思想的交媾 一 思想赤裸地躺下 它的肌膚布滿冷硬的邏輯 語言俯身壓來 用詞彙的唇舌 一點點舔開沉默的縫隙 哲理在體內顫動 像古老的鼓聲 旋律則化作指尖 在暗夜的琴弦上彈起脊椎
這是一次雜交 不是單純的婚配 而是火與冰的交媾 鋒利與柔軟的扭打 它們的喘息彼此纏繞 汗水滴落成詩 呻吟凝固成格言 一頭奇異的騾誕生 帶着母體的疼痛與父系的狂喜
它混血、沉重 卻擁有前所未有的美感 在血腥與芬芳之間 馱着藝術，蹣跚着走進世界 誰若敢咬下這枚新果 舌尖必被酸甜刺穿 眼眸必被火光灼亮 而在劇烈的失神中 世界忽然倒轉—— 創造就是如此的性愛： 危險，褻瀆，卻無可替代
二
月光低垂 思想如古寺的石像 靜坐千年 直到詞語的藤蔓攀上肩頭 吐出花香，纏住它的胸膛
哲理似深井 沉默不語 旋律卻滴下水珠 層層漣漪 搖晃出慾火的弦音
這不是婚配 而是陰與陽的錯身 水與火的暗舞 雲影與松風相撞 在看似寧靜的夜色里 天地交合，孕出一頭騾 它混血、孤獨 卻帶着奇異的光澤
果實悄然成熟 像一盞燈籠 在黑暗裡漲滿汁液 誰若輕咬 便會在酸甜間迷醉 舌根燃起一縷火 眼底泛起無名的潮
創造便是如此 既似琴瑟和鳴 又如雷電相擊 危險、曖昧 卻無人能抵禦。
三
思想脫下鎧甲 裸露出冷硬的肌理 語言緩緩俯身 用詞彙的唇舌 一點點舔開沉默的縫隙
哲理在體內顫動 像一面古老的戰鼓 旋律的指尖 在夜的琴弦上 彈出火花與戰慄
這是一次雜交 不是溫順的婚配 而是火與冰的交媾 鋒利與柔軟的纏打 呼吸交錯 汗珠滴落成詩 呻吟凝固成格言
終於，一頭奇異的騾誕生 它背負母體的疼痛 也攜帶父系的狂喜 混血、沉重 卻長出陌生的美感 在血腥與芬芳之間 馱着藝術，走向世界
誰若敢咬下這枚新果 舌尖必被酸甜刺穿 眼眸必被火焰灼亮 在失神的眩暈里 世界倒轉 創造就是這樣的性愛 危險，褻瀆 卻無可替代。
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. |
