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Mar 2018
'You say Heterocera, I say Lepidoptera
Heterocera!
Lepidoptera!  
Heterocera!
Lepidoptera!  
Let's call the whole thing Moth' - Rob Dicken

I didn't sniff or snuffle,
beat my teeth or gnash my chest
for moths who've popped their mothclogs,
nor did dead moths mutely decry
my piddly bathcrimes
w/ humble crumpled ****** indecency.
Dead moths don't mind their misappropriation
as my degeneracy's decorations,
the desiccated leafweights their deaths left,
the postmortem pestpetal husks,
dead mothmentoes of a nightbath moment of no note,
dead moth mote in mine eye.
You know your social life is lifeless
when you're the diarist of dead bugs.

Shayackaboosux! My ***'s been banjaxed by hottosnot
biostrife of bloodstreambodsleighing bugs,
but I do not NOT mourn dead
moths because of the headcold component,
nor do I resist Daitchlawrencian
serpenticide of expiation.
'Sjust the slatteriness of a scuzzy lusk
letting fled moths lie. Tho' they'll fly
should I sneeze. No thanatousia
for thimblewit Heterocera, I won't be sent to rot
for watching them rot, but if I think of it, I reek of it.
I feel like such
driedup dreggy insignificant insect expirations,
even in this bath of emollient poached North Norfolk soap.
Otherwise, would I not weep or at least flickaway
the trinket corpses?

A superior sendoff'd be rendered
if you little guys had been
windscreenwiperwiped
across the windscreen of a louche Porsche
belonging to Hunter Hobby,
a moviestar who only this moment is sashaying thru the lobby
to be startled at his windscreen striped w/ smears,
mottledleopard liquid mess of Hollywood moths
w/ a crush on Death that glamourpus.

Meanwhile outside the Grateful Dead Mothtel
very near me in Norwich, there's flybynight
flies & grim crickets
that don't languidly trill 'cheerup cheerup'.
Scarlet ladybirds w/ blackheaded shells,
come an insect adolescence - O the lice pinups
(least I'm bishybarnaBeatle for bishybarnabeaver)!
Tonight, cockroaches wander violent & free
as hickwater Americops or their hitchhiker sociopot
tosspath prey on a midsummernight's reality TV.
A cockroach can be off its head for up to four weeks
& still not be legless - my hero!
Tho' cockroaches are overrated, not so indestructible
when confronted by beadyeyed band of the aubade.
Or could I literally (which oft-connotes 'grisly')
'bodypop' a cockroach w/ predatory finkie-pinger,
no bigger than a roached **** floating
between prunes of procreation?

Or a cockroach could be crushed
between the pages of the most boring book
I own, acne sap insect viscera , puncture
that is the picture whose value plays snap
w/ 1000 words in the hackanory
journal for ******* I'd choose.
It won't be the shells section of the
'Colour Library Book Of The Natural World',
that's for sure,
but a tome to offend us Touchwoodists
by indulgent arboreal butchery
of something so illadvised, illindeliblised
upon the dendroderived.
Maybe 'The Memoirs Of A Marrow',
particularly Chapter 5.
Lysander 'Lice' Hardy-Pearce
Written by
Lysander 'Lice' Hardy-Pearce  41/M/East Anglia, England
(41/M/East Anglia, England)   
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