Yang Lian: A night in the Purple Tulip Palace

In this seraglio night always consists of      moonlight, jade steps and a curtain of pearls
all imaginary      a bunch of flowers against blue wallpaper
imagine      caving in under the concubine's clothes a mound of snow
snow waiting impatiently to be possessed its crystalline body slowly
turning      constantly curling in on itself in a slow dance
a bunch of tulips divesting itself of the love of self as it brightly declines
a kind of purple whisper which must be spoken breathily
addressing only him as he crushes the petals heavily
a drop of purple milk      like a concubine impatiently waiting to be sucked
concentrating      the entire world into one burning duct

In this seraglio      fire always has the rude playfulness of tongues
a pointed tip      licks the emptiness of skin      midnight's cling
green like leaves gathered at the concubine's ankles
his preference for her      a shower coming from every angle
watering the flower the little purple bowl of her nipple fills
in revenge against time      the pigment holds ocean's deepest spoils
a bunch of tulips slips in a single night from soprano to mezzo
tonight    tyrannous beauty is balanced by this aesthetic of erosion
this evasive scent which the concubine keeps for him alone    and only lets him savour
when the silky light can't stop      purple very gently splays open

In this seraglio there's always this dead bone phosphor light becoming a pistil's gleam
conducting the body's desire      to be played for all four seasons
carving out this hole cut through      the concubine's sculpted days
the wallpaper is blue like a crazy mind sewing up all past pains
only once      the hours' bitemarks into each flower
darken endlessly      the night is stitched onto flesh      endlessly fresh and tender
once in the beginning      purple      gradually spread like a drop of milk
slowly absorbed by the universe      which sees his lasciviousness      and winks
by staring he bestows on the concubine a totally dark grammar
the vase is like a word resting between the hands