Kathryn Yuen
His budget-conscious ma-ma used to make him fill-up on
a steamed pork or chicken bun before
going to an extended family yum cha luncheon
So he never really developed an honest appreciation
for the more gourmet seafood dumpling.
And though he now sports an expensive superior Rolex copy
watch and a newish BMW and trophy wife and superior spawn
He’s always been about quantity not quality.
He prefers to fork a pork bun or use a chopstick
to skewer a chicky dim sim. It’s foul play: licklickquicksickdick
he’s a manslut, a motherfucker, a post-Trump moron.
He leaves the ordered seafood on the table for others to see.
Sometimes it’s crab or still-moving lobster.
Tells me and his fatherlesskids to eat up.
I glance at the ‘old ducks’ pushing the wonky-wheeled food carts
The fuckaduckstillfuckablewomen seem younger and whiter-faced
And each year I hear less and less of their squawking, hawking and whispers
Only the worn-out grind of the heavy push-pull trolley
Almost a human conveyor belt
Manoeuvring little man-made food-parcelettes and fuckmeat
The predatory friction of forcing wheels with no tread left onto silencer-carpet dissipates
Into tinnitus and a parasitic earworm en-route to my brain.
Soy sauce in little condiment dish seems rancid and
there’s a grey hair floating in it. It looks pubic.
The prawns’ rolls are not so fresh.
The steamed buns too-floury.
And the manageress/owner too friendly.
The turnover is profitable in this eating house.
The patrons are many. Trade seems bustling.
There could be surgically-enhanced cleavage undercover.
Oh Buddha, why bother men with the burden of their genitals?
Why bother the world with women with a burden to harm other women??
I feel it’s a brothel for married businessmen who hate dim sum
But like their egg tarts and sim dim at bargain basement prices
And I notice he notices her legs in her cheongsam with side-splits
And I notice he is not noticing this for the first time.
At the cashier counter, cut flowers have wilted from
the unforgiving heat and thirst of neglect.
There’s a void engulfed by silent screaming in my gut.
An untreated abscess of life.
His bad bacteria has colonised my digestive tract.
Dim Sum means a little bit of heart.
And all I want is a meat-cleaver
to cut out his heart and reproductive organ.
I could wrap that morsel in wonton pastry.
How does one say Bon Appetit in Mandarin? Hao Weikou!
