傍晚在鲗鱼涌 | 钟国强

傍晚在鲗鱼涌

——仿《中午在鲗鱼涌》向也斯致意

这时我走到人群里

太多人走在同一方向

从地底走出来

许多年前的记认好像刷落了

面前升起的是另一道天桥

街灯输送寒气

店面写着生滚的粥

有人拿起煲仔饭进入里面不见

有人看着玻璃

是凝固的街景还是自己

这时只是情绪

拖着白天的疑问拐进暗巷

有人耐心地折叠一块纸皮

有人呆望柱上劏开的空间

我在灯号前停下看灯

学习如实就在那里

学习楼丛间的夜空

不敢轻言宽大

七重天的食客都寥落了

花档还有人剪花

乱坠的枝叶与陈言

脚下传来反复的细响

老人用化学毛笔

颤颤描摹着千古

千朵花有千种颜色

密封在张挂的字词里

这时望向马路

看见对面有人看我

这时望向商厦的玻璃

宽敞的大堂有朱铭在耍太极

电车空出来的窗

让沿街某些风景穿过

偪仄的招牌

偶然出现几个错字

炉灶释出善意的蒸气

仍抹不掉镜面的锈迹

叮叮有时是警号

冒失的人回身大骂

有时只是寂寞

像寒夜里触手的雨滴

暖意一度停驻

又再开行

这时从殡仪馆走出来

还好像挤在回转的梯间

千种人有千种心思

剪花人在摆脱剪影

执念在人面的河流中

前行还是后退

我走到地底的人群里

学习像一列地车

没有两旁的风景

在金属的声音中认识人

不仅仅是自己的回声

2013年1月14日晚吊祭后作

Dusk at Quarry Bay

—After “Quarry Bay in the Afternoon,”

　in honour of Leung Ping-kwan

This moment I am walking into a crowd

Too many are walking in the same direction

Emerging from underground

Marks from years ago seem to have been brushed off

In front of me rises one more overpass

Streetlamps transmit cold air

In a shop advertising congee raw or boiled

Someone carrying claypot rice disappears

Someone looks at the glass

The frozen street scene or himself

This moment is only a mood

Dragging daylight’s limping doubts into dark alleys

Someone patiently folds a cardboard box

Someone blankly stares at the spaces columns cut open

I stop in front of the traffic lights looking at the lights

Learning that the facts are there

Learning that the night sky between dense buildings

Dare not speak lightly or be lenient

Diners in the Seventh Heaven Restaurant are sparse

Someone’s still cutting flowers in the stall

A deluge of fallen branches, leaves and old speeches

Fine sounds repeat from beneath your feet

Old men use synthetic calligraphy brushes

Tremblingly tracing over words from ancient antiquity

One thousand flowers one thousand colours

Sealed in hanging texts

This moment I look at the road

And see someone looking back at me on the other side

This moment I gaze at the glass windows on office buildings

Ju Ming practises t’ai chi in a spacious lobby

Those empty windows on trams

Let the street scenes pass through

Packed shop signs

With occasional typos

Stoves emit benevolent steam

I can’t rub off the rust on mirrors

Sometimes ding ding is an alarm

Reckless people turn around and swear

Sometimes it’s just loneliness

Like raindrops touching hands on a cold night

Warmth stays for a time

Then leaves

This moment I walk out of a funeral parlour

Squeezed as if in a revolving stair

One thousand people one thousand thoughts

The flower cutter shredding silhouettes

Clinging to the river of faces

Moving forward or back

I enter the underground crowd

Learning to be like a train

Without scenery on either side

To learn about people through a metallic voice

Not only my own echo

Written after his memorial service on 14 January 2013

抽屉

那是一方仅容肉身的抽屉

从来没有长大，从不陷进泥土

也毋需浇水；白天他穿梭于街巷

从瞎忙着的人群背后欠身而过

晚上拖着像掏空了的躯干回去

插进一个亮着霓灯的，油腻的

把阴深的廊道完全敞开的裸身

他进出办公室，商场，后巷和公厕

把一叠凌乱的A4纸抖开又闭合

没有人看见内容，支票和辅币

自动转账往他满是刻痕的内壁

医生从中摘掉三道疤，四颗瘜肉

银行取回曾经承诺的数字，旧情人

刮去所有纪念日的纹身，和风景

没有风景，便是闭合的，光洁的灵魂

他试图搁在沙滩，斜靠在露天咖啡座

在戏院内遮挡别人的视线，在一楼一

让年华还未完全老去的凤姐无从下手

他努力挤出无可无不可的笑容

忙于吃，喝，排出一整族壁虎的干尸

和依然保持体温的，鲜软的蟑螂卵

他瞪着肚脐的匙孔想象不曾有过的钥匙

他试图坦白，别人却往他的身上丢零钱

试图隐藏，埋在门牌的乱岗如失忆的墓碑

直至发觉自己忽然插不进昨夜的廊道

颓然跌进大街，刚好给一辆货柜车辗过

并来得及让萤红的尾灯照见什么也没有的

木质，展现一截一截仿如人体的肌理

2012年9月12日

The Drawer

It’s a drawer that only holds flesh

It never grows, or sinks into soil

It needs no watering; during the day he passes through streets and alleys

Walking behind the purposelessly preoccupied crowd

At night he drags his emptied-out body back

And plugs it into a lit neon lamp, greasily

Opening his complete nakedness to the deep dark corridor

He walks in and out of offices, malls, back lanes and public toilets

Shaking out and closing a pile of disarrayed A4 paper

No one sees their content, the cheques and coins

Transfer automatically to his scar-covered wall

The doctor pulls down three scabs and four adenomatous polyps

The bank retrieves the once promised figures, former lovers

Scrape off all their memorial tattoos and scenery

No scenery, only closed, cleansed souls

He tries to stand on the beach, recline in an open-air café

Block another’s line of sight in the cinema, in a one-woman brothel

The hooker hanging onto the last of her youth can’t lay her hands on him

He tries hard to squeeze out smiles that are neither here nor there

And busies himself eating, drinking, discharging a whole race of gecko corpses

And still warm, fresh and soft cockroach eggs

He stares at the keyhole on his stomach imagining a key that was never there

He attempts to be honest, but others throw coins at him

Attempts to hide the disorderly mound buried in his door plate like an amnesiac tombstone

Until he notices he can no longer fit into last night’s corridor

Disappointed, he falls in the street, where a truck runs him over

Just in time for the glowing red tail lights to shine on nothing

The wood displaying sections of body-like texture

12 September 2012

♫