my avacado heart
how well it sits in my potting shed
in slumber-mask it sleeps flute notes of globe.
I have heard through gossips column of a cow
it\'s fingers are too tall
it cannot walk and talk in unison.
it is as ugly as the scarecrow in my room.
but it has a throat that sells me time of day.
there are no gods to interupt
it\'s swollen cup sucking weather from my eyes.
half-dead. half-happy. empty.
only half-dead but this day is very young.
it is where the pressure points that matters most.
I am never bored when you courtsey for a queen
or read me bedtime stories
in your trilby-hat that tickles as it shifts
lopsided like a chicken breast in an oven with a scarf.
it is cold in here
our weather thick with batter on the tombstone of a tongue.
rein me in my sweet transparent thing
whistle me a supper
fit enough for leprechauns and kings
and I will be your cabbage patch.
your flower in the rain.