The Street Vendor

I've run out of breath mints again and
the shop on the corner don't let 'my sort' in.
A fag will help get rid of the taste
but the killing smoke won't take away
the feel of it, coating my mouth
like a slug has been roaming around.
Twenty-five quid is good compensation
for a bit of a bad taste in the mouth,
but sometimes I want to vomit.
Not 'cos of the gag reflex, it's the thought
of the dirty bastard's sticky spunk
streaming down my throat, settling
in my stomach, invading my body.
If it goes up the tunnel - thirty quid -
a douche can flush it out,
can purify my inner sanctum.
I don't do back door deposits, it's nasty,
but there have been a few blokes who
have shoved it up my shit chute anyway,
believing I've given up any right to say no.
Oh great, here comes the next gentleman,
expecting me to show him a good time.

© Clare Hill 2006