Speedball Is A Rubber Bullet

"Don't you wanna fuck?" whispered Leslie.
"I mean, we can... if you wanna..."

I had just scored
big time by boosting
a gym bag full of CDs
from the back
of this SUV in Old Town
but I was homeless,
with no place to get off

and I knew Leslie had a room
in that nasty, ancient hotel
I can't even
remember the name of
right above Mary's Club on
Burnside and Broadway-- where
she took her Old-Guy tricks
who paid her with their
pension checks.

There was a time
when I wanted to fuck Leslie
but I was way,
way past that now; after all,
who gives a shit about pussy
when there's heroin and cocaine
to slam into your veins?

"Are you gonna leave me
a rinse at least?" Leslie whined.

"Fuckin' shut UP, will ya?," I hissed.

I was at that tricky part where
the black tar wasn't totally cooked,
and I wanted to dump all the
rocks of coke in the spoon anyway.

"Asshole!," shrieked Leslie. "Fucking limp-dick
junkie bitch shit face cocksucker!"

A little while later,
right in the middle of my rush
I bent down and kissed her
on the forehead; I looked
right straight in her dull-grey eyes,
and stroked her sweat-slick hair.

"I'm sorry," I croaked, gulping
as the drugs seized my throat
like a stiff clitoris between thumb
and forefinger. "You really are such
an angel... and I left you something
in the bureau drawer."

I really really
wanted to be out of there,
but I felt like I better
have a sit first
in her sagging, blistered leather armchair
and just chill out for a little while
at the very least.