We have a new series of weekly poems from Pixievic, beginning with her new live favorite, The Master of Ceremonies
THE MASTER OF CEREMONIES
Size doesn’t matter
Or at least we like to think
That the contents of your trousers
Aren’t there to keep us in the pink
Whether you’re a Moby Dick
Or have a Captain inside your pants
A Button or a Mushroom
It’s what you do with it that counts ...
Believe me, there’s nothing worse
When you’ve committed to engage
In some adulting activities
And you reach inside the cage
To unleash the Beast ...
But your hands can’t seem to find
The member that you’re looking for
I don’t mean to be unkind
But imagine, as I continue
My exploration down below
I am hoping I’m mistaken
And I’ve in fact just found his toe ...
But no! This is his penis!
But as I said it doesn’t matter
Because a man that is intelligent
Must have some other skills to offer ...
Well, it’s safe to say he didn’t
And once he’d inhaled half my boob
He tried valiantly to insert himself
Into my anticipating tube ...
Is it in? I can’t tell!
The thoughts run through my head
As I find the politest way I can
To remove him from my bed ...
Now this is also true
In the reversal of this story
And I came across a monster once
That belonged in a laboratory
Dear God! What is that and
Where do you think it’s going?!
I can feel my cervix shrinking
As watched his Tickler growing ...
And he’s so proud of his appendage
He didn’t seem to realise
That my vagina needed extra care
To accommodate his size ...
So yet again the lacking of
His knowledge and due attention
Proves it really doesn’t come
Down to size, or your dimensions
Because, even a perfect Pork Sword
Will fail, if it’s attached
To a man who proves himself to be
A delusional fucking twat!
So this a cautionary tale
To those who own A Trouser Snake
Size really doesn’t matter
So don’t make this huge mistake
Whether you are gay or straight
Heed this testimony
And pay attention to the details
Then you’ll be
The Master of the Ceremony!
Pixievic is a commanding performer who draws you into her physical stillness with not much more than the mesmeric quality of her velvety voice and an occasional raised eyebrow. Vicki writes of human experience that is instantly recognisable and although much of her work is personal, intimate even, it speaks to us all.