When I take a walk on the bridge with my dead
cat in my arms, people say strange things to me.
They show unprecedented interest; they must feel
certain urges at the sight of a dead thing.

When I approach, mirrors crack and coats rip. Beds
fall apart, and bookcases topple. When I approach,
motorcycles fall over, canned meat cracks, and
plastic bags fly away. Cement becomes rice
pudding, the sun hides in the river’s womb. When I
approach, things run away.

A writer has his hands deep in his pockets, pulling
out his machine guns and rifles. Now the four-
eyes who wears glasses without lenses is aiming
straight into my pupil. The guy with prosthetic legs
pretends to want to shake my hand but trips me
instead. I am strangled by his neckties. And I know
that the guy dozing off on the bench, next to the
dog, is wiretapping me, tailing me. He is plotting to
make love to my dead body.

A knife sweeps the guts off the cutting board, and
people push me off the bridge. They blackmail
me about the emails I sent about whether or not
to show my black and white 16mm film I shot at
my sister’s apartment. How could a film be such a
threat to those who only eat things that are safely
dead, who put spotlights on the dead and make
special features, people with such ordinary taste?

Translated by Jiyoon Lee, Johannes Göransson, and Don Mee Choi