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Living moths festoon dark roominess,
whole wide Nitenidus outside black bathrooms,
cheeky creepy cockroaches cockbroach
meathook lapels of Night,
dapper carcass of the blackballed Day.
The Day is well ***,
w/ its blister of red butcherflies.
But yesterday & I
are not so different,
given the ***'s rush out of Existence,
the Country Club of Human Potential.

Give me Night's open plan, dark sky park
blueprint dapslashed in undertaker's bootpolish
over any day anyday.
Universal inkwell we wander into
like spiders in the Beano.
Starlight, millions of runt suns
levy obscure orients at inscrutable heights.
Unimaginable distance is relative,
all my imagination does is distance me.
But tonight I shall stitch my dead moth stichs
of dead moth schtick sewnonymously unto
the Norfolk Night.
My Rorschachwinged write-
up of crispers upon crispers of the critters
will wear you, Norfolk Night, breathlessly & blindly,
like you were a hooded overcoat
w/ no holes to facilitate
thumbtwiddling or gobsight.
By these dead moth odes, I become your host,
5'6 embodiment of a black sock
w/ all my mortal might.

Night, I wear your weary
spidery epaulettes, tramptuft
peek thru your sleepingbag shoulders
of middleaged soldiers' slow suicide
on civvy street (literally, concretely).
A couple of wraps of dead moths
in the breastpocket of Norwich Vice,
1 w/ the Omniscuzz,
heavybreathing slugs honking at slags.
& us angelheaded hipsters
gonna walk down Cattail Street
to Our Work on an alcourier
carrierbagtwizzle mission at 6am.
Lousy Prince Lice & his ex-insect entourage,
dead moth cortege & court of overcocky
carkroaches. What have I got riding
on a bonafide dead moth **** sock
of a mythopoeic deposit?

I am erring on inauthenticity,
as if Turin Cloth
a whimsical medieval weaver
imprinted w/ his soninlaw's
peasant chic, protoWoodstock likeness
to hock as roly helic.
I longago gotout of the bath.

But it's more complicated than that:
poets are undergrowth spirits
who find garments on the ground
that have never been worn.
Do not confuse this w/ chrysalises,
chrysalice's bulb of wings
is ball of collapsible coffinlids.

To inanely ingrain
a Top Of The Pops Of Dead Moths
upon the Night Whoise - how close
is my imagination to conquering infinity?
All the insects that will die tonight
in Norwich to be approximate, best I can get.
Insects, living, are never innocent
or heartening as fishful goblets at night,
dead moth olived bathwater I neck to nail
this noctuary pretensionproof.
What a dead moth & a Dark Poet
have in common is that they are not aloft.

— The End —