Rich Girls in Outer Space

by heytherewildflower

Rich Girls in Outer Space
Inspired by Eric, for his disposal

She is way, way out there, with her sisters.
They wash their radiating snake hair, gyrate
in the sky bruises, rotate together in heaven’s
exercise; grow demons inside their demon bodies.

We should pull the plugs from their oxygen tanks,
unstop the filters and watch those rich girls choke
on nothing like it’s a giant dick dripping whiskey.

You should tank her in the face mask with the spike
of that angry boot heel whizzing by your head,
a metallic stinger on a drunk, black fly.

Snatch a coin from the plastic purse
tacked to her like a leather respirator.
Grab the diamond choker, choking her.

It’s like sex drive wrapped in bacon. Girl is
after your own greasy heart inside its capsule.
Could be any stupid space man craving a rich
girl for breakfast by the glow of unholy morning.

The vacuum sucks just to give the girl her spins.
Our whole emptiness revolves around her as she whines
about mud tracks on the moon made by that damned space
man whose fantasy forgot her after landing there.

Moon-shaped face blooming arsenic, and Mars-red lips.
Galactic dust map of freckles. Milk slapped pink by nipples.
Bodies hidden within prisons of spacesuit skin.

Rich Girl in space trying to forget she’s rich.
Just hanging there at NASA’s expense.
Shiny debris and government monkeys.

The Rich Girl Pull can shift the orbits;
with black finger tips she lures you
into the mistake of the universe and
the leering grin of the crescent moon.

She grasps her breasts and rattles the shuttle bones,
dancing in chains on the satellite panels with laughter
so hard, her static cracks telescope mirrors.

I can dig rich girls in space pissing their space suits
and flinging pearls at the constellations which sparkle
brighter than their daddies.