一位瑞典诗人的暗黑犯罪悬疑长诗 □ 糖书 □ 殷晓媛 译
糖书（节选）
[瑞典] 约翰尼斯·戈兰森（Johannes Göransson）
殷晓媛译
葱野
我们住在“葱野”——那是一家旅馆的名字。付款入住。
我们这么叫是因为这里随处可见羊脸面具。也与人行道上散发气味甜美的少女尸体有关。还有一个原因是我个人嗜好装扮牧羊人。虽然经历了疑似鼠疫的症状，实际我死于那些专杀小牧羊人的杀手之手。即使在到处尸骨累累蔚为壮观的战争年代，我仍然悠闲吹着长笛。
向日葵死去了，死去了!
据进行谋杀现场勘察的要案警探说,
——例如调查女明星之死的警察——
它们的脸孔在某种程度上由于“鼠类活动”而有些“支离破碎”,
他们经常打靶场对着我的虚拟影像一顿狂轰滥炸。
屏幕上是我和沾满血污的水果，正对一个玩具娃娃做着不可描述的事。
我们简直在创造历史。
我们充分利用一段狼藉的武装时间。
当各方暴乱平息。看看尸体能堆多高？
那叫国债。
女明星香消玉殒
女明星死了。那个在泳池片、
枪械秀中华丽登场的女明星。
他们播放着八十年代的靡靡之音大放悲声，因为她曾经是他们美丽的荧屏女神——但不过那股风也没吹几年，
那些年她主演的枪战片就像私家侦探视角下痛苦与解剖学的欲望花园，
“简直是酷刑。”一个在着一系列影片中审问我的警察说。我是隐姓埋名的影星，
饰演过马尔菲公爵夫人[1]，尸体被涂满了杏仁酱。
我与公爵夫人本人命运如出一辙，没人逼我出现在现场。
我在一个派对上。警察们正在用新的、污染程度较轻的玩具重建现场。
离开之前我对他们的现实主义表示赞赏。
他们夸奖我包皮割得漂亮。
我早该告诉他们：想象你自己躺在那里满身蛋糕碎，那场景多么惨烈。他们永远找不出凶手。
我痛恨蛋糕。
想象我在夜莺中间割腕。
在法律范围内我这么做了。当一切都失效，我对我的妻子这么做。我突然歇斯底里但并没有人因此死去。在女明星的成名作《罪恶之花》中，我对着镜头撒谎，
我描述一条优雅的女衬裤，
和鸽子们的头骨。
今天我妻子切下了一片小白鼠脑组织放在玻片上，
在显微镜下观察。
也是今天，想起在警察暴力片里，
我们塞住的那些嘴，
回想那些可怖的特写镜头，
它们不断提醒我，
自己 “丧心病狂”的若干小时。
明天我将仍然一筹莫展，我会拆开起居室里的橱窗模特，
把它填满泥沙和体毛。
我要用打火机烤化它的皮肤。
我的女儿们惊叫，她们把她叫做“妈妈”。
虽然那是一个男模，我对此无法理解。
也许因为它没有男性特征，但它也没有女性特征。
也许这正是我烧掉它的理由。
蜜蜂濒临灭绝。
它们变得漆黑，像黑可卡因、黑牛奶。
荡妇们也有变黑的一天。
住在洛杉矶的她们非常靓丽，我为她们拍照：
作为讽喻的尸体。
——犯罪从来没有报酬。
我无法辨别监控录像中一个人在对另一个人做什么。
勉强算是舞蹈。一种乱扭——手舞足蹈。
凶手看起来酷似我，但更加不修边幅、更加狼狈。
而受害者则像个处女——你懂的。
“海底两万里”——你也懂的。
如果我摆出恰当的姿势，也会像个处女。
但我看起来也像有孕在身——
怀着一场蓄势待发的战争。
这家旅馆可能关张大吉,因为我妻子其实是我姐妹,我们和白人颠鸾倒凤、和白人一起吸食可卡因，
但我们把它摊在亚洲人身体上吸——小骨架的亚洲人的身体。
堕落退化就是白人的现状。他们的艺术说明了一切。
瘦骨嶙峋，我们这些白人，我们有时候退化、变成同性恋，或者直接在酒店里噎死。
我这么白，是你的爱人。
你那么白，简直比长崎还要美。
谋杀无疑是在真实的身体上实施的，但我的免疫系统无法识别这些入侵的蛋白质。
这场骚乱名叫“致命盛宴”。
儿子说：我会通过他之口找到你。
