Classic Poem

The Chinese sleeps under his running horse.
His melon-shaped small head
laid alongside the horse's penis,
sometimes hanging from it,
he goes defecating over the winter topography,
the spear blockades of kaoliang after the harvest.
The Chinese, drooling drivel that glitters with poison,
binds the horse's fat body with the ropes his limbs,
leaves behind the rolling hills
with profuse blooms of twisted irises under the full moon.
In search of a larger proposition,
when morning comes he jumps across the river.
Between the horse's ears
the Chinese feeds skillfully,
carries hot millet gruel into his mouth slowly with a spoon,
a feat incredible to ordinary men:
this is no operation for profit or show
but, say, a secret rite that natural souls mainly perform.
With the tail bundle made incessantly
to stream out of the cage of the running horse's hind limbs
the Chinese wipes the sweat off one being, himself and horse,
and through the membranes of the horse's fiercely opened eyes
glances at a red-eyed infant a ruined clay house a coffin wrapped with the green of a weeping willow
a yellow sand tornado
and the Chinese hates the history of diseases.
The horse keeps running for its master inhabiting it inseparable,
and dying attempts a leap.
When ready to make a flight
the echo of its last fart
tears apart the floating horse buttocks.
The Chinese instantly forces his exhaustion
to meet the impulse of lust,
takes a wife from the direction of his back,
and achieves the prosperity of his race.
At daybreak when myriad-branched clouds
give birth to petty matters and great premonitions,
the Chinese continues to despise himself,
heads for the Forbidden City the Enemy
to inflict on it sinister punishments.