You, woman,

with your many forms and faces,

have taken so much from me.

A cash flow now trickles;

a booming heart now constricts.

You, woman,

with your labyrinthinian mind,

have wrapped me in webs.

My body robbed of its bravery;

my mind shorn of its strength.

You, woman,

have your wild world still hidden;

oh baby, baby, its your feminine wiles,

that have binded me to your kind.

You, woman,

embrace who you are,

raise up your dress;

show me your soft secrets

and put me under duress.

You, woman,

with your youth, cold truths

and cruel callous laughs,

should embrace this present power;

for life is long and lingering

and of many a dark hour.



Little Red.

The small white ball whizzes across the waterfall of red,

pings off the side and





the waterslide

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

and falls,

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.