思想的交媾 （中英文）
思想的交媾
一
思想赤裸地躺下
它的肌肤布满冷硬的逻辑
语言俯身压来
用词汇的唇舌
一点点舔开沉默的缝隙
哲理在体内颤动
像古老的鼓声
旋律则化作指尖
在暗夜的琴弦上弹起脊椎
这是一次杂交
不是单纯的婚配
而是火与冰的交媾
锋利与柔软的扭打
它们的喘息彼此缠绕
汗水滴落成诗
呻吟凝固成格言
一头奇异的骡诞生
带着母体的疼痛与父系的狂喜
它混血、沉重
却拥有前所未有的美感
在血腥与芬芳之间
驮着艺术，蹒跚着走进世界
谁若敢咬下这枚新果
舌尖必被酸甜刺穿
眼眸必被火光灼亮
而在剧烈的失神中
世界忽然倒转——
创造就是如此的性爱：
危险，亵渎，却无可替代
二
月光低垂
思想如古寺的石像
静坐千年
直到词语的藤蔓攀上肩头
吐出花香，缠住它的胸膛
哲理似深井
沉默不语
旋律却滴下水珠
层层涟漪
摇晃出欲火的弦音
这不是婚配
而是阴与阳的错身
水与火的暗舞
云影与松风相撞
在看似宁静的夜色里
天地交合，孕出一头骡
它混血、孤独
却带着奇异的光泽
果实悄然成熟
像一盏灯笼
在黑暗里涨满汁液
谁若轻咬
便会在酸甜间迷醉
舌根燃起一缕火
眼底泛起无名的潮
创造便是如此
既似琴瑟和鸣
又如雷电相击
危险、暧昧
却无人能抵御。
三
思想脱下铠甲
裸露出冷硬的肌理
语言缓缓俯身
用词汇的唇舌
一点点舔开沉默的缝隙
哲理在体内颤动
像一面古老的战鼓
旋律的指尖
在夜的琴弦上
弹出火花与战栗
这是一次杂交
不是温顺的婚配
而是火与冰的交媾
锋利与柔软的缠打
呼吸交错
汗珠滴落成诗
呻吟凝固成格言
终于，一头奇异的骡诞生
它背负母体的疼痛
也携带父系的狂喜
混血、沉重
却长出陌生的美感
在血腥与芬芳之间
驮着艺术，走向世界
谁若敢咬下这枚新果
舌尖必被酸甜刺穿
眼眸必被火焰灼亮
在失神的眩晕里
世界倒转
创造就是这样的性爱
危险，亵渎
却无可替代。
The Copulation of Thought
I
Thought lies naked, Its skin cloaked in the cold steel of logic. Language bends over it, With lips and tongue of words, Slowly licking open the seams of silence. Philosophy trembles within, Like the ancient pulse of drums. Melody transforms into fingertips, Strumming the spine on the strings of the dark night.
This is a hybrid union, Not a mere betrothal, But a copulation of fire and ice, A wrestling of sharpness and softness. Their breaths entwine, Sweat drips into poetry, Moans solidify into aphorisms.
A strange mule is born, Bearing the pain of its mother And the ecstasy of its father. Hybrid, heavy, Yet imbued with an unprecedented beauty, Treading between blood and fragrance, Carrying art, stumbling into the world.
Whoever dares to bite this new fruit Will have their tongue pierced by its sweet-sour sting, Their eyes scorched by its fiery glow. In the vertigo of divine absence, The world suddenly inverts— Creation is such a love: Perilous, profane, yet irreplaceable.
II
Moonlight hangs low. Thought, like a stone statue in an ancient temple, Sits silent for a thousand years, Until the vines of words climb its shoulders, Exhaling fragrance, entwining its chest. Philosophy is a deep well, Wordless and still, Yet melody drips like water, Rippling in circles, Stirring the chords of desire.
This is no marriage, But a fleeting dance of yin and yang, A secret waltz of water and fire, Cloud-shadows colliding with pine-wind. In the seeming tranquility of the night, Heaven and earth couple, birthing a mule. Hybrid, solitary, Yet gleaming with an otherworldly sheen.
The fruit ripens quietly, Like a lantern swollen with juice in the dark. Whoever dares to bite Will swoon in its sweet-tart haze, A spark igniting at the root of the tongue, A nameless tide rising in the eyes.
Creation is thus: Both a harmony of strings And a clash of thunderbolts— Perilous, ambiguous, Yet none can resist its pull.
III
Thought sheds its armor, Baring the stark texture of its form. Language leans in slowly, With lips and tongue of words, Gently licking open the seams of silence. Philosophy quivers within, Like an ancient war drum. Melody’s fingertips Pluck sparks and tremors On the strings of the night.
This is a hybrid mating, Not a tame union, But a copulation of fire and ice, A tangle of sharpness and softness. Breaths interlace, Sweat beads into poetry, Moans crystallize into maxims.
At last, a strange mule is born, Carrying its mother’s pain And its father’s rapture. Hybrid, heavy, Yet sprouting an alien beauty, Striding between blood and fragrance, Bearing art into the world.
Whoever dares to bite this new fruit Will have their tongue pierced by its sweet-sour sting, Their eyes ablaze with flame. In the dizziness of divine loss, The world turns upside down. Creation is such a love: Perilous, profane, Yet utterly irreplaceable.