Cucumber on the vine
plumped ripe for pickle
a wand to clean jam
from the toe of her camel
peeled back skin
sculpts fleshy Adonis
sliced in discs thin
to draw puff from her orbits
diced in cubed chunks
then tossed with crisp lettuce
filled with garden fruit
she's no room
for a farm boy

Revision:

Chalky white blisters ruptured
from yellow-pine clapboards
skinning it's grizzled facade,
springs slammed creaking hinges
that swung the screen door
dragging the stoop
of my childhood home.

Beer perfumed the air
nicotine glazed the walls
buttressing the sofa and table,
my sister and I tended bar.
The old man hunkered here
slumped over an ashtray
and crossword puzzles.

Pellets fell from termite tunnels
in the trim boards,
newspaper and cardboard boxes
fell through the rotting floor.

Powdered milk in mother's cupboard
and "government cheese" in her fridge
fattened my cheeks and core.

Winter's chill crept around the bones
of this decaying crypt,
a swallowing mountain of cotton and rayon
buried me in my resting place.

Thank you, my fellow poet.

I really appreciate you all checking it out and sharing your thoughts.

Thanks much, Robin.

Thanks very much, miss Muffin.

Chalkboard talisman glyphs,
tic-tac-toe hangmen
pitting children against
propaganda posters
touting immigrant born famine
crossing borders
turning cornstalk fields into wasteland.

Filmstrip lessons teaching of
scheming coyotes building pitfalls
for native tourists
driving four wheeled roadrunners
motoring tumbleweed littered highways.

Cartoon boogeymen,
hunted by plastic green army men
toasting marshmallows
over a book burning pyre.

Just in case the Crow
hasn't gobbled 'em all up,
I'll leave gate passes
for those tinnitus and malaria wielding
jive turkey pricks.

If a crowd of Dracula bugs
weathered Kurt's teen spirit libido,
send those cortisone selling
proboscis erect itchy (censored) to my show.

Blood sucking parasites - the lot
not tone deaf crickets
or a rank judging bot,
just - a buzzed mosquito choir
no bass popping Flea but
songs played in key
with a poet bards lyre.

See these songs for reference:

If it Makes You Happy
Smells Like Teen Spirit
Give it Away

Apparently it was censored because it contained the word for female dogs.

I'll post an edited version as a reply to this thread.

I'm grateful for y'alls attention.

Appreciate ya's.

Thump... pop! thump...
the pacemaker record skips
looping song stutter
setting a tempo for the dance.

Groove riding stylus
cutting trenches in eye lids.

Shutter blink snap shots
of caffeine dosed high bids.

Sticky sugar lozenges
lodged in brain engrams.

Stale albums shelved
in silence to beat the band.

When I drag 'em out for a dust
unwrapped candy smacks my lips
then spores twinge my nostrils
and my windpipe constricts.

I'm the thick wired plug
you're the electric socket
let's check for alignment
to see if mating parts fit.

My power cord lengthens
don't have to stretch it
my round pin is male,
yours is the female bit.

Line me up expertly precise
technicians do not rush
unroll the safety sleeve device
and grasp me tight then push.

Smearing on warm grease
makes my rigid post glide in
insert... retract... insert... then
do it again and again.

Throw on zapping volts
juice surge begins to flow
sixty nine amp jolts
then let your breaker blow.

Unscrew the blown fuse
don't short my pole out
let my charged prong shoot
hot lightning to ground.

Thanks for your kind appraisal, Leah.

I appreciate your consistent reads, Julie.

kissed chin, collar then groin
flowing curves trickled jelly
blissed skin holler'n loin
blowing nerves tickled belly

lips slipped feet to bum
whiffing musty sweet sweat
hips gripped beat dew drum
riffing, lusty seat wet

slime the niche use button
vector get her high licks,
I'm a peach juice glutton
nectar wetter thigh slicks

teased udders jiggle
quaking Earthed moan
pleased shudders giggle
aching girthed bone

Thanks Storm, I appreciate it.

Thanks for the acknowledgement y'all.

Pyrite veins wriggle today's spoils
no nuggets glimmer for caches,
lead pencil riddles 'neath lamplight oil
scribbles and calendar slashes.

Next day I'll swing the pickax with vigor
breaking fossils and lime rocks loose,
fracture chips and flakes dime sized or bigger
till that mother load shows in the sluice.

Peeping eye squinting, view in the loupe
adoring her sparkle and grain,
goldsmith's tools roll us into a hoop
I'm not Richard and she ain't Jane.

We ride on bumpy roads many miles
she might even tack on my name,
I'm hers she's mine no walking the aisle
gonna pull up stakes to this claim.