Author: Jason Wright

Posted on

Crushing Franklin

I dreamed of a conversation
which more or less actually happened.

This summation is not quite poetry,
but it’s what I scribbled in my notebook.

Back in the dream or back in the memory or
back in the memory of the dream or
back in the dream of the memory…

Franklin, an ex-boyfriend of mine
tells me he has something very important to ask me,
as I remember him kissing me a lifetime ago…
2002 with the Green Dragon.

“Is this Christian really as hot
as he looks in your pictures?”

“Do you have a particular Christian in mind? I don’t really keep track
of the religious views of my friends. I, mean, I like to know about my friends,
but religion isn’t currently in my polling questions.”

“No. Christian.”

Then Franklin says Christian’s last name,
pronouncing it correctly the first time (which I did not)
and I smile.

“Oh! That Christian! Yes. Yes, he definitely is that hot.
He’s also funny, talented, compassionate, friendly, insightful,
he has a nice laugh and his wardrobe is both classy and slightly,
in my opinion, pornographic.”

“Pornographic?” and I can hear the smile in his voice.

“You’d have to see it to understand it completely, but I’ve
seen grown men drool at the sight. I mean, I’ve been one
of those men. But if you think he’s all that and a bag of chips,
just wait until you see Charly!”

When Aaron hears me tell Franklin this he calls me a bitch.

Franklin, with disappointment: “His boyfriend?”

“No. Christian doesn’t have a boyfriend,
though you and I do.”

“Then who’s Charly?”

“Charly is Christian’s better half.”

“But you said…”

“Yes I did. And I promise that I was telling the truth,
because Charly is definitely not Christian’s boyfriend,
husband or man friend.

“How to best describe Charly?
Charly IS a beautifully stunning, exceptionally gifted individual…
who manages to be ethereal yet completely approachable, and unfailingly sweet,
though not in an artificial, obnoxious kind of way.

“Charly is one of those people who you meet
and the subtlety with which you are beguiled
leaves you haunted for days afterward.
Christian has a similar allure, so I can see
why they make such a good couple.

“Charly is Christian’s muse. She’s also his girlfriend.”

And then Franklin calls me a bitch too,
and I laugh for several weeks.

I send Franklin to Christian’s website to see clips of his magic.

“His website is almost as hot as yours, though for different reasons.”

I think I’ll have to tell Christian about this the next time I see him,
only I’ve not seen him in a month
and who knows when I’ll see him again, really?

As I’ve said, I then had a dream
about this conversation and I like the extra details,
a bit of fiction which compliments reality.

I write this down on my way to therapy,
then transcribe it to Facebook less than 24 hours later,
to be published a few weeks later
on Christian’s birthday.

Written by Jason Wright
September 11, 2018

For Franklin, who inspired it,
just as he inspired me when he first crossed my path,
more than 16 years ago…

For Christian, who inspired Franklin’s question.

For Christian’s wardrobe, which, to paraphrase Radiohead,
is surely a siren, singing others to shipwreck.

For Charly, who inspires Christian and who inspired my response.

And for Aaron, because it always comes back to Aaron, doesn’t it?
Nobody calls me a bitch quite the way you do. ♥

Posted on

Assorted September Scribbles (between 9/4 & 9/11)

Tired sleepy eyed transformation awaits.
The unconscious cut in line
but are more lively than I am
and I’m mostly awake!

I’m wearing scruff,
no makeup or jewelry.

Halloween may be every day
but will be celebrated more than 50 moons from now
as I remain here in my complete lack of drag
save my Joy Division shirt.

“Some Girls Are Bigger Than Others.”

How much for a cup of coffee?

Just your self respect,
as I’m reminded daily
of orange shrimp with tiny baby hands
and the day I wandered
into his seaweed castle aquarium
to beg for sustenance.

Being stuck underground in the Heights
I should be panicked and pissed
about my horribly fucked up Starbucks drink,
but my Vitamin Water Whiskey mixture prevents this.

Luna Park
in headphones and I chill.

Whiskey
rushing through my veins.

Nothing
satisfies the bones.

The scrape on my hand
was unintentional;
one must not fist androids.

Mashup from decade ago
(or longer)
returns in Times Square.

My hands are blotchy
and I thought
the food seller bathed in Windex
but it’s actually asian hand sanitizer.

The hot random to my right is less than perfect
which somehow makes him hotter,
though he disappears at Penn Station,
undoubtedly reappearing for others
as he leans in,
kissing my neck as I continue to write,
still listening to Justin and Enrique
make love to one another.

