BALD JASON'S GAY GOTH BOY BLOG
A Work in Progress…Welcome Back!
The shaking sweaty confrontation
with one’s own reflection
when memory is shattered,
fragmented,
splintered beyond recognition
and momentary awareness
is threatened
with mindless annihilation.
Will I remember this later…
or will an older Jason fight
through a therapist’s session
to recover the me he has lost?
Written by Jason Wright
June 26, 2018
Before I leave
but after I wake
there is an overwhelming terror;
a senseless type of heightened stress
triggered by my inner ticking clock,
which never trusts
and fears interruption.
After I leave
but before I arrive
there is inspiration,
analysis and exploration,
a journey into self
where understanding
will one day hopefully reside –
this contemplation is nearly always
external, as it’s flooded out of my brain
down through my fingertips
thumbtacked onto paper pages –
an activity I have often despised
which has become my truest salvation.
In the breazy 70 sunlight
city streets of New York
my indoor apathy
is burned away to cinders…
and I can smile
at the rainbow swirls
projected before me,
which originate in last night’s misery
once refracted through the murky depths,
the prism of a cuckold’s constant lust
which transform that sickening nauseating
sensation into chemical reactions
associated with sensuality;
the impotent erection
of the overstimulated
yet never truly satisfied bottom.
The reasoning behind transitions
is all but lust
– FUCK –
is all but LOST amidst an intensely
brief panic when I lose track of my letters,
memory once again escaping from the prison of my mind –
How could I have
forgotten this horror?
Is this to be my future hell?
WRITE IT DOWN
SO YOU CAN’T FORGET!
Time for tests
and uncomfortable questions.
A lack of specificity
resembles the oft forgotten pattern.
Not names but films,
not train letters but direction…
This is NOT like
THE ME
that I have known
until this recent phenomena.
Perfect score on memory test
at therapist’s office
though there is visual spatial strangeness –
my cube doesn’t begin with a square
and my clock is a Salvador Dali sketch:
“The Persistence of Memory”
becoming an ironic and completely menacing title.
Nothing to worry about, she says
and I hear these words,
like poetry.
Tip of the Tongue Syndrome and
lexical access occurs in stages…
I remain fearful but also amused,
inspired and enamored with her decisional words.
Our time is up
despite the continued ticking
of my misshapen clock.
Written by Jason Wright
June 26, 2018
I play a numbers game
in hopes of recalling the percentages,
the statistics and rates and proportions
of a love affair between two unknowns.
What is the sum total
of a failed relationship?
There were seventeen summers
before that summer when we met,
and that was seventeen summers ago.
But we were
both of us
older than seventeen
when we met
and made love for nearly five hours,
on the eighth day
of the seventh month
of the two-thousand-and-first year.
We spent nine weeks together;
four of them happily.
I once waited seven days in his bedroom,
reading five-hundred-seventy-six pages
of “The Prince of Tides”…
before I drove one hundred and forty-one miles,
back to Ann Arbor
and waited to be betrayed.
Betrayal arrived on my twenty-seventh birthday,
the twelfth day of the eighth month,
but I wouldn’t learn the truth
for several more encounters.
On August thirteenth, which fell
on the second day of the week,
my stomach became partially paralyzed,
and I’ve been sick every day since then.
Before he told me the truth,
he sent me flowers,
made love to me and tortured me with lies
and abandonment…
those flowers were like perfumed poison
when I learned the truth
and saw them wilting in my bedroom.
The last time we had sex
was August twenty-fourth.
The first day that we met
there were fireworks; beautiful bursts
of poisonous flowers,
omens which lit up our lives
and then faded all too quickly…
but our lust prevented us from seeing
this prophetic truth
as anything other than
celebratory pyrotechnics.
Numbers are often deceptive because
they don’t truly reveal the truth
with the accuracy that they are ascribed;
they don’t calculate the geometry of emotion
or the calculus of grief and lust and shame.
Every number that walks through the door
can determine our differential and
satisfy our algebraic need for multiples;
while concurrently erasing the totality of truth;
simultaneous equations of salvation and destruction.
Numbers, you’ll learn, can be vicious…
because numbers will often lie.
