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luís soares

Blog do escritor Luís Soares

Richard Scott - Admission

he asks if my poems are authentic
do I have any experience in the matter
and by this he means abuse
and by this he means have I been a victim
I tell him the truth he talks to cover my silence
the Nigerian playwright who writes only
of the Second Liberian Civil War
how trauma is a shared thread
leading to other victims of molestation
how rape is a weapon blame


still in truth I wish he hadn't asked see I
want this man my friend to see me
as pure not in any way ruined or touched
dirty a tease a liar an attention seeker
he cites Wordsworth something familiar
about tranquility and I want to ask
now that you know do you still like me
but like the boy when asked by his therapist
to say in the bathroom mirror
it's not your fault I remain dumb

Richard Scott - First Love

All the things I would do to you:

wet my tongue, lick
your thigh, stop
when I tasted hair, cup
your balls as I kissed
your mouth, bite
your lip, pinch
your nipples raw…


How hard I was. I
measured myself for you, relayed
the inches over the phone, compared
mine to a bull’s — anything
to turn you on but still careful
to listen for clicks on the line
in case mum had picked up the receiver


and you were recording me. Every word
onto your dad’s Sony Dictaphone.
Made me repeat RICHARD SCOTT
over and over — so there could be no doubt
and if I came near you again:
Everyone at school will hear it faggot! Then you hung up.

Richard Scott - cover-boys

top shelf rags are not always pink curves&tits
sometimes an out of date LATIN INCHES hides
forgotten behind RAZZLE – three pixelated pricks
have stayed this hard since two-thousand and five –
José Raúl Hotrod have stood inked jaw-locked
in a three-way french for some nine rugged years –
pecs still greasy tans Miami-orange fingers tucked
into each other’s pits – interests include PS3 beer
skateboarding fisting being taken for expensive meals –
this is the future I wish for them – open-mouthed
wanton lithe&toned – instead of the all too real –
Wikipedia tells me Hotrod married a girl appalled
by his past – Raúl’s serving time for battery in Bristol
Texas a born-again homophobe&José’s heart exploded
on stage at Pride too much love or rather crystal

Richard Scott - Crocodile

I know how I will die then
in a death roll scales to my
cheek claws sunk into my pale
shoulders water burning my
throat like whiskey the
uncountable rows of yellowed
teeth ringing my scalp and
in the heat of the thrashing
river he will press his white
rawness into me like that man
who held me from behind
when I didn’t know sex and
gripped my mouth like a muzzle
and unsheathed his anger
stubble grazing my neck see
I have died already and somehow
survived hauled myself up from
the river mud to taste blue air
though I was not the same I
was carrion bleeding into the silt
and didn’t I wear those wounds
well pity me the boy who cried
crocodile I have these moments when I
know I wanted it asked for it even
to be special to be scarred
wading along the river bank feet
in the brown flow flirting with
wildness the green violence in the
shallows and I know he is swimming
back to me his horned body slipping
through sediment and weed for
nothing ever really heals he can
smell the red meat of me
bait lighting up the river