詩歌的形式｜Bukowski那首描述俄國暴行的詩

I read (and I no longer know which side did it) that in the Russian revolution they'd catch a man, cut him open, nail part of his intestine to a tree then force him to run around and around that tree, rolling his intestines about the trunk. I'm no sadist. I'd probably weep if I had to see it, probably go mad. but I do know that we are much more than we think we are even though the romantics concentrate upon the hate/and or/love of the heart.

我讀到過（已經不記得是哪派 做的了）在俄國革命時 他們會抓一個人，剖開他的肚子，將他的 一段腸子釘到樹上 然後強迫他繞著那棵樹 一圈圈地跑，他的腸子就一圈圈地 卷在了樹幹上。我不是個施虐狂。若不得不看， 我可能會哭，要麼大概會瘋掉。 但我知道， 即使浪漫主義 總傾注於內心的愛恨， 我們也比我們自己所以為的那麼些斤兩 要沈重太多。

listen, you write because it's the last machinegun on the last hill. you write because you're a bird sitting on a wire, then suddenly your wings flap and your little dumb ass is up in the air. you write because the madhouse sits there belching and farting, heavy with minds and bodies, you write because you fear ultimate madness...