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The Smelliest Part

Caption Author: Chen Xiaoyun Translator: Diane Wang 2013

What are you saying? You say that you didn't know. You say that every time and pretend. You're always avoiding responsibilities and playing the fool. You knew it from the beginning. You always knew and were just fucking me over.

You thought you prepared quietly. You thought you bore hardship without complain. You thought you believed in fate. You thought you would inevitably have the thoughts you thought about, that you would become what you wanted to. You thought you could make a little deal with fate. You thought you were experienced in this regard. You thought you could still continue to cheat on yourself and that you would accept it calmly. You even thought you were on the right path for fighting for your glorious future. You were almost about to start praising the beautiful life and to recall a life without regrets from the beginning to the end.

You still thought you could bear and accept it. You thought you were invulnerable. You thought there would be ups and downs, tosses and turns, that all kinds of pain and sadness would finally transform into unlimited surprises and Amitabha. Did you really think that you could then reward yourself with a colorful big bang and that standing in front of me would become a truth? You are such a fool, you though you could go on like this, that you could walk step by step and becoming stronger. You thought whatever you did, it wouldn't change anything. You thought you nearly solved your troubles, that you see clearly and thoroughly. You thought you should get up smilingly and delighted in the morning, brushing your teeth and washing your face, greeting the fucking big wheel. You thought you would become obscure, profound and that you surely would have worked out the existence you believed in from now on. How could you think you understood, that you a strong? How could you think who you were and that these consequences will owe you? How could you think that you could make use of everything when you fold your legs and that it would rain cats and dogs as long as you close your eyes? You thought you were still a child and that the world would be calmer with your tears.

You usually look well-dressed, but who knows what moldy heart there is in your body. You have nothing that can be exposed to the sun for even one minute. Your mind is gloomy and screwy. You hate everything. Your self-esteem is hidden under the evil surface of countless little knifes. You pretend to be touched and to love your life like a fine spring day. You pretend to be understanding and grateful. You pretend to be compassionate and that you care. You pretend to be laugh out loud and to love animals. You pretend to take picture of flowers, grass and desserts. You pretend to have loving memories and that your mind is following the wind. You pretend to sublimate yourself and to have a dead family. You pretend you can't live without yourself. You pretend to be surprised and that it is too late. You pretend that fate makes a fool of you. You pretend to walk through the door and open the window and suddenly you throw up all your life. You are hiding in the shadows, in a corner, in the fucking wardrobe, in other people's lives. You are hiding in the moment that everybody turns round, in your narrow garret, behind the 77th footstep, behind the 99 withered roses and in your wrinkled memory lank. Then you experience the electric leakage of the rainfall which pricks like needles.

What the hell is your plan? Can you work it out? Do you know what is important and what is secondary? Do you know what can be measured and what can be chosen differently? Do you know who is following blindly and who is straightforward, who is bitter and who tells stories? Do you know what is carefully managed and planned and what is appropriate and what not, what should be given up and what should not? Fuck your scheme. You think that you are a talent and that you can trick everyone. Do you think you can move on without obstacles by reading the Success Science, the Thick and Black Philosophy, the Eight Trigrams, the Yi Jing and the Thirty-Six Stratagems? Your subconscious secretly wants to call the boss, the factory manager, the president, the officials, the principal, the secretary, the master and someone who strangles your neck as your daddy. You are your dad's pauper, a jerk that fails everywhere. You confirmedly fell into a fantastical self-motivation and shout slogans that makes a day seem a year, falling down forever, rolling on the floor, bowing the head in a prayer. A soft finger can inadvertently make you pinch back the ants.

Suppose that others become tragic passer-by, honorable wounded, beneficial bacterium fermenting into your sympathy and some watery part within your memory. You consider them too stimulating, full of competition and challenges. There are no advertisement sponsors, no tracks, no stimulants and fluorescent slacks. The fighting against a illusion of objective reality and the illusion of subjective desire also don't exist. It is not a falling down on a bloody sand, nor a spotlight of will and fate, or an additional incentive. A dog which was trained to run and jump over obstacles his whole life, is faithful to the fate that doesn't belong to it and is drown in a miserable illusion of realistic reference. You play with the adversity and enjoy the tacit understanding among them And even if you wake up from a nightmare suddenly, you won't realize the comfort of escaping from the real world.

