine rain

washes out
an enormous mirror.

I glimpse a lotus
and a crystal chandelier.

That alone is enough

to make me willing,
by any means,

to kill myself.

Only forgive my transgression,

and pretend

I never saw.

Along a track
thick and slick,

tens of thousands of tufts of cotton
pile up,

inviting everyone present
to lie flat

and surrender
to the stickiness.

Sink into
a high-calorie embrace.

Writhe forth
the peace of a new century.

Cut away
the time for deliberation.

Be direct.

Wrap up
gold, silver and honey.

Do not resist
the swelling of a balloon.

Applaud
the salty, warm tide.

Staggering, unsteady,

clutching tight,

vomiting without a word.

Become one
with your own God.

Become God
with the self beside you.

Split apart.

Caught on a hook.

Drag me
through the air.

Taste
the purple-sweet fresh blood.

Embrace one another.

Eat one another.

At three in the morning,

be sure to return
to the first bend.

Leave behind
one sentence:

XX, I love you.