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
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.
top shelf rags are not always pink curves&tits sometimes an out of date LATIN INCHES hides forgotten behind RAZZLE – three pixelated pricks have stayed this hard since two-thousand and five – José Raúl Hotrod have stood inked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
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