他自带恶魔光环，比如想给墙打手枪，刺铁丝网的阴影纵横投在他脸上。
洛城最流行的织物是丝绸。
白色是爱的颜色。
妻子让我躺着别动。“别动！”她喊道。
把我重新拼回一起时，她希望戴着她那条雪白的项链，也想对我阅读她的“暴行时尚”之书。我想读的是《威尼斯商人》里关于一片肉的意象。为了肉的意象我想做一个马术教练。
妻子读到一本书，遥远的星球上每个人都美梦成真。我说这太美妙了，妻子说不这简直可怕。孩子噼里啪啦的杂沓足音，蜂拥的黑人裸女。
显然某个角色在反复杀妻。
显然他的妻子反复追问：为什么你就这么想除掉我？
她应该不是处女。我想。媒体制造了多个版本。这个星球可能是就某种媒体，是洛杉矶的替身，而洛杉矶则是女阴的替身。
她将在我的下一部电影里饰演爱娃•布劳恩[2]一角。
这部影片还有其他主角，比如带着手铐的橱窗模特和烂橘子——女儿们把它们拿到房子里来招引蝴蝶。
蝴蝶联翩而至，聚集在我的痛处和我妻子的私处。
敌人是假的，是他制作的影印本。
他会在银幕上杀死自己。
妻子说通往极乐的道路必然尸横遍野。
我想是湿横遍野。
她说是X横遍野。
我不想面对镜头
当我试图把自己的嗜风景癖搞复杂，
然后我开始幻想乳房和禁止纳税的法律条款，
因为我对关于骚乱的阐述津津乐道，
而法律清晰无比——当它开始在光天化日下瓦解。
暴民们显得优美，因为我所有钞票都是外币——在老鼠们的乐章里——我通常会为此昏厥过去。
我通常缠着黑色丝带……源于对葬礼的着迷……
我通常恨男人的身体。所以我是法律的理想读者。
我带着信念去读，读得欲火焚身。
你可以引领我带着这欲火穿越暴乱。
你可以把我称为这个秋季的“罪恶之花”。
你可能看起来有口腔感染的迹象，如果你让我看起来像被我的钞票感染了一样。
我想让青少年看起来更叛逆，
就像总统一样。
我需要他们为了纪念我死去的朋友分食糖果。
……就像为一个从巴格达妓院里撕啃猪肉回来的士兵举行的凯旋派对。
落日里，女人的吐沫星子最绚丽，白色石灰穿过我书房裂缝的窗户落进来时，男人的身体 最优美。
我在书房里保存着我的头骨和玫瑰，以表明我并不属于此地。
我属于此地。
我的确属于。
洛城里到处都是橱窗模特。
有时候我的心在滴血，有时候我无动于衷，
我听着洛杉矶熙攘一片的交响曲，
听着屠宰场地面回荡的猪的哀嚎。
青少年们的嬉闹声，朦胧得仿佛万物都披着一层体毛，
以及在洛城只要你竖起耳朵就能听到的细小声响：
你能听到一场在洛城地界内的审讯，
听到《资本论》，
或者一只被爆头的鹿。
而诗人们只想做典雅或疯狂之语，
诸如赖在床上。
我赖床因为我妻子就在床上，她有着傲人的胸部。
而后我走向一扇门——
当然是个陷阱 (唯一让人铤而走险那种)。昨晚它被看门人当做垃圾拆掉了。所以是个陷阱。是一个关于同性欲望的征象。还有黑人对黑人的暴力。一切都是以暴易暴。
正如你的表演，洛城。
正如我的表演——废墟，而你的表演主题不外乎梦游和其它狗屁。正如我的表演，你在各大媒体天花乱坠的铺张宣传俨然羊癫疯发作。
我们口齿含糊地乱搞。
我总在歌唱墨西哥，歌唱天鹅和手术台上的收音机——
用这副饱经蹂躏的嗓子。
你在何处表演？
今夜在堕胎诊所。
今夜在耶路撒冷。
今夜我走进一个为作者开的酒吧，订制打进我自己脑袋上的一发子弹。
在罗马。
当其余一切灰飞烟灭，
用枯萎的花朵恫吓土著。
在深夜醒来索要一只用于暴打的狐狸。
尽情享乐吧。
有人可能会指责我试图藏匿不义之财。
这不是事实，我正是在脏钱上书写以上章节。
莎拉用脏钱支付弗朗切斯卡•伍德曼[3]可卡因粉尘飞扬的宅邸的修缮费用。我给她脏钱因为我无法停止怀念弗朗切斯卡•伍德曼。
