Gardener Girlfriend

When a metaphysical Venusflytrap
blindsides the honeycombpound eyed
sense of security I've falsified;
when the knowledge of good & evil is ratheripe;

when adjacent backgarden of young guns
mix solar with Stella & I can hear from here
a scruburb hubbub, my hothouse muse sick at their
Asbo airrifles & dosshouse anthems;

when I've been spat out l/ a pip again,
& nursery taunts of my bullies Johnny & Tommy
- who dibsed Bill & Ben,  which pilloried me
'Little Weed'  - are flashback thicket evergreen;

when local calumny of all my complaints
wins blacklisting,  thus alone, I can't cajole
or goad my thriving today:  a fool
for the sun, I go to her in her element.

In her greenhouse grown from garnered discarded
gardengates, writtenoff windscreens, woodwormbuffed
junk planks, other nutter clutter. Freecycle stuff
less flimsy than what fairies flytip - shed sheds.

(As her silver hatter, tinfoilconed garden
gnome, I say this w/ godwottery
& fleurs bleues of drosometric poetry.)
Fecund in seconds at so gorgeous a groundswoman,

w/ ladylumps l/ Charlie Dimmock's
hammockless hummocks. I need to feel
her greenfingered, brownfingernailed hands that heal
petals upon me. Even dogsmuck

has its day in the sun (faecal factoid:
contemporary canine squelchtraps for shoes
no longer dessicate a canescent hue,
because of low calcium content in the tinned

dogsmuck we feed our best friend's biting end).
May those hands which craft vertical babywalkers 
for crocuses scratch out my roots, pooper-
scoop the stinker summers I grew from. She tends

to sheltered seedlings, soon to spam flower 'eads 
on slipped ceiling of her slipshod shed, even
before 'Bunny H. Greenhouse!' is interjection
wellsaid. What's been transplanted, repotted

will goose hiemal honkers, ruffle the rumps
of homonyms flying south in a beanstalking 
blink, prodding until Jack's gaggle are plopping
dookieroped H.Dumpties. But sunnysideup

drive of seedlings & saplings means golden
egg plants would be condign for my floraphile.
Not strict drips she feeds to daffodils,
dahlias, daffodahlia hybreeds - they're sodden!

O my Edwina Wateringcanhands!
Also my Mrs. Mellors, whom chub shrubs salute 
on her bijou landscape commute.  
Eden is a garden of reproductive glands.

Her hyponychium frowns 
w/ flowers' bedding,
but the weed needs weeding
that brings my flower down.

Far more than the Maggie (not numb P45)
Thatcher of flower power, Frey hersilt,
Gardener Girlf puts a spurt inta da expert
teasing o' da e'rt. Induviae of 

a concrete straitjacket, please be pleached
til my cold cityboy embrace can reach
her greenfingered kind of golden touch, 
much more precious than any old Midas touch.