The small white ball whizzes across the waterfall of red,
pings off the side and
of fallopian tubes.
Once in the centre of the pin ball machine
the white curvaceous egg
flies back and forth
rocking and rolling
like a pair of knickers in a washing machine.
Slowly the rotations grind
and groan to a dull aching halt.
The pin ball whooshes hard and fast
against the sides of the uterus
almost refusing to fall
through the gap
of the vaginal walls.
It gives up the fight
taking with it an explosion of red
splatterings and spurtings;
fireworks falling into cotton.
The crude scrawl of colour left behind
as an aftermath are inspired by Basquiat.
This art is a celebration
of youth, fertility and womanhood
and also a reminder that I am gay
and none of this is necessary unless I fork out
for a sperm donor
and a turkey baster from Tesco.