in this happy-deathday, I serve you a bowl of soup, because it’s really you
clay bowl, kidney-beans, vegetables, all thickened with dreary cream;
there is an opened-eyes fish, but definitely can’t cry
they all would float and spread out the smell of awry

the soup has its hot steam, but it is not wandering to ceiling,
it is coming to my neck, ******* my guilty, which I have none

seeing this soup makes me twisting my hair; complicated
I was a loner clown living in the wardrobe—then you gave me one unicycle
you took me out from the pile of clothes
away from cockroach which peeing my head gleefully
til I was starving: yes, I am starving sardonically

I glare the flame of your sincerity which flies away somewhere
I lost my fingers in the soup
while bacteria just sitting cross-legged on the left side

the soup remains sour
and I need something to add—to drag my tasty life again

exactly in this happy-deathday, I reinvite you, my honey
mixing a handful fine-ashes with this soup: because it’s really you
so, how does it taste?
dive deeper and fine how delicious your beyond
no more illness, no more madness, no more confusion of my demeanor