You are a bastard. The desire in the dream needs a nude rolling in the air. In terms of sexual reality, your subjective reserve reduces an advanced form where you gain an egomania. You can see nothing but the societal partners of sex. Your hands roll and raise until your self-satisfaction reaches its summit. You gain all the self-submitted rewards through masturbation. You control your poor farce through occupying and attaching it the body. You even yield to a minimal wave of neuroelectricity. You look like a poor frog which is clamped in the vagina. What a shit you love. You quiver all over. You flare nostrils, dilate pupils. Every pore of your body releases a rotten smell. You want to exchange your body with others. You want to open the tight bitch through love. A face in front of you is elegant, holy and inviolable. You wished to have a circularly romantic and erotic game and a drawer full of ejaculatory contract. What a shit you love. You are poor, mentally disturbed and faint. "I love all of you including all messages about you, your past and future. Your body is only an island." What the fuck. The front of your body is always blocked by other peoples' bodies. You don't have any contract with body trading that can stand the test of sexual behavior itself. Your self-illusions can't restore you and the memories over each sexual activity. You can't obtain the absolute, you can't even approach yourself closer to death every time you insert. You boil your dick, put it on the bicycle seat, shake it on a treadmill, arm it with knowledge from the brain and put a trencher cap on it. Your balls are full of money, you let your dick fly with dreams and climb up the highest mountains. You say that you are becoming bigger and bigger, you are no longer weak. You think your dick is suitable for a trek, you think it will explode. You say that you dick will incite a revolution. Your dick is on fire, it's storming the gates and escaping from low-class metaphors. Your dick wants a revolution, your leader wants to try once again and wants to get away from de depressive order.

You are a bastard. Your testicles are crushed. If you had a vagina, you would sprinkle a handful of sand into it consciously. Your low-level body doesn't have any sublimation or shift. You only have just a theatre that is relatively dirty with the area of excretion and circulation. In lengthy time between your last and next erection, you crowd the desire of various symbolic forms. You hit your mouth and then the sperm splits you in half at the psychological channel. You are a sucker who is swatted in a beach of pubic hair and pulverized on the field rolling over breasts during orgasms. What the hell can you complain? You are so stupid that you don't have any reason to complain whether you are a sucker or 9981 times a sucker. Please pack up your dick after having ejaculated a hundred times, and put it back in your fucking ten thousands hymns about love, at midnight in the rolling wheat fields, in the moment when a frog leaps and the field stimulated by cries, the tears and flowers, the sheets are all mixed with lies and vaginal orgasms. You are so stupid that even with the most foolish language you are chopped by materialistic swords belonging to women with big breasts and full of justice. You can't face your body and you can't deny it. The only thing is that shabby hanging phallic symbol, which is tied by worn-out old bed and exposed to sun and rain, so that it lost its soul.

You are already too old. You are born in 1971, ready to die at anytime, even if you are nothing in this world.
Put away your sad face, you know exactly what is going on.

You aren't satisfied and you don't want to admit it. A sucker like you is an odd number. You become a sucker in the form of an even number, you achieve the meaning of a sucker in the form of a complex number. You aren't an object, or a gift, you aren't an accident without injuries. You aren't your pain or your doubts, you aren't the fate of your subconscious and you aren't ashamed crawling up again when having fallen down. You don't cause your anger, you don't cast aside the anger of this city. You aren't the retailed conscience you though you are and you aren't the wholesale justice neither. You aren't the responsibility you thought to assume, you aren't your betrayed and abandoned tragedy. You have to admit it. But even if you do, it is still not going to work out. You are born as a slave, as a dog. You are an illegal successor of communism and a little sucker of the proletariat. You don't stand for your life, for the city or your job. You have nothing to do without your actions. You are not your silence, you don't cause your occasional laughter. You also aren't a square that you want to rush into and a clenched fist of you. At least you aren't yourself. You once were, perhaps, maybe, actually you pretend to become more obscure and more stupid, you close your eyes tightly and gasp loudly.

