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.