The Hovel
The pipe organ had no midwife
But the house cracked
And my mother was the lodger
Where I burned myself whole
The doves of distant fires
Hurl their crazy flames
At the deceitful breast
Where a dream tied me up
But later my bride broke out
On the skin of pure linen
Where the too-small solar tent
Imprisoned all our delights
--Antonin Artaud (1928)