The Children of the Middle Class: A Poetry Triptych

I

I am astonished by the tidy minds of the middle class children,
still handcuffed by disciplinarians behind milling machines
posed like an airplane,
bent over,
body at a ninety-degree angle, arms thrown straight back.

Their precision has reached its limit,
some on medical parole, some out on bail, some on probation.
Their parents have paid their dues in death and taxes, but
the rights they held were missing in the beginning,
and must be stripped away again,
justified like Confuciusism
They see “knowing” and “knowledge” as the same 

No one needs to know.
They are merely machines that can fuck. 

Nothing keeps them from becoming
Laplace’s demon, omniscient and omnipotent,
seeing every atom’s trajectory in the universe and declaring:
“Its all fucking nothing.”
Time is like pirated porn downloaded by countless hands,

someone labels it “sister-in-law,”
someone in Vietnam uploads it in Vietnamese,
someone titles “college student,” someone “co-worker,”
someone “friend’s wife”—top-tier MILF.

They collide with these spawning endless questions.
They have many rights - battered, awaiting delivery,
parcels that sit at collection points;

They all have great potential,
all waiting for demolition and relocation,
all indefinitely postponed,
all applying for permits
to raze their cocoon of information,
their minds haunted by songs and memes
made by humans with upgraded brains.

They are surprised to find they can sing every shrill internet noise.

Then, the Senior official proposed a toast,
and the director toasts:
“These dwellings will not hold you.”
All rise,
announce to society in line,
with permits, dates, and prices clear.
But it must rain. Don’t demolish yet.
Sometimes in rain their forms shift.
Sometimes face recognition fails.
After rain, arthropods emerge everywhere.

How much better can it be outside?
Everywhere you go;
scan your face, pay with your image, enter street blocks
Their brown chitinous shells
reflect only streetlight spots
antennae extended,
eight compound eyes fixed on cameras,
yet they endure.

Praised for survival and adaptability.
They are not colonial vanguards nor Young Pioneers
nor construction brigades nor sanitation crews.
They are just very weary.

Later, the Hebei Provincial Department of Water Resources
and the Hebei Provincial Meteorological Bureau
jointly issue a disaster warning.

After the rain, they crawl across the mountains and plains.
Dreams writhe from burrows and grass heaps.
They search with their asses in the air, holding flashlights.
Some collect dreams that sell for one yuan each.
They seize them with all their might.

Once compensation standards and resettlement plans are set,
they eagerly begin to be packed into suitcases, wearing anxious looks.

They don't open the sunroof or the windows.
They don't let any smoke escape the car.
They adhere to vigorous industrial development feeding agriculture,
combined with environmentalism and sustainability.
See those great smokestacks,
factories and workshops.
A cloud of inert gas hangs over their heads.
They use border collies to herd cattle,
driving the gas into sunscreen bottles,
preparing to ship and sell.

They list these sunscreens on second-hand trading platforms.
This is this month's quota.
This stuff matters.
They buy it, spray themselves, stand outside.
This is the job they've been assigned,
bearing UV burden for humanity.
This method avoids the friction of unemployment.
Cyclical careers.
As long as the sun is shining.
They hold bright rice bowls. Wear anti-scalding gloves.

Later they all go abroad,
applying for visas, Fujian excluded.
They trade in ideology.
They learn of their naivety,
Then they learn what in themselves can be sold.
There they search every pocket,
regretting they sold all those dreams they caught.
Where dreams exist, big money can be made; what else remains?
Sell ideology, earn money,; also free their left hand.

Others among overseas Chinese curse them,
calling them traitors.
They do not blame them—they have lived little.
They say if the nation faces disaster they all donate.
Yet they look like the kind of men who let the girl pay for the hotel room,
and pocket the deposit on their way out.

They aren't bad at heart:
The rise and fall of the nation
is the concern of every common man.

Illegal and temporary structures
will not be compensated.
Those who lived lawfully 

If they sign,here can be compensation for demolition.
Holding the money, not knowing which city to go to.

