Compost of Earthly Delights
When you think there are no horrors left
that’s when the real horrors come.
When flesh is wrung and sense is numb,
and it’s a joke that a tear could be wept,
then the stone is wet where the killing’s kept
and your spindly withered legs won’t run.
Then the rabbit's eating the toes of the nun,
and your silent scream is all that’s left.
When the scarf enfolds and frames your face
a delicate beauty, balanced, right,
that’s when a roach crawls out of the lace.
That’s when you lose your appetite.
When you think no monster’s there in the night,
that’s when the bed starts to lift in place.
Image: The Garden of Earthly Delights, inner right wing detail, by Hieronymous Bosch, Oil on Panel, (circa 1450-1516)