BALD JASON'S GAY GOTH BOY BLOG
A Work in Progress…Welcome Back!
Sunny November
by gray clouds divided
Transport through city
in which she resided
Curtained car window
hides salt of New Jersey
Uncertain widow
denies fault of fury
As light traces leaves
between skin and desire
The recently grieved
believes she’s on fire.
Written by Jason Wright
November 29, 2018
Scott Weiland sings to me
in performance once dedicated
by Michigan Bryan
years before his building caught on fire
and Scott Weiland had died.
The Weiland ghost does not understand,
continuously encouraging me to
watch Lost in Space on his television,
which makes me smile
the saddest of sad smiles.
One charming copy
of a beautiful dead man’s soul
does not resurrect
all the beauty we have lost.
Written by Jason Wright
November 29, 2018
For Bryan Alfaro, who introduced me to
Scott Weiland’s “Barbarella” in a most appreciated fashion.
Beneath the great city
lies curious Underland,
Where the man on the train
takes up three seats
with unabashed manspread…
He’s not unattractive
if I squint
with his head between his knees
in relaxed, if awkward pose.
Why does my brain
always sexualize everything?
Oh. Right. I’m a dude.
Sometimes I forget.
In my sex starved brain
he’s a nameless bathhouse hookup:
“Lose the towel.”
Here are the words
of this object’s confession:
I’ve spent a great deal
of time pressed against Heaven.
But being so close
when denied holy union.
Was torture at worst
and at best just confusion.
I thought to be free
would release me from Hell.
But the Devil arrived
and enlightened my cell.
As he retched me free of
true Heaven’s embrace.
I found Hell was Heaven with my Hell replaced
by actual suffering; actual pain…
He showed me my torment
had been my own shame.
My own unacceptance
denied my admittance.
My disillusionment
blinded by brilliance.
My savior was there with me
there all the time.
But I failed to see
and denied him three times.
So Devil came calling
and caused my catharsis.
The damned saved my soul
when I saw light in darkness.
And burned in the bright
of that unholy day…
I learned what is right
and yearned not to stray…
Burned by transgression
and melted like chocolate…
Returned to the Heaven
of Christian’s back pocket.
Written by Jason Wright
November 29, 2018
For Christian De Gré’s wallet,
you lucky bastard.
You were lost in the dark
and I sounded absurd.
Exhausted remarks
left you feeling unheard.
I swear that I heard you
and I feel regret.
I’m aware I deferred you
and caused our upset.
My only defense
is a timeless cliché.
My lonely pretense
is a rhymeless betrayal
of love and of care but
was truly attraction:
Thought overwhelmed
by the prime crime of passion.
Written by Jason Wright
November 29, 2018
For Aaron
Strike the match.
Strike that.
Strike up the band
and burn us to the ground.
Listen to nothing.
Listen to no one.
The deaf,
moved by deepest vibrations,
rise up to meet us
betwixt silence and cacophony;
teaching us how to feel
and interpret the words
they can’t hear
but feel with a depth
which we sometimes lack.
We are blind
and struggle –
reaching out to recognize
the face of reality –
the face of the universe –
inverse infinity –
infinite perversions of intended design.
Revelation yearned for
is as momentous as imagined…
if only for moments
which we believe were imaginary.
Written by Jason Wright
November 29, 2018
The boredom of youth
relieved by seduction –
no love or lust;
just blissful destruction –
just practice;
no hardship;
no need for regret –
just beautiful lips
of boys he’ll forget.
Beautiful boys
together in boredom –
the time of their lives
in self enslaved whoredom –
beautiful boys
who’ll one day be men –
who dreamed they were toys
when they would be again.
Written by Jason Wright
November 29, 2018
A new direction
to an old destination,
A true connection
devoid of sensation
response to divergent
influent stimuli…
Lifelong corruption
to utter destruction –
beyond deconstruction
say live and let die.
Written by Jason Wright
November 28, 2018
The beast confessed drink
is poured toward successful.
The greased suppressed wink
is abhorred and disheveled.
The least caressed kink
is a sore spot for several.
The priest dressed in pink
is a whore for the devil.
Written by Jason Wright
November 28, 2018
I have the sickness.
I have to express.
I have the thickness.
I have to confess.
I have the wetness.
I have the shame.
I have been sexless.
I have been stained.
I have been tested.
I’ve been observed.
I’ve been suggested.
I have been heard.
I have been labeled
as purely obscene.
I am disabled
by being unseen.
Written by Jason Wright
November 21, 2018