They continue to learn,
to seek knowing or knowledge,
more and more,Masters and PhDs,
they'll earn millions in the future.
Back then they signed the papers,
unless their new apartment building is also left unfinished.
This new house feels like an interrogation room.

Why is it like this?
they ask.

Free to ask: yes, but must first register.
Register: yes, but must fill out forms.
Forms: yes, but must answer questions:
What stance does your speech represent?
Do you understand its implications?
Are you aware of its gist?
Do you grasp its thought?
Do you perceive its reflections?
Do you support its stance?
Do you participate in discussion?
Do you hold a clear attitude toward related statements?
How do you define the problem?

What are your views on this?
Are your views based on speculation?
Are they grounded in evidence?
Do you have solid data supporting your argument?
Are your views aligned with collective values?

II

A bottle of Brave the World is eight yuan, he said.
He finished it, swapped a second for a Snow, five yuan.
He said Tianya was sold out, then fetched two bottles of Big Green Stick.

I can see the fridge full of Tianya.
I can see his literary flair, writing with flowing grace about the
ignorant middle class children,
claiming impotence to rebel against the world.
He just wants to save a few yuan.

I know what that feels like.

Security checks are unusually strict, yet someone still makes noise in the silent carriage.
Society needs a third child; you need sleep; children are louder.

I can see these children, powerless before the world,
yet treated humanely by the greatest slave-owner.

We loathe our former selves, inward and outward.

Sour scent; rotten condoms in ashtrays;
nothing but air-conditioning. A smell like dead children.

I know what that feels like.

I can see the clumsy Beatniks on the internet sharing their sex lives,
Finding niche topics to substitute talent.
Best not to do it on a rooftop,
Lest you run into a pioneer exactly like yourself,
making things pretty awkward.

Imperialist devils swarm over the mountains, coming again and again, planes whistling, only one platoon left on our position, defend the hilltop to the death.

I can see the dandruff flying from dense rows of hair on the subway, in the mall, in the park,
people look at me but strafing their gazes.
I recoil.
Want to dive into a trench, I need supplies.
And warriors standing alone against hundreds still envision the future before death,
and modernity.

I don't know what that feels like.

Walking campus, reading the finest “-isms.”
Weekends finishing drafts; housemates all writing novels,
going on dates armed with literary magazines,
recalling the beloved twentieth century’s eighties.

I want to know what that feels like.

I can see Chinese populists debating the future of the world. I try to return to simplicity,
treading shallow, then deep
on piles of flamboyant trash, looking down on most people.

And yet "culture is of the masses, and therefore democratic."

I don't know what that feels like.

I don't know what that feels like.

I only see what I want to see. I only know what I already know. I only like what I’m good at. I only resent what I resist. I only support what I endorse. I only indulge in passion. I only crave what I aspire to.

I feel awake, yet spiritless.
I am both colloquial and taciturn,
I read hate as unrequited love,
I brandish indulgence as an anti-Confucian revolt.
I classify extreme weather as an ideological issue,
I interpret madness as a social skill.

I vanish in intimacy, knowing only avoidance.
I hold objectivity with humanistic care,

I attack ugliness while seeking beauty,

I am the moralist embracing change,
I am the self-admiring plagiarist,
I am the smog of holiday resorts.
I want to live this way.
Even aliens cannot stop me,
until I no longer recognise the character “I.”

Is it I who knows myself better,
or you who understands yourselves better?

I know what that feels like.
Because we are all ignorant middle class children of this generation.

---

I
我惊诧于
中产阶级孩子们
整齐的头脑
依旧被管教人员反手拷在数控车床上，
用一个飞机的姿势，
弯腰，
身体呈九十度直角，双手向后举平。
他们的精度已到极限，
有几个保外就医，有几个取保候审，有几个缓刑，
他们的父母已交够了死亡和税，但
他们被给予的权利本就残缺，
还要剥夺，
像孔老二的儒术和修正主义般名正言顺，
他们并不知道“知道”与“知识”之别，

