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We all meet up
Down by that old
Black muddy river
To see all the angels

They come to bless
Us through the night
And gift us tea and wine
And open up the sky

So the heavens can sparkle
And enter each and every
Persons eyes
And open minds

The cosmos bring us
A night of love, friends
And memories
All during that night by the

Old
Black
Muddy
River
This For all the dead heads out there that know that lifestyle partying by the old black muddy river. Song is the same name too
Daniel J Weller Jul 2018
I was just in my shower after a long time away from it.
Thoughts scattered and fell over and
I felt like The Dead
fumbling at the start of Morning—
—Dew in the Lyceum
in London, not Athens, before
it all makes sense again
London, July 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.
The Wordsmith Aug 2015
I converse with the insane,
And I see dead people,
I seek no fame,
Or salvation from church steeples,
I am alone,
Yet in my head we are many,
A clamoring of voices,
Above the anarchy of it all,
This world is broken, a place where life is a gamble,
And familial bonds are broken down in shambles,
I am a grateful dead, of a time long forgotten,
And like that I shall remain, till my bones are long rotten.
I have no idea what this is supposed to be about, wrote it in the heat of the moment, so please feel free to comment with interpretations!!! :)

— The End —