ㄐㄗ对《Oculus: Poems》的笔记(1)

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Page 14:
When I kissed him, I kissed a marble statue. It was Apollo, it was Krishna, it was Ra.
Page 16:
How the dead girl fell, awaiting a hand to hold, eyes to behold her as the lights clicked on and she posed for her picture, long eyelashes all wet, legs tapered, bright as thorns. Her windows overlook Shanghai, curtains drawn to cast a shadow over the Huangpu River, frozen this year into a dry, bloodless stalk. Why does the light in the night promise so much? She wiped her lens before she died. The smudge still lives. I saw it singe the edge of her bed.
Page 27:
The stories about our lives do not have faces.
Page 29:
even at the dump our atoms will fall side by side.
Page 32:
Thief of my skin, you can arrange my bones so I fly, a raptor—you can cure my meat, summon the flies in summer. My body is my crypt, your masterpiece. Turkey vultures scare the stratosphere searching for carrion, follow the scent in my limbs, its feral suet. My name does not end in fury. I’d rather you blow my alien bits into a black hole than keep me here, intact and jaundiced. So please, I ask: incinerate me. Let the sky be my open grave.
Page 37:
Murder in my gaze, treachery in my movements: if I bared the grooves in my spine, made my lust known, the reel would remind me that someone with my face could never be loved.
Page 39:
Ursa Minor, you never warned me: all my life I’ve been minor, played the strumpet, the starved one.
Page 49:
Danger signs point at us. Unhook this vampire meridian— hinterland of my blood, what’s the antidote for these boiling winters? For the heart’s heavy skulking? I don’t blame the ocean for gorging on flotsam, or eating people alive
Page 78:
The Asian models, too—like clones they glide out, lush throats throttled by nephrite. The editors call the pieces “1920s chinoiserie.” I call them glorified dog collars. One by one they strut, chameleons, fishnetted darlings with red lips that imply: diablerie. These women slip into the diabolical roles I’ve played but don’t pay for it.
Page 83:
Where this soapbox tree germinates, I collect my germs and make a fountain of them. Because yellow is yarrow and soot, and the future, I’ve learned, is no suture. Because where I’m from, these kisses are infections. Because dirt’s ammunition against discipline, the blood fills my clean mouth with dismay. Am I surprised— Hollywood still assumes we are all the bastard children of the same evil dictator? That phosgene and mustard will rack our titanium Maoist husks until some white man with slanty eyes rescues us from our mealy, pliant selves? Am I to wear Dior, wrap my mouth in bloody tulle, before kneeling, bending to kiss a mouth dirtied by Pantone 136? No fucking thanks. Because where I’m from, these kisses are infractions. Darlings, let’s rewrite the script.
Page 88:
You can bedevil me with fabrication, but I transmit the truth. It’s in the data, the stars, my blood, my spit, my wires, my parts. God as my witness, I, Motoko, will self-destruct this celluloid screen. So watch out, Scarlett O’Hara, this brutish reign of cinematography is about to end—history flensed, data wiped.