In the Kitchen

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