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We are men capable of loving men.
We are capable of feeling compassion
and conveying passion in all its hues, expressed
with tenderness, in purple, and with an urgency to communicate our loves and desires.
We are capable of kissing mouth to mouth,
to wet each other’s appetite with our yearnings,
to touch with butterfly caresses and to grip with an intensity.
We are capable of stroking each other’s lust, tasting the rich tannin from our skins.
We feel and can express emotions in all its colours.
We are more than your niggers and thugs your fetishised allusions of rage and savagery.
We are not here to exorcise your wishes of revisiting the primitive: I see this on your football pitches and your politics.
We are, above all sensual, beautiful and complex.
We are capable of dreaming and having soaring imaginations…
We, you affirm have no name, you ask us to refer to each other as niggers.
Would I not call my lover by this name: that which defines him as inhuman, it is personal. Absent is the individuality that designates the self, sees us as a collective whole, with no identity
