The Cherry Princess

A Machiavellian whore juggles the hearts

Of three particularly entrenched oil rig men,

Each tossing around words they don’t understand

For a chance to let their salty tongues

Toy with her navel.

 

Under her burlap sack and disheveled hair

A tattooed spider spreads,

Eight tips on a never ending trip towards

The root of the problem.

Man number one, kissed by the sun

Still bears the scar his mother carved

Into his crippled left hand.

Never leave me, she cried

To the heroin needle

Stuck into his lunch of ramen noodles.

 

She dances, a horrific ceremony

Directed at the moon and Antarctica,

directed at dagger eyes

that probe for a chink in her lace armor.

 

Man number two, a knight through and through

Blames his still-born daughter

For his current aloofness.

A yearning fist raps three times

Upon the recently undone

Lid of his coffin.

If he knew he was sterile,

How many would go to the grave?

 

Her breasts perform feline maneuvers

For men covered in dinosaur filth,

For men exiled into poverties romanticism.

 

Man number three has a caveman brow

And dull hands, numb with the steady drip of

Blown unmarked cash. Sneering lips

Where his eyes should be, panting

Thirsty dog tongues dangle down toward

His thick obsolete nose. dripping saliva

Onto her naked thighs, he chants

And clenches muscles in a vile seizure.

 

SHOW US YOUR TITS they cry

Over looped gunshots,

She obliges, and somewhere within the areola

A Spanish king stares,

Begging for a champion to save

His princess from the fire-breathing dragon.