Written by Jason Wright
June 26, 2018
One year ago tonight
you whispered
into my unhearing ears
with the flick of your tongue
across my lover’s desperate flesh
over oceans of thought, fear and lust
you joined that which was mine
while never knowing or desiring
my anatomy.
You, who knew not
to be yourself
except reflected in strange foreign eyes
which we have separately drowned in,
we have shared that beautiful body.
I am nothing to you
but an invisible partner
who plagues not your existence,
a ghost that is haunted
by tiny little deaths
which interred you both
on sweet Budapest fabrics
to the strains of Porgy and Bess.
You were musical phrases
that created a distinct melody
of an already exotic piece,
a hunger I may yet understand
but will never truly experience.
That night I was lost in your tonal pattern,
deafened by an overwhelming silence
which inspired want and hatred,
pity and indifference,
a longing that may never be satiated.
I say “your”
though the stress was not singular –
it was a harmony
that brought me to tears,
tore at my soul & ripped me apart,
boiling me down to my essence.
You were a crucible
by which all fear was melted away,
an intersection in which,
by way of paradox,
he and I were joined in honest surrender,
a yielding so keen
that it’s wounding pleasure
healed the breach,
sealed the rift,
and eased the strain
until nothing could keep us apart.
Written by Jason Wright
June 25, 2018
For Zsolt Krasznár & Aaron Sanko
Tight press
of bodies in cars and in stalls…
in bars and in halls…
in times of stress:
relentless madness
get undressed
in spite of sadness.
Written by Jason Wright
June 21, 2018
A ride on the 1 train
to “No Friends” operetta,
1 day after a ride on the A train
filled with naked imaginary men…
on the way home from the village
where extraordinary naked men used to die.
This writing calms me after distressing Anna voicemail;
a horrible miscommunication which I must correct.
Breathe. 18 stops to relax. I can message her when I arrive.
Now, begin again. Tell me about the men.
There were several fully clothed
but naked men
on the subway yesterday.
A sturdy father,
a seemingly kindly grandpa man
and a 20 something –
all of them with beautiful, dark skin.
As a game
to escape the crowded
heated madness,
I undressed them all.
I sized them up
and I devoured them,
before spitting them all out
when studly sturdy father man
vividly became a father again.
Though just after that happened
he winked at me,
subtly rubbed his crotch
and sent me another sidelong glance;
an invitation to continue.
Except that more than 24 hours later,
17 stops have flown by
and I must away to my partner and friends,
leaving my imaginary men behind
as I immerse myself
in the imaginations of others.
Written by Jason Wright
June 13, 2018
A murder of crows
has led me to you.
For you are the ghost
of the men that I knew.
You are the haunted
and you are unrested.
The men I had wanted
but never accepted.
You’ve gone through the wringer
defined by my lies.
No wonder you linger
behind my closed eyes.
No wonder the sadness
has left you so ashen.
For you are the madness
of sorrow and passion.
You are the death that
was saved by machines.
You are the flesh that
has made me obscene.
You with your trousers
convexed by confusion.
Coven carousers
confessed by collusion.
We left ourselves open
and thusly unbuckled.
Deftly unspoken
and clumsily suckled.
You parted my lips
like a concave whisper.
And departed eclipsed
by a conclave of scripture.
Written by Jason Wright
June 9, 2018
This book of words
is falling apart
while makeup mistress
weaves together
a patchwork creation
meant to imitate perfection –
free from the rhyming couplets
that have held us all prisoner
and made a fairytale
of our dungeon.
The underground roars
through hollow hills
beneath beautiful graveyard labyrinths –
a necropolis that invites the living
to congregate with the dead:
the mouldering corpses
of past aspirations,
childhood dreamscapes
and unfinished poetry.
In an autumnal sunset
over a long Decembered
spring awakening
lies a barely remembered
ginger haired mutant
of a carcass.
Seventeen summers
have taken that once orgasmic beauty
and flayed him into living dead road kill
swollen skull
dried up brains
in that monstrous
Mount Rushmore sized
flesh blossom.
Lucky to have had him
before he was this
completely ugly
unfortunate thing.
Long before his wickedness
was so outwardly apparent
for all the world to see.
Written by Jason Wright
June 7, 2018