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In my black bathroom steamy w/ kitcheny goodness,
I stare w/ dumbfound familiarity at my underwater
prunes of procreation. Then turn my attention
to a dead moth, whose variegation, colourations bladdayah
yap pap
ring a bell of shells: precious wentletraps, mitre & helmet shells,
argonauts' earphones. Rashspaced tiger cowrie's spots misnomered. Conch's cremedge.  There's more dead moths
on the shelves & stickybackvinyled floor,
on the bathrim, a crisper of dead moths
like an embarrassment of dead parrots
on oblongchested shoulder of stolid, plastiplated
whitish cistern. Even a dead moth atop
the 47cm short, spitifullooking inletpipe,
ersatz chodbintestine to the sea.
Dead moths phantasmamothically festoon
my black bathroom.
I'm dehydrated, but still alter bathwater,
ammoniac infinipissimal.
Twisted bathwater I'll layer lemon 'n' lime
as I'm also unstoppably snotty,
a viro-Vesuvius of snoutslime.
But when you're ****** & deadmothy,
you're always coming down w/ the lurgee
& the times. The English subsist on blackpudding & limes.

— The End —