I’ve written some folklore.

 

It’s outlandish but more plausible than the immaculate conception.

 

You get allocated an entity at random from some sort of carousel.

Then you barstardise it with a mixture of nature and nurture.

The entity isn’t a baby until it gets shat out of the cunt-chute baptised in mucosa.

Before that it’s adult.

 

I’m chatting to LAMB on a level.

LAMB is not helpless.

 

If you don’t bring the entity into fruition, it rejoins the lottery for someone else’s baby-oven. It’s my intention to indoctrinate LAMB in utero before it gets flushed. Good Breeding.

 

This is how contrary children are made. They have a secret mother:

The Contra-Madonna.

 

She gives them a false start.

 

The Contra-Madonna

leads by example.

 

LAMB and I:

 

We’ve drunk.

We’ve whored.

We’ve been to some art galleries.

We made a porno.

We done a gang-bang.

We read some books.

We joined a demo.

We kissed.

We played with drugs.

We talked to strangers.

We relied on ourselves as. independent, autonomous creatures.

We’ve given ourselves into the hands of others and let chance take hold.

 

We tried to masturbate too. But that last part hasn’t come so easily because I’ve been feeling entirely divorced from my bloated body-balloon. Ultra-aware for the very first time of my vagina as a canal, not a wine cellar.

 

I get no say in who will rear LAMB. It’s none of my business who brings up baby. All I can do is imprint LAMB with as much data as possible.

 

For arguments sake:

 

Having a baby is the laziest route to immortality.

 

None of my friends have children. Lots of my friends don’t want them.

 

Is this evolution? Are there gonna be more conservatives in the world because Tradwives and the “New-Age Alt-Right” are the only people procreating?

 

Should I make a baby and indoctrinate it with all my zany beliefs for variety?

 

-           “This baby might find the cure to cancer.”

 

-           “This baby might smoke cigars on a beach resort in the Cayman Islands.”

 

-           “This baby will be very expensive”

 

Abort. Abort. Abort.

 

I’m only half the genes - The other gamete… Well, I don’t wanna kiss ’n’ tell but he’s most likely a property tycoon from the UAE. Could’ve bagged LAMBy and me a nice ‘lil appartamento.

 

{Kisses teeth}

 

I’m no matriarch;

I’m a GANG BANG PREGGA.

 

LAMB Your mother’s a pervert. I empathise with your situation, but please don’t look to me for nurture. LAMBy, I think you should stand on your own two feet.

 

You know what it feels like;

​

There’s a spider crawling over the page and the way it scuttles is really distracting but it’s bad karma to crush it. I’d like to trap my unborn foetus under a glass and take it outside into the garden.

 

A Humane Solution.

 

Oh! I’m not innocent. Let us not forget the breeding fantasies?

 

They weren’t born of desperation to see my eggs fertilised. They were a subversion of my situation. I would orgasm imagining

“What a Skankslut I was” for being reckless with something as precious as life.

 

But what next? Now I’ve gestated this fantasy. Will my perineum rip through with the weight of the next one. I don’t want to eroticise my ablutions, but all this texture just slings dung on the bonfire.  

 

It was never the fantasy; It became the fantasy.