Let’s fall in love with
the same person.
It could be me or you.
I would prefer me.
And then let’s take a road-trip
to some small town in Karnataka.
How about Koodli?
The place where the Tunga meets
the Bhadra, lets you and I meet.
Okay, get ready, learn to say my name.
It is Joshua Olatokunbo Rahoul Muyiwa.
Fuck you, it is sexy if you say it right.
We will drive into an empty field,
park under a large banyan tree.
Then, we will kiss and bite
the seat covers into small clouds of dandelion
and then fuck.
It will be tongues groping, fingers tasting,
toes hearing and skin seeing.
It will be the kind of sex
that will make us cry and moan
and the banyan tree will stretch
it’s tendrils to whip our butts.
But remember, we must both scream Joshua.
I want poetry cafes
in my city, I want to hear
the voice of other gay men,
I want to hear the fantasies
of the queers and the heteros
and compare notes.
Does anyone like being sucked
while listening to Winehouse moaning?
Does the girl with the heavy-set eyes
open them when she is being fucked
and will she write about it?
I want to know,
how long it takes for men to bathe?
Do they shag, before, after
or in-between soaping?
I want to know,
when and where
and what do women shag to?
I want to know if the lesbian
likes to wear frilly underwear
and does she own a butt-plug?
Will she fuck me with her dildo?
Do other queers have backaches?
Do they try and avoid anal sex
or do they have the same one pillow trick
If you have an accidental hook-up,
do you bathe first or just hope
the smell of sweat turns him or her on?
I want to hear straight men talk
about sex, not in the hooters and jugs
kinda fashion but did he honestly make her cum?
I want to hear non-bragging
rights kind of sex conversations
but where it emotional, fun
and the birth of a universe kinda sex.
But everyday, every fucking day,
I wait, wait to hear other words written
on napkins in restaurants and waiting rooms
because if we don’t write
and share, who will?
Listen, I can’t fuck anymore.
It all seems too simple.
What I really want is for the cells
in our blood streams to merge,
I want your white blood cells
to fight my love-diseased tongue
that is trying to write Joshua
in cursive on the inside of your mouth.
I want your fist to reach into me
through the backdoor and be my tongue
and ask me to do criminal things to you,
like nail your heart to my feet
so you can never leave me,
rob your clothes so I can see
you streak across the road,
and burn the bed and dance around it
so our bodies can feel heat against the cold tiles.
Let’s collect our sweat into little bottles
so we can use it as smelling salts
every time we feel we’ll faint without each other.
Listen, don’t think of anything as illegal
cause this a religious exorcism of my body
and a little blood spilt will be in the norms of the ritual.
I have just a few suggestions,
use my back as an altar, burn a few candles
and let the wax drip slowly. Chant
my name, tweak your nipples.
Also, why don’t you take my skin,
use a belt and change it into progressive strips
of a colour card and paint
our bedroom with the blend of my blood
and the dark-ish shade on my inner thigh.
Wait, Wait, Wait, what if you were just to tie me
and then block print Olatokunbo, my middle name
with dots and dashes done with your foreskin
or create your own Morse code
but make sure to create symbols, raw
and don’t stop.
Listen, let’s not say fuck anymore.
Let’s call it not fucking or
genetic engineering, cause when we
fuck I want our neighbour’s pelvises to bang
against each other in their sleep and make babies
that look like you and me.