continue to bear it? eyelids heavy as mountains his head tries lifting in the night tear-drenched starlight gushes down with wind, his frail body always about to shake moments of youth flee in annoyance leaving behind a snowstorm, a turbulent tumult in dreams, the flames he tastes are ice cold and his ground-off skin a bed of cotton bolls spread out in the winds of time intrinsic beliefs unable to find direction like his heart buried deeper than the depths of the ocean by life
On 30 September 2014, Xu Lizhi, a young worker at the Foxconn factory complex in Shenzhen, took his own life. Xu was just 24-years-old but had already produced a remarkable body of literary work, including poems, essays, film reviews and commentaries on current events. In his brief two-year tenure as a production line worker at Foxconn, Xu published more than 30 articles in the in-house magazine 'Foxconn People'.
I speak of blood, because I can’t help it I’d love to talk about flowers in the breeze and the moon in the snow I’d love to talk about imperial history, about poems in wine But this reality only lets me speak of blood blood from a rented room the size of a matchbox narrow, cramped, with no sight of the sun all year extruding working guys and girls stray women in long-distance marriages sichuan chaps selling mala tang old ladies from henan manning stands and me with eyes open all night to write a poem after running about all day to make a living I tell you about these people, about us ants struggling through the swamp of life drops of blood on the way to work blood chased by cops or smashed by the machine by casting off insomnia, disease, downsizes, suicide each explosive word in the pearl river delta, in the pit of the stomach of the country eviscerated by an order slip slicing like a kaishaku blade I tell you these things even as I go mute, even as my tongue cracks to tear open the silence of the age to speak of blood, of the sky crumbling I speak of blood, my mouth all crimson