Cocoon

Moist cocoon, most horrid home What are these paintings for? To fill, with glee, a shutters frame? Or anchor awkward eye? Those thick black strokes, do they pull upon, All oceans breaking bread? Or map out planets, which swivel around A strolling dullards head? Infra dig, moist cocoon I’m burning down this dream Mongo rides in the silent numbers Reporters shake with mean Infra dig, moist cocoon Tearing postal seem How we start, is how we end The distal draft, redeem