没人需要知道，
他们只是会交媾的人工智能，
他们天然被剥夺的权利避免他们成为恶魔，
全知全能的拉普拉斯妖——
洞悉宇宙原子所有的动向然后说一句：
啥鸡巴都不是。

他们凭什么感觉时间？
时间就像被无数人下载过的盗摄黄片，
有人上传标题写小姨子，
有越南人用越南语上传，有人标题写大学生，有人写同事，
有人写朋友的老婆——
顶级人妻，
他们撞上它们，冒出很多问题，
他们有很多权利，遍体鳞伤的等待快递上门送货
可快递统一放驿站，
他们进门对老板说：我来拿外卖。

他们有很大能力，都在等着拆迁，
无尽无期，
申领信息茧房的拆迁许可证，
脑里萦绕着
大脑升级过的人类制作的
歌曲和鬼畜视频，
他们惊奇发现
自己会唱所有的网络刺耳噪音。

接着，处长敬酒，
这些房子哪坐得住，
全都起身
按房屋拆迁许可证内容向社会发布公告，日期明码标价。
但是要下雨。先别拆。
有时候下雨时他们的样子会变。
有的时候不能通过人脸验证。
雨后节肢动物们都跑出来。

外面能好到哪去？
到处都要刷脸，刷脸支付，
刷脸出入小区。
他们棕色的几丁质甲壳只会在路灯下反射光斑，
延伸出的触须和八对复眼盯着摄像头，
还好他们只会逆来顺受。
生存能力强和适应能力强换来一句赞美。
他们不是殖民先锋队，不是少先队，
不是工程队，不是卫生队。
只是很累。

后来，河北省水利厅
和河北省气象局联合发布灾害预警，
他们在雨后爬得漫山遍野。
现在梦想蠕动着从地洞草堆里钻出来，
他们撅着屁股打着手电筒。
装备好的有头灯。等于解放了一只手。
大部分人都解放了右手。
有人收梦想，一块钱一个。
他们可劲抓。

等确定好拆迁补偿标准和安置方案，
他们就开始兴高采烈地
被行李箱打包成忧心忡忡的样子。

他们不打开天窗和窗户。
不让任何烟雾散出车外。
他们本着一种大力发展工业，工业反哺农业的核心思想，
结合环保主义与可持续发展。
看这些大烟囱啊，
还有厂房车间。
他们头上顶着一坨和就业率一样慵懒的惰性气体。
他们用边境牧羊牛，
哞哞地
把这些气体赶进了防晒霜瓶里，
准备运输销售。

他们把这些防晒霜挂在二手交易平台上。这是这个月的指标。
这东西很重要。
他们买它，防晒霜，
喷一身在外面站着。
这是他们分配到的工作，
为人类分担紫外线。
这法子拯救了结构性失业，摩擦性失业和周期性事业。
只要太阳一直在。
他们端着亮饭碗。得带防烫手套。

后来他们都去国外，
都去申请签证，福建除外。
去做点意识形态的买卖。
他们懵懂的开始知道自己身上有什么可以贩卖。
到这个地方，
他们翻箱倒柜，掏遍所有裤兜，
抓的那些梦想后悔都卖了，
这里有梦想就能赚大钱，他们还有什么呢？
贩卖意识形态——
赚钱买了头灯。也解放了左手。

