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倒啊倒啊倒    —奇姆肯特的夏天 翻译：诗验室 抓饭是心之所归， 与大家分享日子的滋味。 香料监视干枯的眼，让沙哑的喉咙 变沉，一条夏毯裹着 促膝闲谈上菜。 墨色坐垫燃烧的颜色 绿茶在完整的思想上沸腾着 倒啊倒啊倒。当空杯 以金叶之唇打呵欠时，一直吃到所有的肉 都已耗光。母亲曾经告诉我们 太阳也持相同的看法 —— 它会在我们的皮肤上一直待到我们变瘦为止。 感谢的话在睡意十足的餐巾间溜到桌上 而朋友们则拿着账单相互搀扶。

Pour and pour and pour     —Summer in Shymkent by Katie Esmée Plov is meant for the heart, breaking bread the day.  Spices spy dry eyes and coat hoarse throats heavy, a summer blanket served with cross-legged conversations. Burning colors of inked seat cushions and zelenny chay simmering atop whole thoughts  pour and pour and pour. When empty chashka yawn lipped in gold leaf, eat until all meat is consumed. Our mothers told us the sun thinks the same – mooring on our skin until we've pruned. Spasiba slips to table among sleepy napkins while friends carry the bill and each other. Katie Esmée is a Bachata lover, yogi, and poet. 

Family Gathering translated by PLS pomegranates and slot machines and the glass bullets rolling in your eyes placing fate and other dazzling gemstones in a colorful maze those left behind tracing your footsteps devils marching across the wilderness can also be captured so easily and the sword of Mei Jian Chi from the darkest moment of flowers and the nameless shadow floating in the evening sky the slim body will generate beautiful and violent tremors in her fight against the Tauren this violent beauty as if falling into the giant horse-weeds blooming in the dusk in which the spirit that need not be drunk boiling more mysterious and cruel than the revenge of the first lover abandoned sneakers, voice of crystals, pitch-black rivers of floating disasters and pipes piercing through silver skyscrapers irrational shadows crushing each other in the reflection over the whites of the eye, never coming together dancing flies and bees as if watching pair after pair of horses galloping away yes, your enemy is the souls on the horseback all natural laws and self-claimed matters of orders whose lips once had the traces of tango dancers’ moves too but now losing the direction of eyesight in the bustling dead city lies petrified from speeches occupied by banality who keeps the sleepwalker at a gold-burning dinner captive the saddest thing about life is to play a song about dying when dying dead pomegranates blooming under the cold blazing sun where slot machines have gambled away all their glass bullets hairs flaming red, eyes blinking in the heat, ears led to the depth of the cave with rising yellow smoke by a pair of feathers galloping, hopping, wrestling phantoms, an honorable collective executing the act of murder along with the concerto of the clinking sounds of all wine glasses raised in the world from now on swirling or scattering fire and mist have stopped like their commotions fantasized from the negative and positive electrodes readings from face to face movements from the delirium of all still things and mental disorders

家庭聚餐 作者：青 番石榴和老虎机 以及你眼底转动的玻璃子弹 把命运同其他令人眩晕的宝石放进五光十色的迷宫中 那些剩下的踩着你的脚印 列队穿行于旷野的魔鬼也可以如此轻易被捕获 而那把来自花丛最昏暗的时刻，夜空中漂浮的无名阴影的眉间尺之剑 纤细的躯体将在与牛头人的搏斗中引起一阵阵美好剧烈的震颤 美好剧烈仿佛摔落于暮色下生长的高大蓬草 其中沸腾着无需饮用的烈酒 比第一个恋人的复仇更神秘残酷 遗弃的旅鞋 晶体的歌声 漂浮灾难的黢黑大河与穿透银色摩天楼的管道 无理的影子在眼白的倒影上彼此粉碎 永不结合 蝇飞蜂舞如同仰望一对对马蹄飞驰而过 是的，你的敌人是马背上的魂灵 一切自然规律与自称规律的物质 他们的双唇也曾浮现探戈舞者双腿的轨迹 如今在风尘仆仆的死城迷失目光的去向 谎言僵化自被庸常占领的话语 为之俘获的是燃烧着金子的宴席上的梦游者 世间的可悲 在于将死的时刻也自动奏响一首关于将死的歌 死去的番石榴盛开在 老虎机输光了玻璃子弹时放射的冰冷烈日之下 头发是火红色，眼在灼热中精光闪烁，双耳被一对羽毛带向升起黄烟的洞窟深处 飞驰、蹦跳、搏斗的幻影、行使谋杀的荣誉集体 连同世界上被举起的全部酒杯相互碰撞的协奏 从此停止了飞旋或倾撒火与雾 一如它们自电极正负间幻化的骚动 面孔对面孔的解读 一切静止之物的谵妄 与神经倒错中产生的运动

天秤座 翻译：诗验室 对那个妄想中 只容下密谋攻击 宇宙季的男人保持戒备。 因为有一天，他可能会觉得 其中一些诡计会比那些 由发酵的后悔支撑的诡计有着更明显的修饰痕迹。 他应该在黑边的棉花糖 与被旋至你贪婪的火焰周围 一堆潮湿的承诺之间 多参与一些夜行 希望你能理解乙醇制成的男人 与无月之空下被一饮而尽的那杯水 之间的区别

Libra Season by Lauren Elizabeth  be wary of the man whose scheme against the cosmic seasons lies unaccompanied in fallacious mind, for one day, he may find  some more readily refurbished  than those upholstered in fermented regret. and should he engage in nocturnal affairs between charcoal lipped marshmallows andthe dampened piles of promises swept round your ravenous flames, may you understand the difference between a man made of ethanol and a bedside glass of water swilled under a moonless sky.

