In that balloon blown by biological filler
You find the primordial base
Of form, proliferating in time,
To metamorphose, through a fine line,
Demarcating an endo-parasite,
That when exonerated, turns to a free-loader
In quotidian habit, though in essence,
Is a symbiont by nature.


If Men Could Give Birth (A subtle humor piece)


I remember watching a movie in the 1990s which centered on a man being pregnant. Yes, an impossibility, except in the case of sea horses, which too are only able to fertilize the eggs, and carry the little sea horses to term. Still, what if by some strange twist of fate, men could get pregnant. Well this is how I would see that strange phenomenon of male child birth.

First, a male pregnancy has to be somewhere inside the peritoneal cavity, a mandatory ectopic pregnancy which could perhaps be fitted somewhere inside the cavities surrounding our gastro-intestinal tracts, or in those strange circumstances inside the stomach, which due its highly acidic environment, could melt the fetus inside, which means that the body cavity is the only viable place for an ectopic pregnancy.

Now how can a woman, impregnate a man. The ovum, once fertilized inside the female, in the first place, needs to travel up the male urinal tract and somehow make its way to the peritoneal spaces. Of course that means, the penis should be vacuum or have suction power to absorb the fertilized egg to make it travel to the fated place. I would say that hoovering an egg should make the journey from the female plumbing all the way to male body cavity. So I presume, when Arnold’s character was making love to his wife, a fertilized egg travelled up the male canals to arrive at the location of the ectopic pregnancy. It would have been a case of sucking everything in, the egg, exfoliated cells and mucus up the genital tract of man.

So now to the gestation period. Being a man, the cravings would undoubtedly be for some chips, beer, peanuts or any nut that can give a little starch for the cravings and of course, Arnold being Austrian, some Viennese Coffee and some Linzer Torte cakes. Still beer is a no go zone since there is that cardinal rule that Alcohol is a NO-NO during pregnancy. I wonder whether that would apply though, for a man, considering, a hangover the following morning, is just at some level, some nausea and a feeling of vomitsh-ness, which when pregnant should be a common occurrence. So nausea, whether pregnant or due to a night of revelling, should make no difference. Like Captain Long John Silver said, “HO HO HO and a bottle of Rum” and the devil wouldn’t care less whether you were pregnant or not. So you could say, perhaps the man would enjoy being nauseated, having a sense of deja-vu, knowing you have been there, done that, a hundred times before – just another wicked hangover.

How do pregnancy tantrums affect man, is the age old question. Nothing better to assess that than during a TV sports event. If the man, swears all the time, he is just experiencing some strong kicks inside the tummy, if he cries, he has been reading too many “Pregnancy manuals”, if he lets the peanuts fly, he is high on hormones and if he is wets his pants, he has just been holding it for too long. So sports, I guess would not the same anymore, just an emotional roller coaster, for the pregnant man.

Now to the ultrasound, when the man – with his hand held by his wife – sees a little life on screen, with a unique hard beat, when he is bound to cry – or sob- those man tears, you only see on the verge of a sporting debacle or a bromance or if you’re gay and you have your lover about to say “I do” in front of a 100 throng crowd. As you know, man rarely carries a handkerchief and is bound to be comforted by the wife’s hanky, which due to his high hormone status, he will not mind.

After the 5th month, the man will see his man boobs getting bigger. Then he will look at magazine pictures of Chris Farley and Jack Black, to compare cup sizes and will give himself, a high five if they are bigger than the other curvy models. After all, man boobs to the pregnant man is a symbol of pride and of course, self-gratification. After all, now you don’t have to look at playboy or dream of Kim Kardashian, you can just look down at your D-cup breasts and simply fondle them. Of course, if you though get an erection when you fondle your breasts, you’d better test yourself in the Gay-dar, and whether you have a fetish for fatty-bong-bongs with generous cupping assets.

And now to morning sickness, a common question. Considering the man hull would be spurting with hormones, expect an erection every time you wake up in the morning and if your wife is willing (as some wives always are), a little suction the other way, should get your day off to a bright new start. Of course the Blow Jobs would be weird now. For once, you don’t have the whole view of your wife loving the Hot Dog experience and for man, half the fun is watching a woman’s mouth do the loop, scoop and slurp. Still being pregnant (with that extra spurt of testosterone) should ensure you catch up on the fine art of making your wife go Mexican – The folded tacos and even the Hot-Dogos. If you’re a real dickhead though, you can always keep count and brag to your friends how the pregnancy was good for Richard the Lion Heart, to express himself as eloquently as Dickens.

