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470–482°F No Tongue No Teeth
Goose-stepped purposefully towards the French cuisine,
got lost and found in your broken-soft yet care-determined wings.
I rubbed myself with butter so I may counter-attack a seductive fall of independence, and taste like your favorite bottled peanuts snack.
Ingredients piled as your wish to add firmness but couldn’t resist nor plan a decrease of our high-frequent-flamboyant surrender in each other containers.
It’s a mystery, the cigarettes you kiss nowadays in high temperatures to cover my ashes, shovels, tractors, it’s a dirty-staining man's work.
Will I get a day off, off this grave?
And your white-t-shirt?
I scoff your breast like a newborn giraffe that has to grow through the sorrow of breaking legs upon birth.
Life or death is an outstanding, chance, to kill success.
I mean, in good terms.
How you got so comfortable in the cloud of smoke and another’s bad or better breath, a strange flavor to acknowledge that fast, I wonder I falter the intelligence to consider a sweet escape in high temperature.
It’s autumn because just because time and patience found a reason:
a Seoul-suburb cherry blossom, wind gently kissing the trees.
I audibly moan to the sounds of yesterday’s tears.
In my pocket a dictionary of fears and high heels as I brave to extinguish tomorrow's lips.
Love me, feel me, tease me, please.
This one,
is not for you,
miss fees.