crossing the river translated by PLS leave the river too long, then you try to look no longer obsessed with butterflies, no longer afraid of the blinding reflected light of the telescope what’s burning is still the rubbles untamed, still the arched body standing at the head of the bridge trembling, reflecting, crushed between the banks screaming, curling shells of cocoon “You shouldn’t cross the river!” yet you are already on the other shore because of a similar joy from brushing past each other,  again sculpted into a blood-stained statue by the fornication of similarities and differences “how could you cross the river” yet you are allowed to plant flowers using orange leaves and inked hands to feed a squad of dogs turned into a storm rain from continuous barking at least, this evening is still sculptable, still gentle enough to grant one sleep walk                                                              “what can I do about you” at the end it’s the intermittent groans of passersby yet because of this you always wail wail over a river too long, too dark, too wild but silent

渡河 作者：白昕沄 任那过长的河流，而你去看 不再执着于蝴蝶，不再 畏惧于望远镜中倒刺的光 灼身的，仍是未磨平的石砂，仍是 桥头站立又弯曲的身体 颠仆，反射，碎裂进岸与岸间 呐喊的、蜷曲的茧壳 “公无渡河！” 而你已在彼岸 因为一缕擦肩的相似喜悦，又被 相同与相异的交媾塑成了 一座带血的像 “公竟渡河！” 而你被允许种花 用橙红的瓣叶、用染墨的手去喂 一群吠着吠着便成了暴雨的狗 至少，这一夜依然可塑，依然 温柔得准许一次梦游                                              “其奈公何！”  尽头是过路人的断鸣 而你总因此而哭 哭一条过长、过暗、过盛却缄言的河

turbulence     — to YX translated by PLS we are forced to land here for now Brautigan on the table, like a defeated Indian tent trekking doesn’t take place on the other shore those mellow soils, ferns the rebounds after being rolled over by cars, yet around us, the muddy vulgarity embellished into chocolate paste — the more obsession people have with sweetness, the more bitterness proven, the more speed they demand,the more emptiness congealed into ores on the back inflammations from bad postures, increasingly intolerant to stooping, touching the porcelain of light over water the throat you bring to China, asking why there’s no difference between someone hearing “Jiangnan” and changing channels this reminds me of the concerns about earthquakes inscribed all over the top of the pagoda, inside ancient gates there’s always people building a country of a country in Mandarin. self-salvations already so suspicious as this, we can’t be as selfish as them it used to be the moon leading us through the night, then lamps, now, it’s the non-stop progress bars: galloping radio waves want me to answer whether suspending in the air is a real flight

乱气流 —给YX 作者：李晚 我们暂时迫降到这里 布劳提根扣在桌上，像一顶 战败的印第安帐篷 跋涉，并不发生在彼岸 那些松爽土壤、蕨类植物 被车碾过后的回弹，而在 我们周围，正被妆点成 巧克力酱的泥泞俗气—— 人们有多嗜甜，就有多少苦 得到证实，怀何种热情在 要求速度，就有同等的空虚 在背上冷凝成矿石 坏坐姿引发的炎症，越来越 难以容忍弯腰、向水面 抚摸光的瓷片 你到中国的咽喉，问 为什么有人听见“江南” 和换一个频道没什么区别 这让我想起宝塔高处写满 对地震的担忧，古老重门里 一直有人在营建汉语的国 中之国。 自救已如此可疑，我们 不能同他们一样自私 夜里为我们领航的，从前是月亮 后来是灯，现在，是永无止息的 进度条：疾驰的电波要我回答 是否悬空就是真正的飞行

tilapia translated by PLS I don’t understand why would someone who knows how to cook tear up in the kitchen is it because the stove becomes a turret or the sauces a drink of leisurely fun in fact it’s the groans of a wronged ghost — wide eyes staring like a lightbulb resentments bursting onto the chopping board palms sparkling with scales with half of the head remained bones of theirs, spurs of mine drawn out one after another displayed across the board thrown into a bin the smell of that river slaughtered by the butcher that ancient smell of the dead and of lifelessness rushing through the nose to the brain causing one to tear up I shut my eyes with disgust listening to the sizzling of the frying pan after all, I am as stuck as you you don’t want to become my food neither do I to sacrifice your life for mine when everything circles to the end through boring samsara when ruthless hands keep everyone’s fate under control in this world of rivers raging waves leaving one no way out in the end, there’s only a grieving sound of the wind left why would someone who knows how to cook have tears all over her face in the kitchen

罗非鱼 作者：北竹 我不明白 为什么一个自己会做饭的人 会在厨房里流下眼泪 是灶台变成了炮台 还是油盐酱醋变成了诗酒茶花 其实是冤魂的呻吟 硕大的眼球如灯泡一般瞪着 在案板上倾泻一腔怨气 鳞片在手掌上闪闪发亮 脑袋剩了半个 ta的骨头我的刺 一条条抽出来 横列在案板上 丢弃在垃圾里 那屠夫的杀戮的河水的味道 那死去的毫无生命的古老的味道 冲进了鼻腔冲进了大脑让眼睛流泪 我厌恶地闭上了眼睛 听见油锅的声音滋啦滋啦 说到底，我与你一样的不自由 你不想成为我的盘中餐 我也不愿 以你的生命为我的养料 当万事万物被无聊的轮回循环到生命的终点 当无情的双手将人与物的命运操盘 在这河流世界 汹涌的巨浪令人无处可退 最终，也只剩下一声风的悲鸣 一个自己会做饭的人 为什么在自己的厨房里泪流满面