Time to meet Monica
and ease on down the road.

(I’m returning The Wiz, if that isn’t too obvious)

“There’s no place like home.”

Written by Jason Wright
September 2018

featuring Monica Lane.

Posted on

Sugar For the Pill

Part I: Sweetheart

He’s unlike any other lover
that I’ve ever had.

There have, in the past
been talented enthusiasts,
skilled contortionists,
beloved boyfriends
and romantic one night stands…
but after nearly seven years
he knows me;
knows more about what happens INSIDE ME
than anyone who ever previously came that way.

With the others, skilled as they were,
there was always something more;
something secret transpiring behind my

           ORGASM
    CLOSED
            EYES

But by now he knows everything he needs to know,
which he uses to his advantage,
bringing me to my oft contemplated conclusion;
he looks at me with his insider’s knowledge
and he sees inside what others could not.

The path to my bliss
is a code which he has broken;
a cypher that my body,
my outward appearance
could never hope to betray,
for all the contradictions therein.

He feeds my desperation
with erotic confections,
candied pornography,
titillatingly told and suggestively supplied.

He says all the right things,
evocative, provocative things,
pressing all the right buttons,
pulling all the right strings,
whispering nearly impossible encryption,
like an incantation (if not a description);
such nectarous wines which some find grotesque
as my redolent rhymes at last come undressed.

And there, in the harsh light of spray,
as frenzied fantasy is glazed with stud honey,
he looks deep into my opened eyes
and tells me how much he loves me.

Part II: Sweet Dreams

I sleep like the dead.

A door slams
and I am awakened;
a scenario which has always made me sad.

Returning to consciousness ALONE is shocking.

Previous waking memory
involves being nakedly wrapped
in another man’s embrace…
he was just here.

My deathly slumber has robbed me
of too many farewells.

How do men disentangle
themselves from me so easily?

Perhaps when lulled
into a false sense of security,
I fail to cling effectively?

The most satisfying
sexual encounters
of my life
seem predicated on utter destruction
come the merciless
light of day.

Perhaps
that early sweetness

before such raw transformative
encounters have bruised us

is life’s deceptive way of
getting us all to take our medicine.

Part III: A Bitter Pill to Swallow

He says he’s been crying all morning;
that we’ve not planned this day well.

He wishes we were together.

We are frustrated that my thoughtfulness
was unknowingly seemingly thoughtless.

Should have asked for headphones.
Should have called when doorslam woke me.
Should have moved this appointment
but the confusing calendar info
has only recently been translated
and my therapist has no other window
so I take the car he scheduled for me
to the appointment he scheduled for me
and I hope for the best,
swallowing any bitterness
by remembering last night’s sugar.

Written by Jason Wright
August 28, 2018

For Aaron

Posted on

Unfaithful Inversion

A fleeting annihilation in lust;
cheating is violation of trust…
cheating is hurtful and
cheating is slighting…
cheating is nothing that I find exciting.

What I find enthralling
which some find confusing
and may seem appalling
but really is choosing to probe my identity
satisfy wondering
disrobe obscenity
nullify suffering
to simulate danger
emulate fantasy
to stimulate strangers
and affirm our humanity.

And I know it’s perplexing;
I’m so complicated…
and I’m far from perfecting
what we’ve consummated…
but the point is just this:
no more unfaithfulness…
I want to persist but
not with such painfulness…
inverting portrayal
underscored with disgust…
reverse of betrayal:
exploring of trust.

Written by Jason Wright
August 26, 2018

Posted on

Less Than Thirty-Six

36: the oft repeated number,
mentioned in passing
and jingled out during repeated conversations,
as the amount of time he’ll be spending
before jetting off again,
halfway around the world.

And then he says 18.
But 36? I ask.
Bad math he says.
More than 24, less than 36.

My pain spikes.
A surprising, unforeseen reaction.
I’ve been fine but this seems like too much.

I want to ask him many questions
but he’s tired
and it seems selfish,
so I remain almost silent
as the car full of people shout over me
with a flashed dick pic nearly killing them all.

Later, as I struggle to rectify this disparity
between what I expected and what will be,
the distance between what I believed I felt
and what overwhelmed me in the conversation,
as tears stream down my face,
the telephone rings.

He’s sorry.
He knew what I was feeling.
He always knows.
We’ll have more than a few stolen moments,
despite the never ending ticking.
And he can’t wait to be in my arms again.

