#  Kill the Immortals


I reel silk from the cocoon of mind, and the silkworms spurt out from consciousness. Words without any meaning use the formless body to reincarnate thousands of sleeping postures.


I shall have dinner with the demons and the angels because someone has to play the ordinary mortal. There are not only demons and angels. Someone must play the ordinary mortal. 

Ordinary, my singer.




Chaos, evils, burning pains,
I’m looking for a utopia, reposing soundly in the land of warmth and tenderness.
Scrape up the unlovely flesh near the hair ends. 
I wake myself up; cheering for plopped self-betrayal with my numb blood.





I’m sunk in sleep. The bayonet pokes the soul of the robber and steals his humiliation. This is a holy knife. On the pointed edge of this knife, iron knights hold their peace solemnly. They stand on the sawtooth, pushing and squeezing foot by foot.



I condemn. I seize. The moon has gone, but I am still here, commandeering the beam of the sun, allowing the sun and moon to shine with me all at once.






            


How about shame, defense, and deterrent? Proud of my uneasiness, and draw the brow ridge with dusty daisy, dark puce. 



The immortals-killer wallop the soul with the holy bayonet. What flies out is only a wisp of smoke, falling into the cloth bag with little weight.



The immortals-killer takes one of the bags away. There are still hundreds of billions of bags overwatching in the swamp. 
Hundreds of billions of bags disappear. 


The immortals-killer reverses the world. Hundreds of billions of bags appear again, with mud spots, and plant debris.








2022
writing
2023-2024
analog photography

Exhibition:
#Kill the Immortals