Chen Jun

The swinger the swirler the swirled: stop grieving. I drink all night but in a diminishing appetite. The scene outside is obscene from a humbling window. My sentiment spreads, my famine a flagpole, a grizzle. Birds sing next year’s songs, or antique rescues. I write but where shall I send it? Let go — I shall go tie the flowers the leaves the whole orchard. The outskirts are curved, shadows of countrywoman donors    ... You bring me a cup of fresh tea that I love, I return you two kapok leaves — like hand waves. Translated from the Chinese

Early in the morning a dough rises from the bowl curling upward. He clenches his fists of bean paste, his mouth dripping a black cocoa stream    ... Hey, I say, have you just smuggled nine knife mountains and nine oil pans from hell? Deep-fried ghosts are the sweetest the crispiest the most intelligent even in burned rims, and taste even better with soybean drinks. He droops his sad expressions like Oedipus’s crutch. Collapsed in the steamer, he squeaks out a sweet smell of duck soup from his soul — quack, quack. Translated from the Chinese