The fighting: concerned for me;
I fell to pieces.
The writing returned for me
when I was sleepless.
The sound in your eyes;
the scent of your song…
Drugs may be quick
but they never last long.
Written by Jason Wright
November 21, 2018
The Acid Test
A Fear in the Strife
Before it began, something was wrong
and we didn’t (couldn’t?) see it.
I wasn’t in the mood. He wasn’t feeling it.
This possible malignancy…
This possibly unexplored unreal territory,
This possibly unexposed notional strife…
was like a DANGER sign that was somehow misread as
STILL SLIPPERY WHEN WET –
an honest, if possibly fatal mistake.
It’s difficult to differentiate
where I end and he begins,
between what is wrong with us
and what is wrong with me…
but perhaps the two are not the same;
perhaps we two are not as one.
Months ago…
(I really should have kept track)
in the moments before usual masturbatory apex,
unreconciled paste spills upon perplexed fingers
absent blissful climax rush;
the poorly mixed paint
lubricates and froths,
gushing forward some 30 guesstimated seconds
before still stroking right hand
leads me to delayed
yet not unpleasant orgasmic sensations.
What the fuck had just happened?
I still don’t know for sure….
But when it didn’t happen again
I imagined it a fluke…
until it wasn’t.
I told him and he later experienced it fourth hand.
28 days x 6 months, minus whatever it is to make it 160
is my guess for how many times I’ve ejaculated since the beginning.
Five aberrant orgasms
with no discernable pattern…
but I speak to urology office shortly
before the sixth occurrence.
That was a few hours ago.
In the shower,
as I washed away all evidence
of any malady,
I imagined him leaving me
after his retreat
and choosing to keep my
completely imagined cancer diagnosis from him
so as not to blackmail him,
so as not to keep him tethered to me
against his will out of shame or pity,
or some maligned commingling of the two.
I’ve not been diagnosed with anything,
but it’s the dream image
that is the first moment in which I feel actual fear
in regard to my (or our possibly) undiagnosed condition.
It is in that first moment of fear
that I imagine him leaving me,
emotionally as well as physically,
in which I am finally able to see us
as two separate beings;
the division of cells,
the division of selves,
until all are finally set free.
Written by Jason Wright
November 20, 2018
For Aaron
and for Little Jason
Nightmare Asylum
In Nightmare Asylum
they don’t let you sleep.
“Sleep doesn’t matter”
they say as you weep.
You can’t shed your tears
or they keep you for longer
so stand against fears;
I know you are stronger than
maliciousness doctors and malcontent nurses.
Though we cannot speak –
And we cannot sleep –
We exist here together
inside of these verses.
Written by Jason Wright
November 20, 2018
For Aaron
Decomposition
Regimes bathed in scarlet
ceremony behavior.
In dreams lathed and starlit:
my loneliness savior.
In creams craved by artist
named only betrayer.
Yet I am the harlot
and he only player.
Condition is chalky;
deplores the reboot…
For position we jockey;
he scores and I shoot…
I launch at my folly;
I stream with no joy…
I relaunch and volley;
I scream for the boy.
The stream precedes chasm;
the target is painted…
The dream seeds orgasm
and harlot is tainted.
The player has won
as my body is cheated…
Two halves made one…
disembodied…
depleted.
Written by Jason Wright
November 20, 2018
Musings on Avatars of Womanhood
Part I: The Inner Eyelid of Annunciation
Womanly warrior whispers
of parental dissonance;
the void left vacant
by heartless disparaging demoness
who indoctrinated decorum,
even when disturbingly disoriented;
ultimately dying of dissatisfaction.
Illustrious alliteration
illustrates illusive illegitimate elucidation,
when remembering memorable memories
of transformative teenage tomboy temptations
which typify, titillate, terrify and tenaciously tickle
the terrifically transitory transillumination territory
of a tear-transporting-trauma,
tremulous with trepidation.
Fecund fundamentalist female,
fearing frustration,
fetishistically fostered forced feminization,
frequently forgetting ferocious fastidiousness
in favor of fashion forward formularies
of fatalistic forgoing…
Fuck that! Fuck this!
Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!
Part II: Someone to Wraith Over Me
The premature dusting
of witch woman’s skeletal desiccation
is an abomination
to bitch queen shepherdess goddess
who bequeathed this nightmare distortion
unto the world beneath
the tattered folds of
her shattered girlhood obsessions.
She, then a shade of innocence untouched
by the ravages expressed by others and
experienced by each of her antecedents,
draws charcoal sketches of haunted childhood homes
containing all the monsters one expects
with none of the cynicism, skepticism or irony of age.
Interlude: Forgiveness For Unformed Thoughts and Persons
Know this mister,
Poet-Sister,
Gothic-Mother,
Hooker-Lover,
All of this from prism gleaned;
loneliness and wisdom weaned…
on oldest old wood holly charm
which seeks to heal but does her harm.
Part III: The Fate of Foolishness
She is murdered by her own emotions,
ripped apart by the loathsome gentlemen pretenders
who often inspired her frenzied zeal
and seduced her to her supplicant
disconnected desolation.
She cries out for seamstresses
to sow her back to perfect completion,
yet there’s nothing wrong
with this patchwork creation.
