Melanie Tsang
Making

Writing

Abuse coke and wings but not my writing

1, 2, 3, approach me

    Writer. 
    Artist.


  

















削骨还父削肉还母

我常在黑暗中行走
左手揣着诗意
右手拎着一身伤
世人将苦难的汤分与我
喝下有甜，有咸，有海浪
隆隆声与叮咛声于我身执行车裂
从此我褪去诱人的迷彩
每欲叩响一道门
便褪去皮一层
那些并不与生俱来的，
从未被质疑的，
代代相传的，
皮囊
一具又一具，血肉做的，
挡子弹的，
尸山骇浪中模糊的白骨被披上
从此便看不见
骨头渗的水
骨头流的泪
唯有喝下这碗汤
蜕为赤子再叩首这道门






















                       I Give Birth to Myself

                        Hold, my prose from stretching the umbilical, and I
                        am sensitive, fragile
                        smart ass octopus In the morning, when
                        the lingering blue bursts high, this
                        me wake up
                        the other me try
                        to fall asleep under the bed, and I
                        realize I,
                        will be, giving birth to myself
                        like I’ll be, singing,
                        giving,
                        birth to myself like
                        I’ll be singing,
                        giving birth to myself,
                        like, singing giving birth to my, 
                        roots peeling from skin to the limb to the nerve to the bone to the red and the fat 
                        kneeling to every door I knock and pilgrimage and I molt and I thrive
                        vessel trimming line by line by line by phrase by rhyme by word bit by bit by mouth
                        “I will chew you up, my friend” 
                        there words sang 
                        my tentacles will grow at night from art, 
                        to earth, 
                        to poem, 
                        to breath,
                        to pull you out of my trench, 
                        my shy













Writing

When you hold water in hands and dip your face in
you know that writing is drenching
is all in
is through and through and through and confront and you shatter
to die is to find hope
to dance is to entangle
the art and artist
the fingers of death
the faith, the silence, the rebel
when you walk with the dark barefoot  
you know that writing is burning, 
breathing, 
take it in, and give it all 
then you breathe out glow, and chew no word in mouth
you see writing is peeling, 
is imploding and exploding,
is penetrating,
is pure lifing









                                           
FUCK BOREDOM