“你穿什么？”我庄重地问她。
“我丈夫的血。”她说。
“你嗑什么药？”我严肃地问她。
“我丈夫的血。”她说。
她正在捆绑某些东西，似乎是悬在天花板上的钩子。一定是她从“魅惑之心”屠宰场找回来的。我在那里看到过它。我多想在那里被大卸八块。
我嵌在这座城市里孤独万分，妻儿都离我而去。
我太易燃。
我甚至无法区别乱坟岗和一幅杜尚[4]。
我妄想一切都是由猪构成的。
猪肉堆成的游泳池：巴格达。
任何名画都是猪的变体。我分辨不出艺术杰作与谋杀审判。洛城有如此多美丽的猪。
它们甚至让我产生了情欲，但我只是继续写作。
我饥肠辘辘、口中干渴，看到一幅幻象：
一幅艺术家的画像——镜中的一具尸体。
开裂的玻璃镜面上一具死猪尸体。
我看了一部电影——关于饥馑再次来袭。
我记得最后我的尸体如何 “陷于严霜”。
有人试图围歼流浪汉，
或者回归金本位制[5]。
我意识到：我要写一本关于大屠杀的书。
但其实它不过是又一本关于皮肤和鞋的书。
身体是永恒的主题，不过只是诱饵。
荡妇们美妙极了。雕像间举行的派对伤透了我的心。
莎拉说：“没人被爆头，就没有派对。”
按她的说法，通往极乐之路上洒满照片。
每张上莎拉都抱着一只幼鹿。
瘟疫创造了尸体的意象。
那迟钝的爆发被录像最先捕捉到。
这就是为什么我买了一套新西服。
仿佛我只能在丝绸中陷溺至死。
只能在香烟中焚烧。只能被警察击毙。
“每天都是折磨”。佛教让我明白这一点。
“生活并非真实。”艺术让我明白这一点。
“它甚至并不是生活。”伊拉克战争让我明白这一点。
选自《糖书》 (Tarpaulin Sky Press, 2013)
（本文略有删节）
译者注：
[1] 《马尔菲公爵夫人》：悲剧作家约翰•韦伯斯特作品。
[2] 爱娃•布劳恩（Eva Braun）：阿道夫•希特勒的情妇，1912年2月6日出生于德国慕尼黑市，1945年4月在希特勒自杀前夕与其结婚，随后和希特勒一同自杀。
[3] 弗朗切斯卡•伍德曼（Francesca Woodman），1958年出生于丹佛，罗德岛设计学校毕业，摄影艺术家，1981年死于自杀，年仅22岁。Francesca Woodman以拍摄自己或女模特的黑白摄影闻名，而且大多数作品中的人物是裸体的。她对人和空间之间的关系非常感兴趣，通过相机的运动或长时间曝光等手法将人物的面孔与环境融为一体，创造出一种超现实梦境般的视觉感受。人和空间之间的关系，一直都是摄影所探索的，Francesca Woodman用相机作为一座桥梁将人的内心世界和外部世界联系在了一起。
[4] 马塞尔•杜尚（Marcel Duchamp）：（1887年7月28日－1968年10月2日）出生于法国，1954年入美国籍。二十世纪实验艺术的先锋，对于第二次世界大战前的西方艺术有着重要的影响，是达达主义及超现实主义的代表人物和创始人之一。
[5] 金本位制 （Gold standard）:以黄金为本位币的货币制度。在金本位制下，每单位的货币价值等同于若干重量的黄金（即货币含金量）；当不同国家使用金本位时，国家之间的汇率由它们各自货币的含金量之比——金平价来决定。金本位制于19世纪中期开始盛行。在历史上，曾有过三种形式的金本位制：金币、金块本位制、金汇兑本位制。
附原文：
Poems from The Sugar Book (Tarpaulin Sky Press, 2013)
THE MEADOW
We live in The Meadow but it’s a hotel. We pay for it.
