在街名不通的交叉处，不是
鱼刀下鲜血的涌流
揭开鳃盖看看红色退了多少，不是
利刃切得齐整的肉块
在冰房里挂牛羊像挂衣服般，不是
小山似堆着光滑的鸡身
在白皮上找不到一根毛，一滴血
一点生，一点死
一点都不是
生死也有过一二十年的，不是
愿意灯下埋头苦读ABC
结队街上游荡，阻门口的，不是
甘心流汗餐盘，洗碗碟
要冲撞戏院， 食霸王饭的，不是
打落叶的烈风暴雨
要用刀枪代表不是人的
一点希望，一点意义
一点都不是
这路牌十字架下的阴影
躺着血浆脑汁的肉堆，不是
今天才破了皮，穿了脑，减了声
失了笑，停了脉膊，
冷冻了暖过的尸骸
这个生不算作人，死不当作物
生死都不是的东西
到底是谁的不是？
At the intersection of streets with senseless names, it’s not
fresh blood gushing out under the fish cleaver.
Lifting up the gill to see how much red has faded, it’s not
chunks of meat cut up neatly by the sharp blade.
Beef and lamb hung in the freezer room like hung clothes, it’s not
the shiny-smooth chicken bodies piled up like a little hill.
On the white skin one can’t find a single hair, a drop of blood,
a bit of life, a bit of death,
Just all it’s not
With twenty years of living while alive, it’s not
one is willing to drop one’s head studying ABC under the light.
Gang loitering on the street, blocking doorway, it’s not
One is content to sweat in carrying trays and washing dishes.
Wanting to force into theater, not paying for meals, it’s not
intense gale and violent rain beating down the leaves.
Using knives and guns that don’t represent humans
a bit of hope, a bit of meaning,
Just all it’s not.
The shadow of the cross under the street name plates,
lies a pile of meat in blood stains and brain juice, it’s not
Just until today the skin is broken, the brain pierced, the voice sunken,
the laughter lost, the pulse halted.
A dead body now cold that was once warm.
This is not a human when alive, not an object when dead,
A thing not living nor dead.
After all, who is not (right)?