骂他们的是其他海外华人，
他们说他们是卖国贼。
他们都不怪他们，他们经历的还少。

他们说国家有灾难他们都捐款。
但他们看起来像那种开房让女生付钱，

退房时把押金顺走的男人。
他们心眼不坏，
天下兴亡，匹夫有责。
违章和临时建筑不予补偿。

被拆迁人可以选择补偿方式。
可以签字。
拆迁可以有补偿。
拿着钱不知道去哪个城市。
他们还在继续学习知道，
越来越多，成了博士，硕士。

人人都爱博士和硕士，他们未来能赚好几百万，
当时他们签了字，
除非他们的房子也烂尾。
这新房子好像审讯室。

为什么会这样呢？
他们问。

自由的问，可以，得先报备。
报备可以，得先填表。
填表可以，得先回答问题：

你的言论代表着什么样的立场？
你是否理解其含义？
你是否知晓其主旨？
你是否明了其思想？
你是否领会其映射？
你是否并对其立场表示坚定支持？
你是否主动参与讨论？
你是否对相关言论持有明确态度和鲜明立场？
你如何定义对问题的定义？
你是否承认其背后可能存在的隐喻和象征？
对此你有什么看法？
你的看法是基于臆想和推测？
你的观点是否基于证据？
你是否有确凿的数据辅助你的论点？
你的观点是否符合集体的价值观？
你是否接受了用户条款？
你是否仔细阅读了说明书？
你是否接受过义务教育？
你是否被主流观念熏陶过？
你是否明确可能发生的后果？
你是否了解你将会承担的责任？
你是否阅读过了必读书？
你是否选择了必修课？
你的观点是否符合公理？
你是否给未成年人带来了正面影响？
你是否清楚你的言论可能会冒犯特定的群体？
你是否煽动了某个群体？
你是否在侧面与某个群体对话？
你是否将你的言论作为你存在的证明？
你是否将你的言论没有概括到的作为你不存在的证明？
你是否将你的言论消逝作为时间流动的证据？
你是否将你的言论的持续作为时间停滞的证据？

II
勇闯天涯八元，喝了一瓶，第二瓶换成雪花，

五元。

他说天涯卖完了，又拿来两瓶大绿棒子。

我能看见冰箱里满满的天涯。我能看见他的文采，写得飘逸，无知的中产阶级的孩子们，

却自称阳痿来对抗整个世界。

他只想少花几块钱而已。

我知道这是什么感觉。

安检环节严格异常，却还是有人往静音车厢里安装噪音。

社会需要三胎，你需要睡觉，小孩闹。

我能看见儿童对整个世界都无能为力，

却被最大的奴隶主施以最周道的人道主义。

我们厌恶内在和外在的曾经的自己。

腐烂的避孕套在烟灰缸中变腥，气味只能提供除了安全感之外的

凉茶空调免费。味道像是死去的小孩。

我知道这是什么感觉。

我能看见网络里拙劣的垮掉派在分享性爱，以为换个小众题材就有能耐。

最好不要在天台，别遇到个跟你一模一样的先锋，

整得挺下不来台。

帝国主义鬼子漫山遍野袭来，来了又来，飞机呼啸，我军阵地只剩最后一个排，死守山头。

我能看见地铁上鳞次栉比的头发飞散出皮屑，在商场在公园，人们看我，目光扫射。

我退缩。

想钻进壕沟里，我需要补给。

而以一敌百的勇士们站到最后，死前还在展望未来，

和现代。

我不知道这是什么感觉。

走在校园里，读读最好的主义。周末完稿，宿舍每人都在写小说，拿着文学杂志约会，

你最喜欢的美好二十世纪

八十年代。

我想知道这是什么感觉。

我能看见民粹的极左讨论世界未来。我在高深莫测的同时尝试返璞归真，

一脚深一脚浅地

踩在炫耀的垃圾堆上，看不起大部分人。

而“文化是大众的，因而即是民主的。”

我不知道这是什么感觉。

我只能看见我想看到的东西。我只了解我知道的东西。我只喜欢我擅长的东西。我只反感我抵触的东西。我只赞成我支持的东西。我只沉迷我热衷的东西。我只渴望我期许的东西。

我有大家长式的理想主义且语出惊人。

我觉得自己清醒，只是没什么精神。

我即通俗又含蓄，即高深又自由。

我把恨理解为爱而不得，

我把纵欲标榜为批孔反儒。

我把极端天气归类为意识形态问题，

我把疯狂理解为社交能力。

我潜伏在社交平台嘲讽所有真心实意，

我泯然于亲密关系中只会逃避。

我客观的同时拥有人文关怀，

我共情的同时保持批判性思维，

我抨击丑的同时追寻美，

我是游离于学院外另辟蹊径的奇才。

我是拥抱变革的卫道士，

我是孤芳自赏的抄袭者，

我是度假胜地的雾霾。

我想就这样生活着。

即使外星人也不能阻挡我，

直到我再也不认识我这个字。

是我更了解自己，

还是你们更了解自己？

我知道这是什么感觉，

因为我们都是这一代无知的中产阶级的孩子。