We call it The Meadow on account of the lamb masks. And because of the sweet-smelling girl bodies on the sidewalk. And because of my own tendency to affect the air of a shepherd. Even during a time of plague-like symptoms, I get murdered by the killer of little shepherds. Even during time of a war that piles up bodies in sublime numbers, I play the flute.
Die sunflowers die!
The faces are somewhat “disarticulated” due to “rat activity,”
according to the cops who study such things in order to solve murders,
for example the murder of a Starlet
who shot videos of me at the shooting gallery.
That’s me with the smeared fruit, doing that thing with the doll mouth.
We are making history.
We are using fucked up military time
while the riots expire. Look how many bodies we can pile up.
It’s the national debt.
THE STARLET IS DEAD
The Starlet is dead, we’ve seen her in the pool
and we’ve seen her in the gun shows
they were playing shitty 80s music and crying because once upon a time she had been their beautiful Starlet. But not for years.
For years she had been shooting films that look more like the lustgardens of suffering or anatomies viewed through “private eyes.”
They look like torture, said a cop who interrogated me about my role in all of this. My role was that I was her secret star.
I was the Duchess of Malfi and my body was smeared with apricots.
I am the Duchess of Malfi and nobody forced me to be there.
I was at the party that the cops are re-creating with new and less infected toys.
I praised them for the realism before I left.
They praised me for my foreskin.
I should have told them: Picture yourself covered with cake, imagine how much it hurt. They will never find her killer.
I hate cake.
Pretend I slit my wrists with nightingales.
I did it while listening to the Law. I did it to my wife while all else failed. I had a tantrum but nobody died. I lied to the camera in the Starlet’s masterpiece, The Crime Flower.
I described a pair of beautiful panties
and the skulls of pigeons.
Today my wife carved up a rat brain and placed it on the glass pane,
and looked at it through her microscope.
Today I think about the mouths we stuffed in
the movie about police violence.
I think about the horrific close-ups
and they reminded me of when I was “satanic”
for a few hours.
Tomorrow I will find no leads so I’ll bust up that mannequin
in my living room. I’ll fill it with sand and pubic hair.
I’ll use my cigarette lighter to melt the skin.
My daughters will be horrified because they call it “Mother.”
It’s a male mannequin though, so I don’t know why that would be.
Perhaps because it has no penis but it doesn’t have a vagina either.
Perhaps that’s why I have to burn it.
The bees are becoming extinct.
They are turning black like black cocaine or black milk.
Even the whores are turning black.
The whores are beautiful in Los Angeles and I take
their photographs: cadavers for the allegory.
– Crime does not pay.
I can’t tell what the person on the security camera is doing
to the other person.
A dance of sorts. The Twist. The Crawl.
The perpetrator looks like me but more disheveled, more fucked.
The victim looks like a virgin if you know what I mean.
20,000 leagues beneath the sea: if you know what I mean.