Still how would morning sickness be for a man. Of course you would pass urine a a few times in the morning and every time you do that, you REALLY have no sense of aim, knowing that you can only see your tummy now and everything below is just fiction in the making. So, if you are uncircumcised, expect the foreskin to dart your liquid gold in odd directions, but if you have been given the snip, then of course you will be like William Tell and the commode bowl your rosy apple.

Now to Arnold finally getting the little rascal out. Of course considering it has to be Casaerion section, you have no choice but to let your Gyno do a little cut in your wall and get the rascal or beauty out. As a man, you’re bound to not let the local anesthesia, prevent you from the experiencing every passing moment. Of course, being a man, the placental cocktail will always be No-Go zone. If everyting goes smooth you will look at the angel and think, oh man, how did I hold that life for 10 long months.  Still, nothing would be as bad as the nurse shaving your bum and wearing a synthetic hospital gown that gives a good glimpse of your Terminator Bum. Of course, Arnold as you know, is used to it – just watch reruns of Terminator. Seeing the cute nurse check you out would give you a little high, when you start to think, the Full Monty is worth it.

And everything ends here. Of course being Arnold, he will say “I will be Back” in his rugged European voice. That means he will be back for a second go at childbirth. It is amazing how Austrian men are in the forefront of everything. Mendel showed everything was genetics, Freud made sure we could harness our sanity and now Arnold, showed us that childbirth could be a man’s thing too. Of course there’s a slight possibility that the fertilized egg broke inequally into two and made twins, one, a replica of Arnold and the other, a little creature, bald with a little mullet that can be tied into a pony tail, a lot like Danny De Vito. Still childbirth is spectacular. Arnold now looks at his F cup pecs (Pectoralis Major), almost the size of Dolly Parton’s, and he didn’t have to go to the gym to get them to be this big. All that was needed was a little pregnancy.

How beautiful, if man could have really been able to hold a life inside. We can only make little tadpoles churn their mitochondrial motors to swim to an island. Still Arnold showed  “what if”, to that challenge. We can never-ever change biology but we can always be wishful thinkers, little seahorses in our minds, living out our biological fantasies, knowing they end there. We are all prejudiced by something or the other and man was – and will always be – both, by biology and by god.

Sea Creatures


Autumn closing in
The waves turning colder
The sea breeze running downwind
While the sky turns to a paler blue.
The sturgeon is hunted all around the Caspian Sea
For its pricey caviar, while
The Papa sea horse will collect
Roe from his lover, inject half
The chromosomes through the membrane
And rear the fertilized eggs
Until they are little bony seahorses
With prehensile tails.
While the humpback whale will
Make a little knotty maneuver
Sky hopping and tail flapping in style
While humming eerie whale songs
To attract a female humpback.
And I, a loan-shark for a bank in town
Is working the night shift
Making a racket with my trademark grunt
To embellish with a falling egg
A mermaid’s pouch.

Bull’s Eye Pregnant


Have you seen how eggs
Are arranged in a fridge?

It’s always in two lines when the one closest
Is sucked in by your fimbriae like fingers
And dropped on the frying pan.

And as the egg breaks
You see the white spreading
Like an amniotic ocean
And the golden yolk,
Afloat on top like a moon island
Squirming of life.



You’re inside a box
And you’re thinking outside.
And still you can’t figure out
How the house mouse crept through
An opening, right into the kitchen
And on to the container holding
A few kilo grams of rice.

And you wonder, how can solid walls
And sturdy doors be outwitted by a rodent.
And you look through the ceiling
Where a wire pierces, or the washing machine
From where a canal goes out, you search
The pantry for a sign of mouse droppings
Or coir for nesting, and still you find nothing.

And as you ponder, an epiphany strikes
I’m not that smart nor am I practical enough to be a
Mouse detective. The PhD that holds me on a pedestal
Could have easily been on mouse models, still
I’m perplexed at how a house mouse
Can outfox the fortress that is our kitchen.

And finally after laying the traps
A few times, you catch Mr Mousey
And your wife happens to fall in love with it.
The big ears and the whiskers, almost kissable she says.
And we take it to a deserted jungle
To let it lose and you come home
To an empty house.

