The rough man who bears the tough head

Sitting there was a harsh man.
He was sitting in a spacious and chilly room.
Sitting on a chair.
By a yellow desk, surrounded by yellowish light.
The man was attentive to nothing special.
He, who bears a big head, gazed at me.
He had been venting smoke and words steadily.
Facing to a wall was a woman.
I see a man with his hair burning in roaring flames
through a black triangular window.
Ah, I wish I could enter through the window.
If I could arrive on there, my brain shall melt away
like ice needles do.
I, being naked, shall be whipped.
My blood is stirred.
The woman who resembles a cow teases my genitals.
My brain is crushed into pieces.
 ( If I deserve to have such a splendid life,
   I would tremble with bliss,
   and I would not be longing for the future.)
The harsh man had squeezed one of his fingers.
From the tip of his yellow finger, afternoon saliva was
dripping.
A cow's tongue, fresh and alive, stayed in a saucer
on the desk.
I was terrified of the tongue, thinking about it might
stuff my mouth.
I had a look.
The big head of the harsh man.

                     (Translated by Kay Muramatsu)