When I adopt the right pose I too look like a virgin
but I also look like I’m with child.
With war.
This hotel might just collapse because my wife and I are really siblings and when we fuck we fuck with the white race. We sniff cocaine with the white race
but we sniff it from Asian bodies. Small-boned Asian bodies.
Degeneracy is something that happens to white people. In their Art.
We’re so fucking skinny when we’re white we sometimes go backwards and become homosexuals or just choke in hotels.
I’m so white I’m your lover.
You’re so white you’re more beautiful than Nagasaki.
The murder was based on real bodies not doubt but my immunity system didn’t recognize the foreign proteins.
The riot was called The Deadly Feast.
My son says: I’m gonna get you with his mouth.
He has a Satanic Glow. Like he wants to masturbate the walls. Barbwire shadows on his face.
Silk is the most popular fabric in Los Angeles.
White is the color of love.
My wife tells me to lie still. Lie still, she shouts.
My wife wants to wear a snow-colored necklace when she puts me back together again but she also wants to read to me from her book of atrocity fashion. I want to read Merchant of Venice for the meat imagery. I want to be a Riding Instructor for meat imagery.
My wife tells me about a book she’s read in which a distant planet makes every man’s dreams come true. I say how beautiful, but she says no it’s horrible, lots of pitter-patter of children’s feet, lots of naked black women.
Apparently one character keeps killing his wife.
Apparently she asks: why do you want to get rid of me?
She wasn’t a virgin, I think. Media makes duplicates. The planet was maybe media maybe a stand-in for Los Angeles which is a stand in for cunts.
She will play Eva Braun in my next picture show.
My next picture will also feature scuffed mannequins and rotten oranges because my daughters carry them into the house to attract butterflies.
Butterflies swarm around my sore and my wife’s cunt.
The enemy is a fake because he makes copies.
He will kill himself on Television.
My wife tells me that the road to joy is littered in corpses.
I think they have sperm on them.
She thinks they have Xs on them.
I WANT TO KEEP THE CAMERA OUT
when I attempt to complicate my landscape fetish
but then I start to think about tits and the law
against paying your taxes because I love the illustrations of the riots.
The Law is pretty clear when it comes to collapsing in public.
The mobs are pretty because all my money is in foreign currencies – i.e. rat music – and I tend to faint.
I tend to have these black ribbons... funeral possessions...
I tend to hate men’s bodies. It’s what makes me the ideal reader of the law.
I read it with convictions and I have a hard-on.
You can carry me through the riots with my hard on.
You can call me Crime Flower this autumn.
You can look infected in your mouth if you let me look infected in my money.
I need teenagers to look even more repulsive
like presidents.
I need them to eat candy in memory of my dead friend.
... It’s like a welcome-back party for a soldier who’d been eating pork at the whore-palace of Baghdad.
Women’s spit looks best at sunset, men’s bodies look best
when pale stuff is coming in through the cracked window in my study. Where I keep my skulls and roses to demonstrate that I don’t belong.
I belong.
I belong.
Los Angeles has many dummies.
Sometimes I have a bleeding heart but sometimes I don’t anymore
because I listen to the music of Los Angeles
the sound of pigs being concussed on slaughterhouse floors
the sound of teenagers with a thin layer of pubic hair over everything
and sometimes if you listen hard enough in Los Angeles
you can hear an interrogation taking place in Los Angeles
or you can hear Capital
or you can hear a deer get shot in the head
while poets want me to say something cute and crazy
about wanting to stay in bed
I stay in bed if my wife is in bed because she has big tits
and then I go to an opening
which is a beautiful lie (the only kind worth dying for). It was torn down last night because a janitor thought it was trash. So it’s a lie. It’s also about homosexual desire. And black-on-black violence. Violence-on-violence violence.
Like your show, Los Angeles.
Like my show, Ruins, your show is all about like sleepwalking and shit. Like my show, your hype comes out of epilepsy and social media.
We fuck with slurred mouths.