I yearn to pass her poetry well received
by older incarnations in abject exaltation
of artistically symbolic expressionism,
but the politically mislead
withered maiden hand of the despicable crone
rejects my assertions despite the burden of proof
on display before milky white cataract eyes,
long ago blinded by gossamer hatred
and ephemeral morality.
She is now but a husk,
a hollow hardened cancerous shell,
containing pustule ichor
of the most diabolical
mind altering ignorance
which threatens to destroy us all.
Written by Jason Wright
November 8, 2018
The Poetry Table
It’s good to be back
out amongst poets;
amongst these crazy charming
bewilderingly astute
music makers.
Jack-in-the-box,
Jack being less nimble,
Jack jacking off with Viagra,
Jack, the former taxi driver extraordinair
paints us pictures
with his lyrical expressions;
that he also colors canvasses
with actual pigmentation
does not so much surprise me
as it seems to cement his
quirky talent in a far more serene sensation.
The new girl from Astoria
who says that she is old
and that she likes the writing of Robert Smith,
stuns with her humble beauty;
fumbling in the darkness
which prevents her from witnessing
the complexity and artistry of her own
Scrutiny.
Alan IS THE BRONX
or so he tells me…
and if his words are true
than the jittery neighborhood prince
among mere mortals
has hidden all of his treasure,
wrapped in twilight raiments
of endlessly interesting pentameters,
to entertain us all in our Manhattan
SoHo despair.
And Evie (is that short for Evelyn)
wanders in spilling poetry like pennies
for the distressed and the weary
as I side eye temptation to bolt
from the lazy stare
of sympatico hooligans of obscene desire.
One last nameless stranger
and the cycle is complete,
absent other friends
but filled to the brim
with amusement, power and nerve.
Written by Jason Wright
November 8, 2018
On the Way to Coffee
Hey! I’ve got a LOUD one!
Just the NYC MTA saying F U;
we won’t make this easy
even with American Psycho 80’s cover
lilting where Fearful Tears
once sang you to fever dream kisses.
Quieted by new crowd infusion;
wait for it…
There they are!
“Fuck you!” 3 times in succession.
But well on the way to coffee date
I must silence my own inner voices
and dry the fuck off,
with memory rain outside
like autumn watercolors
smeared in shadows behind my eyes.
Written by Jason Wright
November 5, 2018
“Love is a Demon”
Their eyes sought me out
cross the waiting room floor…
Their gaze drifted down
to the demon adored…
Their feet and their legs
brought them quick as you please…
and I barely kept up
from off of my knees.
Hot Doctor Craig
and Doctor Antell
approach me
and coach me
on living so well…
They compliment
garment
and offer me sex
behind my closed eyes
as they search for who’s next.
The shirt that I wore from Party That Wasn’t /
Middle-Earth shirt worn by someone who doesn’t
exist or persist in interest of others…
I barely seek to or speak to my brothers
who once stripped for me
in convent abandoned…
this clothing’s been holding me;
constant companion.
It’s Nina who sings to me
blissed through my tears…
who aids and then fades to me
kissed through my fears…
as music comes up and
and asks with a twirl:
A demon to some…
could I be your girl?
Written by Jason Wright
October 9, 2018
For Antell & Arden, Simone & Barker,
& the lovers that we never were.
Universal Victims
Last night’s
39 year old child slut
thickened my cock
with stories about seducing stepfather
to save sacrificial sisters before
sex party bareback orgies.
He tells me there’s no need for condoms
if I’m on PrEP…
he smiles at this
through piss stained teeth
as if I don’t remember that he’s poz
and has suffered countless infections,
although herpes, he has also confessed,
still terrifies him.
He’s not without his charm,
this not altogether foreign creation;
he stands as myth; a tall tale
of erotic urban legends.
But it’s his step-story which really makes me
question our reality.
Could this stranger be an alternate version of myself
from monster rat infested Surinam?
This is both too fantastical to be true,
and too close to the truth to not be questioned.
But our shared tragedy
is not truly identical.
Siblings of a kind,
our similar origin stories
are sadly, merely universal,
and not the horrific singular experience
of one fragmented individual.
The places we started are synonymous
and we have both arrived in the same location;
it is only our trajectories
which have truly separated us.
Written by Jason Wright
October 9, 2018
Writing Across the Transparent Sky
Shakey frostbite artist scrawl
in painful seizure Chevrolet
Fuck! My chest scraped open
in bloodless abandon!
I wonder if Sean has received
my owl? And if not, will it
reach him in time? And will he care?
Or will he once again reject me?
I’ll be close to an hour early
when this earthquake on wheels
jitters to a stop as I cling
to psalms once pressed together
for Laurie’s benefit.
Words written slowly
as we inch by Carnegie Hall.
I don’t feel like writing anymore.
A spare thought that becomes truth,
that becomes despair.
But I don’t really completely finish until
I reach my destination (who does, really?)
even when scratched beneath a different shade of ink.
Written by Jason Wright
October 9, 2018
For Sean Mobley,
my lost inspiration and seemingly perpetual muse.
And for Laurie Finney ,who was kind enough
to sing my praises when I attempted to DJ for
her circle of friends. Were it always so blissful!