You don't know who your enemies are, whether you should hate this result or reason.

You can't focus on facts. You can't isolate yourself from this society which is falling fast. You can't break away from this criminal group, since you participated in each crime. You drafted each evil oath, you are an anonymous shareholder of this dirty waste yard. You have a contract singing with the devil's choir. You are an executioner steeping in every blood-drop and exchange latest criminal codes with this wicked world. You know where all these evil things were born and also the reasons why they were born. You don't resist, because you fear. You, him, them, me and us created countless scenes together and all of us participated in this drama together in the dark without lights. You can't just be a victim, a bystander and you also can't be an exception. You are guilty in the name of cowardice, abjection, slipperiness and muddle along. You are also guilty in the name of confusion and indecision, guilty in the name of expectation, belief, self-deception and unreasonable calm. You are guilty. Compared with this system, you can never plead for innocence. It is so wrong. You are even guilty for expressing your love for life. One country, one party, one leader, and you, him, them, me and us are all suckers.

You can't say you are pure even if you know nothing about this world.
Put away your innocent face, you know what is going on.

Who gave you the right of suppression and instigation? Who imparted you the superficial knowledge and give you the priority of right trust? Who allowed you to consider others? Who gave you the right to be inhuman and to personification? Who classified you into a second person and a third person? Who allowed you to use you, them and us to bullshit? Who gave you the hypocritical right of exemption and allowed you to compassionate, spout and close your eyes? You gave you the authority of overlooking the world in the name of God? Are you fine with this? Who allowed you to imitate workers and to stand on the stage of rhetoric to scare our knowledge by extremes? What you care about is the dominance of your own discourse and the right to plunder in the name of culture. What you care about is that you aren't responsible for the detachment of classes. Except what you are saying, you just are one of those despicable persons.

You are a parasite. You gain nutrition through the growth of scare. You just live by creating viruses. You rely on them reproducing your own illusions. You are awaked by the sixpenny vanity. You exploit the host through the limited activity of intelligence and create a level of words by instigating. Dear sucker, could you just become a honest worker in order to pocket your affectation of intellectuals, and punch and kick yourself bloodily so that you would fall down on the concrete in a painful and realistic way? Could you stop thinking for a moment, and cover the next lie and explanation by using the contusion of soft tissue, the burning sensation from some broken skeletons, the moan from fast flowing blood and the scream from your smelly mouth? Don't shout fucking honest and cut it out!

You are just a piece of shit. You are just a sucker after an electric shock, a pile of flesh with some cavities, an old appliance hanged with some plastic remnant. You are just a sweeper on the end of a lobby, yellow spots on panties, dirty things in the teeth and ants crushed by empty wine bottles. You are the bat under the eave, a dead sparrow at the telegraph pole.

You died. You died from the black night that is swallowing us, you died from the huge quagmire, died from the surge wave, died from a sentence, died from a piece of poetry, died from a song, from a rose, from the stray bullet. You died from the excessively noise, the excessively flourishing, died from the sin and the desire, died of the respiratory failure, died from the deepest secret, die of the amphetamine, died of the acrophobia, died from the evilly political party, died from the download, died from an app, died from a verb, a noun, a adjective, a name, a street. You died from running, died from giving up, died from loving again, died from the increased pressure of a turbine, died from the flashlight, died from madness, from cowardice and humbleness, died from the fucking regret with which you were born. You died from a cadaver which doesn't belong to you. You died from an unreal event. You died from a form which doesn't match you, from an additional value, from the fucking side of the subconscious. You died from a series of symbolic presents, from a barcode and a broken script. You died from the cycle of poor imitation, from the prudence of death. You died through the survival of a fundamental illusion. Throughout your life, you have just been a poor biomimetic pattern in the hyper-reality and a string of curving DNA molecules.

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