Bawd with a Bic

                        My Tribute to the Goddess of Poetastery
                       Tracy McGimmesome

It's very important for little girls to have role models and some of you probably know that the biggest influence on my output has been the Goddess of Poetastery, Tracy McGimmesome. She has been my guide in everything I do with a pen, a shovel and a whip.   Without her example, I might have grown up to be a mediocre middle class maven, waxing neurotic in the Arizona sun. A pioneer of slutslam poetry, erotic economics and a voluptuous humanitarian donating her time to the sexual gratification of the North Atlantic Fleet, Ms. Gimmesome's orgasmic poetry has been absent from the Internet until now. Far too busy giving head to heads of state, rock stars and the odd cabby to maintain a page, Tracy has graciously given permission for me to put up this tribute to her. "Sure, Chickie," she croaked, her mellifluous tones enriched by her first cigarette of the day and a shot of tequila, neat, "whatever trips your twat.  Gotta go.  I'm domming at an S&M party in Portsmouth and it takes forever to get into vinyl and chains."

A SHIPLOAD OF SAILORS IN MY SOUL


On a large pink water bed they nailed her,
       there were the lowest ratings, a corps of marines,
            an old hardened coxswain,
    and her very favourites
                  two braided admirals in hats.

To her surprise, they all fired Mont Blancs, bonks
              were few, though the marines, in particular
  the bold black ones, wrought in white all over her
                   but the seamen declined.

But what was inside her was what she had waited for,
        nearly all of her life but certainly    
                 on this night of nights
           with day yet to come.

Excited beyond belief to finally have been banged
              by a gang of sailors like she always wanted
        she slid her finger roughly into the winking
             arsehole of Admiral De Blowhard
  and pulled out not one not two but three that's three
       of the worst soiled sheets of toilet paper
               her gold and green eyes, one of each
                  had ever seen a movement on.

There before her
  in the tender palms of her hands
on those ghastly sheets of white paper
          lay a magnificent hand-written turd
     on which was etched the title, "Hello Sailor"
       by the master himself, Mr Rod McKuen.
Also included was a disclaimer in his own hand
        addressed to the admiralty.

Gliding her happy trembling fingers over
  the worthless sheets of toilet paper
    glinting with harmless turds of Sodom
       she began drifting back into reality.

Her thoughts were driven to him.
The one and only giver of the priceless gift.
The one who only comes once in a lifetime but boy when he does.
Her friend.     A real friend.
The kind of friend who gives
     without expecting anything in return,
except to make someone happy.    

And her soul concludes
     that he likes sailors too.

For he also,
   is a "Fucking Stupid Tart"

From Her Fourth Cumming Album / Book / Movie / Prim Time TV Show
Postcards from the Edge of the World


CRUISING ON THE SEA

Hello sailors, look at me,
        On my back on the deck
    showing off in the sun.

Yes it's me, you're in luck,
        I'll put the crew
    back in cruise,
  only ask and it's you
      I'll a d o r e.

Let me count all the ways
        That I know
    how to thrill you.
  Well, there's this and there's this
      and there's unnggwaugh.
    Won't you write on my skin
      with your ball point?
  Tell the world where you've been
      on your way to the Virgins,       
  show them all what it means
        to be with me.

I'm upside down in the sun
        but I'll be back soon enough
    with my pen in my hand
  and a song in all my hearts
      for e v e r y one of you 
        but most especially
          for YOU
    and for YOU and for YOU.

TENDER KNEED

                You were s w e l l i n g
         up like a frantic coragonus hoyi
         in a tangle of my lines
           dreadful dire

                S w i m m i n g.
         Not floating.
         Never quite drowning
           when you stop.

                Until, s l o w l y
         I rolled over towards
         And then,
           Below you.

                I found myself
         contending 'with you' and
         not for the fisting,
           not 'in' you.

                The pain throbbed,
         as your prick made me bleed.
         Never seemed to hurt
           or worry you though.

         With patience you grabbed me,            
           the roots of my thorny bush,          
         and grew to understand. But why?

         Is your own root not horny?
           Hard on by hard on, and
            again hard on,
                 one by one.

         The transparent touch
         of your dysfunctional hands
           stripped me naked, of
         the few clothes I still had on,
           necessary with others
         But you're cool, gimme some.

         Your painful procedures of love,
           cured by flatulence,
         stoked my pointless drafting,
           started when I discovered the joy
         of owning a keyboard, w h i c h
           ended my soul searching.

         And your gratuitous exposure
             lucked into my bare ASS
         my love. You too.