Hieronymus Bosch
knew this region at the far
edge of consciousness:
Pressure in my skull,
summer twilight, ominous,
I pass the threshold:
Vomiting laughter,
throat contracting, grinding teeth,
rabies, or lupus:
Faces, hideous,
are peering back from the cave-
depths of screwed-tight eyes:
Pterodactyls, horse-
headed, chasing me over
dysentery mangroves:
Wet darkness wading,
dehydration, cholera,
drowned grotesque at dawn
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem