Sorry I make you lush

I am lush, this morning,
someone must have had a dream
with loofahs hanging from trees
and a painting of me
and a hologram of me
and a woodcock
with my face.

The heel of my foot is pistachio-green;
the ache in my gut is bird song;
a cored pink lady;
raspberries like lopped off cysts;
blueberries are the eyes of crows;
new bran, muesli, tropical crunch.
This is lucid.
There I am, wang-eyed in the soup spoon,
pencil-sharp up the crane-arm faucet,
leaning in sideways
to the fuck-off mirror.