This was inspired by my old neighbour who used to sell her wares on street corners.


Red hair blazing
Like a fuck me beacon
A barber’s pole but throbbing in male pants
Face a dot to dot of drug induced acne
Parading your heroin chic
Decency don’t mean shit

You never keep your legs shut
Self employment makes it rather draughty
And as a small business you should
Protect your assets
But you can’t get insurance
On gynaecology

Hanging around on seedy corners
Perverts cruising, risking a bruising
Chancing chancers
You don’t know, you don’t know
Flogging your fanny today
Digging your grave when the sun
Mourns your demise
And the dealers
Mourn their suicide pockets

A fuck for the addiction of heroin culture
Shame when your fanny is a currency
You pay in dirty needles
And white powder lines of escapism
For a few moments you’re out of here
Shooting up in Nirvana
Profits in your greedy veins
Coke up your wannabe Beyonce nose

I wish I could help
And the churches say that
No one is beyond redemption
But you’re lost to the devil now
You sold your soul for a moment of heaven
And found your sanctity
In the arms of an addictive addiction
Bride of a heroin fix

©2020 Sarah Drury


My heart goes out to these women who sell their bodies for whatever reason, be it for food, rent, drugs, drink. I used to live in the middle of town and would often encounter them. One of my neighbours was a prostitute. This poem was inspired the women and also a character in ‘I, Daniel Blake’.

Debbie is a hooker
In her £10 heels on feet that flail
Needy in seedy side streets
Breasts revealed, an advertisement
Far from suckling babes and choked in clingfilm swathes
Spider lashes shading a web of silk spun secrets
Scarlet lips kissed only when the price is right
Or taken by force in her moments of weakness.

Debbie is a hooker
With her dreams of fame and her acts of shame
Three GCSE’s
And a diploma in shagging punters
A degree in peddling her merchandise
A commercialised vagina for fuck hungry hunters.
Trawling the shadows for the price of a Sunday Roast
No praying on Sundays for the blessings of the Holy Ghost.
If she lived in times of Jesus, she would be his best friend
But the people’s God doesn’t agree with Jesus
She’s a woman of disgust in her life which is dead end.

Debbie is a hooker
And the punters flock like hungry pigeons
Feeding on fucks and not on bread
Another vagina with a faceless face
Another disposable screw, another depositary in the human race
They are stealing her dignity and fucking a metaphor for broken
Every man that she takes, every orgasm she fakes
Every lie of pleasure she has silently spoken.

Debbie is a hooker
As dirty money passes by hands of filthy lust
A pound coin for a pound of flesh
A fiver for a blowjob as the legs open and the groins thrust
Paper notes as thin as the skin which separates the shame from the futility within
And when it’s a choice between starve or commit a sin
The Godless career path wins.

Debbie is a hooker
She drips in droves of salubrious shame
She lives in anonymity, a woman without a valid face or name
She would feel helpless, but feelings are soon numbed
She feels like dirt and fear and by society shunned

Debbie is a hooker
She pays the rent with every punter
And sells her soul for food for the table
She has three kids to feed and a boyfriend who is unable
To keep his fists away from his possession
She lives in fear at this brutal man’s obsession
The loan sharks knocking every day on her door
The interest rises, and they want more, more, more

Debbie is a hooker
A victim of our uneconomical society
where jobs are slim, and unemployment leads to
twists in our sobriety
she slinks the streets, a question mark in the integrity of humanity
where women are a commodity and prostitution no longer a profanity
a reality since the beginning of the lust of men, in time
giving her body for a tenner, giving her dignity for a dime.

©2020 Sarah Drury

Anatomy of a Whore

Anatomy of a Whore

I am married to the vicious night
To the ceaseless ebb and flow
Of wanton lust
Disguised as need.
Men come, men go
Men shamelessly use
And sometimes heavy handedly abuse
This street-savvy woman
Predator target
A please fuck me,
but fuck you areshole façade.

The seedy punters
Pick and mix
Assortment of life’s distasteful confectionary
Mostly past its sell by date.
Scraping the bottom of the broken biscuit barrel
These broken men
These desperate men
These misogynist men
who throw ten dollars at a vagina
and want their Las Vegas jackpot payout.

I am human
Anatomy a cheap commodity
No finer than a well done steak
Tender flesh, Tasty but tasteless
a personal sex doll
but impersonal,
pecked away by a cooperative of vultures.

I am a woman.
I have feelings.
I bleed.
I bruise at your fickle fists
I hurt when you call me
I hate the smell of you
I hate the taste of you
I hate the sense of you
I hate you
I hate myself.
Fuck you.

But I am an economic casualty
For whatever reason
I need this
A piece of me dies with each punter
Who has a piece of me
Yet I need this
To survive
To live.

© Sarah Drury 2019