Two of my poems are re-published in the second issue of the Laterals Magazine,
please click here for the copies of this incredible magazine
to read these two poems, please click below, both poems were first published at Alluvium
- November 2018
- National Business
It must have been too much alcohol,
even your look becomes suddenly
and full of the promise
of a summer’s night.
I’m longing to have you,
here and now
before the harsh daylight steals you away
and I might never see you again.
Anyway that’s the game,
a sweet but ruthless encounter
with no tomorrow
for queers like us in this all-embracing land.
But I like you tonight –
that’s why this empty bar
does call for something more intimate
your half-open shirt—
Your creamy chest—
O the rushing sound
deep inside my veins!
It’s been too good a night to let you flee,
just stay a while longer—
If you desire admiration,
from all men before and after me,
I have nothing better now
than my loneliness
in a promiscuous life,
I’ve given it to you.
Published on The New English Review
deep in the garden.
A bizarre phantasm in a still
A wound where
flows and stops
the air, thwarted
by the refracted light
A hundred years—
in the name of a billion RMB
its terracotta redemption
when time confiscates the iron-trace
*Zhang Yuan, or the garden of Zhang, is a renowned residential house built early of the last century in West Nanjing Road, Shanghai, now an area for bars and cafes.but news comes this garden will soon be demolished for a new shopping mall.
Man speaks your name like a burning anathema,
and picks up your body where
butterflies of newspapers circle above you.
The yellow sun is in your hair, the darkened color
of tamed waters.
The warm yellow sun—
The quiet yellow sun—
Your death rides a black van;
Your death, more real than life, comes at five o’clock,
in a wedding tuxedo.
The sad blue sky’s clear dust gropes its way down
toward the city,
The asphalt roads glimmer like ice.
Red lights dim, like eyes deprived of sleep,
trying to understand the great mystery of the morning.
An old man stands at an empty phone booth,
looking at his map
on which a thousand places are marked,
with no names.
His walking stick dangles on his arm,
a compass uncertain of the south, where
the sun throws a shadow.
a black cat,
jumps into an open window, the curtain tied back and knotted.
An army of houses stand vigil on the first day
of a lunar winter