seven portraits

June 10, 2016


we won’t calculate the intervals

at which this city’s heart beats before we die,

she wonders why i taste of so much saltiness,

imploring her vagina to forget the places her tongue has been to

in bodies of lakes and winds winding around erectile dysfunction

but i have stopped the world’s bleeding with salt, lover.





i forgive you for the gods you created,

your back arched, hands between legs, shaking with desire

between the holiness of the sheets of my temple,

last night, a friend froze at my touch,

her body lathering at imagination

w  a   n   t   i   n   g   to unbody this soul.





many yesterdays before yesterday, a friend:

“i do not have good news”

(somewhere in kampala the president no one elected insists on being)

somehow she arrives, he slides his fingers between her thighs,

bladder threatening to burst, she burns,

in the flame of wanting him

his shaft curved at the tip, hard and fragile

she did this with lovers, still does

slowly, in and out, sensually.




forgive me for love wasted on me, love you did not receive,

they all insist on loving, only me

as if the space between your left and right artery,

depended on how much blood my heart could pump

into the toes of your feet

loving me closing your mind to the generosity of other worlds

wanting me to belong to you and you to me,

my heart does not know how to be loved

this way, lover.




he arrived with three condoms and used none,

his penis will not last the eternity of this night

still, we rub gun oil on ourselves,

wanting him to slide in, he won’t

come, all your hairs have the texture of gods

dreadlocks are a thing of beauty, spread across the pillow,

sycamore roots of other yesterdays

hold onto me, like a wish.




i do not know the intensity of my indifference to whiteness these days, andrea

my heart breaks, walking over the broken glass of your heart

wanting you to want me enough to fuck me like you know i’m black, broken

i want love, like white men at havana’s stock market,

holding onto the fragilities of broken hearts covered in mascara and eye shadow,

delamere’s baboons teaching themselves the art of orgies,

white men get so much love!





we are too afraid of your heart to name the unnamable,

the way your pelvic floor opens to make way for me,

squirting onto my face, has killed the embers of my want

your touch feels like an occupation, a grabbing,

(is it still a kiss if it has too much teeth?)

blood gushes from my neck in the mouth of a vampire,

adrienne: no one’s fated or doomed to love anyone,

on phone we talk about nairobi’s psychosis

look, we have gone mad with/in this city,


shall we help each other die, lover?








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