I’m always singing about Mexico, always singing about swan and radios
on the operating table with this fucked up voice.
When is your show taking place?
Tonight at the abortion clinic.
Tonight in New Jerusalem.
Tonight I’ll walk into a bar for authors and order a bullet in the head.
When in Rome
when all else fails
imitate the natives with dead flowers.
Wake up in the middle of the night and ask for a thrashing fox.
Pig out
Someone might accuse me of trying to hide my blood money.
It’s not true, I’m writing this on blood money.
Sara is using blood money to finance her recreations of Francesca Woodman’s cocaine-dusted mansion. I gave blood money to her because I can’t stop thinking about Francesca Woodman.
What will you wear, I ask her solemnly.
My husband’s blood, she replies.
What drugs will you use, I ask her solemnly.
My husband’s blood, she replies.
She’s fastening something that looks like a hook in the ceiling. She must have bought it from the slaughterhouse in the heart of glamour. I saw it there. I too wanted to be torn apart there.
I’m also embedded but I feel lonely today because my wife and children are gone.
I burn easily.
I can’t tell the difference between mass graves and Duchamp anymore.
I think everything is made of pig.
A swimming pool made of pig meat: Baghdad.
Every great work of art is made of pig. I can’t tell the difference between great works of art and murder trials. There are so many beautiful legs in this city
and that makes me want to fuck but I keep writing
because I’m hungry and thirsty and I keep seeing
a portrait of the artist as a corpse on a mirror.
Pig corpse on a cracked mirror.
I watch the movie about hunger strikes again.
I remember how afterward my body was “placed in the frost.”
Some people want to round up the homeless
or return to the gold standard.
I get it: I want to write a book about the holocaust.
But it will be just one more book about skin and shoes.
The body is always involved, but only as decoy.
Whores are incredible. It breaks my heart. This party among statues.
Sara says: Nobody shot in the head, no party.
According to her, the road to joy is lined with photographs.
In each photograph Sara is cradling a “baby deer.”
The plague makes images of the body.
The bovine outbreak was first captured on video.
That’s why I have to buy a new suit. It’s like I have to drown myself in silk.
I have to burn myself with cigarettes. I have to be beaten to death by cops.
Every day is suffering. Buddhism taught me that.
Life is not realistic.
Art taught me that. It’s not even life.
The Iraq War taught me that.
作者简介：
约翰尼斯·戈兰森（Johannes Göransson）：诗人、翻译家、评论家。出生于瑞典隆德，后移居美国，现居印第安纳州南本德，任教于圣母大学（University of Notre Dame），并与合伙人JoyelleMcSweeney共同运营Action Books出版工程。著有六部著作，其中最近一本为《糖书》（Tarpaulin Sky Press 2015）。翻译过Aase Berg,Henry Parland, Johan Jönson, Ann Jäderlund等多位瑞典诗人作品，目前正在撰写一部翻译理论著作。
译者简介
殷晓媛：“百科诗派”创始人、智库型长诗作者、“泛性别主义”写作首倡者、中、日、英、法、德多语言写作者。中国作家协会、中国诗歌学会、中国翻译协会会员。代表作有11000行长诗“前沿三部曲”、六万行结构主义长诗“风能玫瑰”、主持“2018人工智能纸魔方”（六国语版）视觉设计+行为艺术项目。出版有四部个人诗集及八部著作，被美国、英国、德国、法国、俄罗斯、爱尔兰、新西兰等国一百余家国家图书馆、世界顶级名校图书馆和大使馆大规模收藏。俄罗斯国家图书馆采编部部长T.V.彼得鲁先科将百科诗派著作誉为“横贯当代中国诗坛的百科诗学主义之强流”，多米尼加国家图书馆馆藏发展部部长Glennys Reyes Tapia则称之为“博大文化代表、书志编纂研究瑰宝”。
本作品由作者独家授权、殷晓媛首译，未经本公众号书面同意，原文/译文不得转载或以任何形式使用。作者及译者保留追究法律责任的权利。