All of a sudden the kitchen is empty
No sound, no master or contingency plan
No long conversations in bed on how
To outmaneuver the house mouse
We seem to be stuck in a rut.

Its amazing how much a mouse
Takes over your life. Now the silence
Wraps us, roof seems to sink, walls appear to shrink
As claustrophobia takes us hostage
How beautiful was three!

All of a sudden we are tearing our clothes
Off, in a hysterical hurry to make love.
It’s that time of the month to greet
Humpty Dumpty falling from the ovaries.
We are stricken with baby fever.

And two weeks after, we see two pink lines
On a peed strip. We are overjoyed at annunciation.
And we tell our circle of family and friends
With a twinkle and a grin.

“It took a mouse to get her pregnant”

Love and Pregnancy


Everyone one of my friends has kids.
Some 2 and others 3.
Its almost always more than 1.
Like everyone wants
A company or crowd
But never a monocyclist
Or a string quartet.

And my wife and I, we plan
To bring one rug rat to the world.
Who will run circles around us,
And make our blue veins,
Surface like gorgonzola cheese,
And still give us 4 hours of uninterrupted
Sleep each night. And we will paint
Blue when the doctor looks at
An ultrasound and tells you
It’s a boy. My father will be happy
The Gunawardana name will gallop
On for one more generation.

And still we fear the one.
Would we over pamper him and make
Him into a selfish thorn or worse
A clown and crowd puller.
Perhaps he will be a bubble boy
Taking, like his father, 37 years to kiss a woman
Or maybe by the time he is 18
He would know the underside
Of a sanitary pad better than
The old man knows.

And life is about that challenge
When we know when to give in
And when to say no, when to spur him on
When to let him make his own decisions.
He will perhaps become a doctor
Who will spend his time ferrying babies out
Or perhaps he will become a playboy
Giving ammunition to the apple
That can fall far from the tree, or maybe
He will be as gay as a Mars bar
I mean, aren’t men from Mars?

And we will look at the wonderful
And not so wonderful things he would do.
Like climb Machu Pichu, impregnate his girlfriend,
Walk from tip to toe of Sri Lanka for charity
Or get a drunk-driving ticket. We will still
Love him, like when we did that day
When he climbed out of his little hiding spot
And made us the happiest parents on earth.

And love can only be colorblind, when
We will talk about the birds and the bees
And that sometimes, Adam is with Steve
And not Eve and that the greatest mysteries in life
Are only self-determined and sovereign.
Like why we live, laugh, love and finally surrender.
And there are no clear answers
To most questions in life

And looking at my wife bloated
Like an elephant in a circus, I can only feel
The love I have for her, when Elephantine
Would be an understatement.
And have you seen a child show with his arms
How much he loves mummy and daddy
And still we adults can never draw the magnitude
Or the shape of love. Perhaps it is as big as Jupiter.
Perhaps it is as perfect as the full moon.
Perhaps it is shaped like a mango
Perhaps we will never know.

Love can do no more
Than love beyond condition
And that needs no measurement or formula
It is the unenviable keystone
Between two beings. Love is just
That thing you do to transcend existence
When she holds you like a crab’s claw
A place you can never cede or lose
Holier than a pilgrim’s lair
The perfect anarchy of the storm
In your flesh, that summons you to the eye.
To look through and be capsized
To the secluded bliss
Of one Eden.

Marine Theology


They say marine creatures, like mollusks
Write their own scripts with ink, venom and milk.

Biological concoctions of peptides and indigo dyes.
And here life is all about the beautiful prey and her capture.

And we humans call the prey, a mystical gender,
A euphemism, “woman”, radiant and strongly nuclear

We make another euphemism “love” on tender surfaces.
Seeping heart-fluids through a funneling harpoon

A woman can be a tunicate on a rock, flowing and ebbing,
Her body beautifully sessile; the siphon, a little opening,

Taking the feed in. Love was spooned like an ounce of sugar
To a little shrine. The offering of a holy pilgrim.

Like an anchor melting inside of her, cast iron
Oozing out milky nickel, pristine and full of life

Love was an adoration to what was shrouded by a loin cloth.
Milking a little life was the almighty truth.

And now they will wait, for annunciation.