Extended Elegy Upon A Dead Moth, 1

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

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. 
Tiger cowrie's spots misnomered - silly cowrie! 
Conch's ribbed peaches&cream. There's more dead moths
on the shelves & stickybackvinyled floor,
on the bathrim, a crisper of dead moths
l/ an embarrassment of dead parrots
along oblongchested shoulder of  
whitish cistern (emphasis on '-ish'). 
Even a dead moth atop
the 47cm short, spitifullooking inletpipe,
ersatz chodbintestine to the sea.
Dead moths phantasmamothically emblob
my black bathroom. I'm dehydrated, 
but still alter bathwater,
ammoniac infinipissimal.
Twisted bathwater I'll layer lemon 'n' lime
as I'm also currently unstoppably snotty, 
a viro-Vesuvius of snoutslime.
But when you're slobby & deadmothy,
you're always coming down w/ the lurgee
& the times. 
The English subsist on blackpudding & limes.