Olly Nze
No Road for Old Twinks
I take his hand away —lightly,
not like the time he called me beautiful—
when he says my body is so soft,
so supple.
Hands, as big as mine,
run across mounds of hyper-pigmented flesh
I wish I could slice off,
with what he thinks is tenderness.
I say once, a long time ago
When men with hard eyes call me beautiful,
think me coy,
then wonder aloud if I will grunt or moan.
In three days
I will forget my hard-won dignity
at the bottom of a beer bottle
and let him fuck me to oblivion.
He won’t get there,
very few of them ever do.
But at least I know he will try.
That, they always do.
*****
To The Boy From Tinder
The first time we fucked
I bade my dead to slumber
before careening into you at 16 miles per hour
with the abandonment of a white man
building his house on stolen land.
I devoured your lips
bruised them, warped them
as they tried to form a name
I had not yet told you.
I took you into me,
languorous and slow.
Each inch’s progress,
marked on your back.
You growled
in triumph? In wonder?
As balls met taint
and whispered words only you could hear.
When it was done
when we were one
you dived into me, searching for keys
to doors you knew I kept hidden.
I had told you once
“The dead are never homeless.”
Before the night was over,
you discovered where I buried mine.
Bio
Olly Nze is a writer living in Lagos, Nigeria. When he isn't trying to navigate the madness of the city or tending to his cacti, he writes decent poetry and acceptable prose to keep himself sane. He has been published in Roxane Gay’s The Audacity, Serotonin Poetry, among others. He is the managing editor for the quarterly lit mag Second Skin Mag.
Social Media