Archive for March, 2009


three is sometimes poetree.


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

I use?

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.

March 2009