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
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