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fuck August

and you will fear death not
after all those transparent lukewarm sips
so many, even my finger looks like a maiden

the pale rose petals I baked
are pale enough to make me sick
and be sold as love

walk the stairs up, walk them down
one step is granted
the wrong before you collapse

heat and moist more willing than the most
available and ready

fuck August
and you will fear death now


Lying in the river of time,
often the waves of woe
have entirely submerged me.
In wandering and in prison cells
I spent my very precious youth,
my life
like yours
has been seared.

Ai Qing

Sun over seas
not the perfect weather to return ourselves
amidst the dearest of the waves
hands and feet and heads are sailing.
Another part of given time
drowned before our eyes.
The lisps stay lax
marking our way through
the gutter to the ocean.
Seven deaths afar
there lies, terrifying,
the clarity of our integrated surfaces.