Extended Elegy Upon A Dead Moth, Final

One emotes when one evokes:
for all you know, mothballed reader,
I could have contraired & composted
the shell section of the 'Colour Library 
Book of the Natural World' w/ A-level simples
& a fistful of moths who have met their 
parrotsketch. In my wellredition, there's inscription
from hypocrite cheapskate poet I know not,
but they are after my own cordiform inkblot:

'I bought this Xmas '88
for both of you to share,
make sure you don't write on it
or the pages tear.'

Pages, pages tear poets apart again.

Did I inspect a dead moth
twixt thumb & forefinger?
As if about to pinchtoke,
tinchily poke a 1960s roach,
which is all dem hippies seemed to smoke?
Don't ask if I pinchfished a dead moth
outta fecal fangs outta the can
for a closer look.
You don't want to know how far I'll
debase, lower myself to waste for Art.
Until the selfimposed dignity of Man
is l/ Kryptonite carrotcake
to a sweettooth Superman
in a loser's cloak.
I permanently weaken my position
& spread dead moths
next to a pictorial spread of dead moths
to police the remoteness of my bollocks.

Shells can be conehead crashelmet
homes for whelks, barnacles' helterskelter,
bone spire to keep out the sea & the whelkers.
Shells can be ribbed, Tench Frickler
or smooth as babywipe breeze 
upon an orphan's bottom.
Or shells can just be the soul's used booth.
I do attempt to pen my soul
in its booth,
& really am not so faremoved
from the selfcontained philosophy
of selfcontainment behind booves.
I believe in this abandoned booth,
this freedom cocoon inside a nuthouse
cocoon inside a dope cocoon inside a booze
cocoon inside the glistening unshed deadskin
of childhood. Insideout of the blackballed
rainyday cocoon where nothing everchanges 
into a betterfly, implosive metamorphosis
into nothingness, blackbathroned noncocoon, 
the best when I hadn't been born cocoon
I could recreate on a budget.

But outside there's Death's Head moths alive
in the penguin curves of overwaitresses.
Every once & for a while now,
Death's Head moths defile my wellbeing,
my 1/2 of a heart2heart will not come out
of its shelling (only statue chemistry remains).

Sarcophagus moths, tombrobber's butterflies
- you know you stone dead moths should
get out more, you'd love Ra the great lightbulb.
Death's Head where the good old bad moon rising
used to be, it fluttermutters its dark matter
which has cosmic knockon effects, tempest in all
24 corners of the timezone - Jolly Roger moths ahoy!
Sail in the face of reset wristwatches.

Warmedup raw shark Death's Heads
in the shadows of the trouty jowls of 
elder bloodrelatives, those gouty owls.
From each quivering, filtering 
crisis alias, Death's Heads moths fly,
40 approx shock outta shipictured 
box of matches. 

We can't be what we were meant to be,
kings&queens of each other's moods
in shells or booves, on shelves,
behind screens or in blackbathroomed flats
where all the Alone One has to thinkabout is
the dead flat dead gnat on the ceiling,
straddling its own shadow,
phantom gnat autonecrophile
making an artex exhibition of itself. 

Now some poeticlicenceabiding laureate
would nick floozy sprig of their muse's wig 
to pick out the killing colour
they desire their arid garret,
but me & my dead moth lost boys
reckon Duluxmen should just bite 
the bullet by the horns, slay the taboo
& describe their darkest shade,
'Death Unabashed'. Or 'Black Sheepdog'.

Shucks, I better get off the bathroomfloor
of my mind, this phonebox for the blues
(dial 100 for the motherator). Wash off 
this black bathroom gloom, where it appears 
the Battle of Britain of Moths was lost.

Shells, husks:
moths, lives, pistachios.