My Avacado Heart

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.