Less than 36;
more than enough.

Some people are never so lucky.

Written by Jason Wright
August 24, 2018

For Aaron

Posted on

Emergence

Cruising the surface
the tempest remembers.

Bruising the cervix;
embarrassing embers.

The blush of disgrace;
the wet of excitement.

The cold wind of fate
as it screams for indictment.

But what you created
and what you kept hidden…

What you castrated
with words so malignant…

The preacher made jealous
and crazed by imposters…

The creature angelic
was praised by his monsters.

Written by Jason Wright
August 22, 2018

Posted on

Playoff

I deal out desire;
invite a new player.

Conceal and conspire
in light of betrayer.

I match and he scores
as he breaks all the rules…

As I catch on all fours
an outbreak of fools.

He tells him
he’s lonely;
I “can’t understand”.

He tells him
I’m only
a shell of a man.

He sells
controversy
to man who would take him.

He tells him
he’s thirsty
and I cannot slake him.

He whimpers and sighs
and admires our plunder.

He whispers these lies
to inspire my hunger.

He lays out the shame
that I’m hot to defray.

He plays out the game
that I’ve taught him to play.

Written by Jason Wright
August 22, 2018

Posted on

Self Medicating

Migraine med blitz is
confusion and sleep…

Lust without sensation.
Trust with augmentations.

His imagined betrayal
is hotter than
anyone’s physical loyalty.

Written by Jason Wright
August 7, 2018

Posted on

Slice of Life

Blanco, the great white car
devours its passengers
as seemingly old friend
dives into eardrums
to deliver smiles;
to sing us August carols.

The world leader in orthopedics
is spotted from east side highway
near river where helicopter passengers
recently drowned.

I’ve never crossed that bridge;
maybe I never will.

This slice has been topped with sticky sweetness,
bleached smell of potential lives failing to take hold;
failing to enrich anything
save my experience
and his imagined diet?

Not true!

Even in dreams
my shot penetrated no flesh
yet left me penetrated all the same;
slicing through me,
I lay bleeding copious conflicting sensations
that may yet one day kill me
if left untreated.

Better to die knowing truth
than to live knowing nothing of the kind.

Written by Jason Wright
August 7, 2018

Posted on

To the Devil a Son

In last night’s sleep
the nightmarish visions
of not deluded sheep
simulate incisions
as the blue Nazi glow
in The Mountains of Madness
melt us like snow
and dissolve us to sadness.

In the unrhyming aftermath
of implied Aryan birth,
nazis are defeated and left for dead:
Good riddance to bad rubbish!

And being quintessential explorers
and seeing twin pubescent horrors
where the rhyming never ceases
as our timing falls to pieces.

But what may not be apparent
is that I’m the young man
in living dead film phallusy
who hungers mightily
for pleasures only
a sleeping captive human
audience could love.

I ask myself, if I am truly the protagonist,
then how might I also be this quiescent observer?
This slumbering host body?
How can I be this sleepwalking witness who follows him
through long night light hours
as he mouths disembodied flesh
which I recognize all too easily?
How can he be so real as to
feed my woolgathering desire
when it is I who nurses him through
his hungry nightmare adolescence?

I cannot answer HOW or WHY; I can only say
that we both know it to be true.

I grasp what I can as I struggle
to take it to the waking world.

Stolen movie set arthouse penis is
still pissing and cumming on cue.

Mark agrees it must be fake
as I swallow.

His earbuds are too loud
and though I put up a fight
I surrender in the end
and allow him his jam session.

Clive Barker is a blue/purple devil
in this portrait pictured novel –
the eyes really do seem to follow you, don’t they?

The motion comic images relay
our illustrated conversation.

Is he the devil or a saint?
A demon or a mutant?
X-Man or author?

You can feel him pressed up against you,
behind you,
where his urticating
perforating fur
penetrates ever pore
in pleasurable striation.

Before opening eyes, I wonder
is this Mark curved around me
or perhaps that blue devil, Clive?

I wake,
wrapped in Aaron’s arms,
there is love in every scrap of contact….
completion found in our oft referenced
flesh and blood puzzle.

His scratchy chest hair
pressing firm in the soft of my back.

Without disengaging,
I reach for pen and microphone
as I set out to capture
what languishes inside me,
a dream with much meaning
which can never truly be reclaimed.

Written by Jason Wright
July 31, 2018

error: Content is protected !!