介绍:
▍城市
还需朝下走
城市由什么构成？排气孔。蓝光。谋杀。
从幽暗到幽暗，一步步走下来，
走过直奔焦渴灯盏的黄色头盔，走过棉衣
狗熊般哀戚地比划着，表达着常见
却无望的说不清的爱，走过男人
和他们的发式、他们的瞥眼、未出口的建议。
都知道，这无论是谁肯定已经死去。
那被取走的、无眼的、煮过的器官——千般状态
等待着被发现，被哀悼，被排列在
犯罪者发臭的象征物收藏中间：
剪下的指甲、指骨、鼠毛、牛奶
一本古书枯黄的纸页间夹着
钥匙或答案。但你继续朝下走
时间伸展，办公室里的钟表
绷着劲，歇斯底里地相互盯看。
你的同事们在日光的世界里
玩帆船喝啤酒一小时，打绝望的哈欠。
但你继续下降直到你离开
秩序的最后边卡，远远后移的地界，
这里铸铁楼梯已让位于木地板。
想在此停步，将铅的手提箱
倾倒一空，将此地变成乌有之乡？
楼梯自动折叠而起
寂静的隧道进一步推进
上面是伸展的铁轨路基、瓶装的河流、
牡蛎贩子的墓地、泥瓦匠的图书馆、建设者的公厕、
食肉的摩洛克魔王那窗玻璃脏兮兮的教堂、
遮光窗扇、走廊、碗柜、盒子。
坐下，你的手电筒画着砖墙
见涂鸦咕哝出老哑嗓——“好像是亚拉姆语”——
听着寂静喘息这是这是这是，
一部粗麻布和尘土做成的大书
无止境地合着，阅读它自己——
它的滴水和沙沙声、来自旧案件的尖叫、
上世纪驶向另一个地方的
火车。很快你就会相信
你已吃下了这本书，
你的食道像一间条状出租屋污迹满满，
你的舌头会给出说明
你的呼吸会有牙髓的气味。
是否想说，告诉我原因
我们就上去透气——那地上已是黎明
锅炉的检修孔张开，复苏的
蒸汽直上蓝天
我们在那里寻求释怀——上到那里
并将这一切再一次统统忘记。
作者 / [英]肖恩·奥布莱恩
翻译 / 西川
Cities
and still some down to go
What are cities made of? Steam vents. Blue light. Murder.
Steps going down from the dark to the dark
Past yellow helmets aiming anxious lamps, past padded coats
Making sorrowing bearlike gestures of general
But hopelessly inarticulate love, past men
And their haircuts, their eyebeams, unspoken advice.
Everyone knows. Whoever it is must already be dead.
Eviscerated, eyeless, boiled – in a thousand conditions
They wait to be found and lamented, chained
Amid the perpetrator’s stinking hoard of symbols:
Nail-clippings, fingerbones, rat hair, milk,
Scorched pages of an ancient book
That holds the key. But down you go
And the hours stretch, and the clocks in the offices
Stare at each other in rigid hysteria.
Your colleagues in the daylight world
Yawn with despair, an hour from sailboats and beer.
But you go on descending until you have left
The last outpost of order some far landing back
Before cast-iron stairs gave way to wood.
Isn’t it tempting to dump the aluminium suitcase
And stop here, making a place of this nowhere?
The staircase folds back on itself
And the silent tunnel plunges further in
Under the last of the railbeds, the last bottled river,
Graveyard of oystermen, library of masons, latrine of the founders,
Stained-glass temple of carnivorous Morlocks,
Deadlight, corridor, cupboard, box.
Sit with your torch playing over the brickwork
Still hoarse with graffiti – ‘looks like Aramaic’ – and listen
To the silence breathing This is and this is and this is,
Endlessly folding and reading itself,
A great book made of burlap and dust,
That is simply digesting the world –
Its drips and rustles, the screams from old cases,
Trains that were heading elsewhere
In a previous century. Soon
You will come to believe you have eaten this book,
That your gullet is lined like a tenement room with its print,
That your tongue has illustrations
And your breath must smell of pulp.
Isn’t it tempting to answer, Just give me the reason
And then we’ll go up to the air – it is dawn above ground
And the manholes stand open, steaming
For the resurrection, straight up in the blue
Where we seek reassurance – go up there
And start to forget it all over again.
Sean O’Brien
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