The stomach twists and binds,

Puking into a rhasphody in light,

And the gut is raw;

I know in this time,

That it is right,

My mother weeps over

The loved bare breast,

Signing a form of release

To her blister's crotch.

The stomach is broken,

And so now is the right

Light for my picture;

Now, in this time of

Utter fortune,

I must write.