BALD JASON'S GAY GOTH BOY BLOG
A Work in Progress…Welcome Back!
Scary driver smile.
White car smell
like hated red death trap
that Grandpa ran over
with his John Deere tractor.
It feels tainted,
coated in smoking
unseen masses of
long suffering
desperately grateful
waxen figures
who once had very good days.
The unending drone
from the speakers
is dessicated and obtrusive.
Is this what dead people listen to?
How can the driver stay awake?
My bad.
The driver died ages ago.
That smile, a rictus.
Written by Jason Wright
April 11, 2018
FUCK
me in bondage
deny me
erections
rip me
in half
and split me
in sections
leather + dildos
daddies + diapers
A drink
with a kink
can be cockblock
for writers!
Written by Jason Wright
April 10, 2018
There’s a space between me
and all that I’ve wanted…
Like my lust is a ghost
that has left my life haunted…
Devoid of the spark
that connects me to revery…
Like the life I am living
is only a memory…
A personal history
grown cold and impersonal…
A vacuous dream that had
once seemed so purposeful…
But I know I am there
buried under the sadness…
Married between her pain
and his madness…
They have stolen from me
what we were to ourselves…
My senses can’t deal
because they’re overwhelmed…
And part of me wants
to take time to sort out…
But mostly I want
to rip time inside out!
I want to take all
that has tied me to her…
Be it blood on my hands
or my unspoken words…
Or the things unremembered
that left me to die…
Want to shred that
and shed tears of goodbye…
As all of the pain
that trapped us in slaughter…
Travels back to the past
and then rescues our father.
Written by Jason Wright
April 10, 2018
the need to resist
to persist with the lie
that I’m not a freak
hard to speak when I cry
the need for another
my brother was stolen
incest is best
lest we find our hearts frozen
their rules disobey
by the saying of truth
they want to deny
but inside us there’s proof
our joy will not frown
will not drown in the river
and the ice in their price
did not cause us to shiver
that tremble assembled
of passion and trust
was furthered by murder
attempt on our lust
Written by Jason Wright
April 9, 2018
I need to sleep
but the boy in the field
won’t leave me in peace
or admit that he’s real
so I can’t close my eyes
until I have captured
the verdict of spies
that has left us enraptured
by twig and by leaf
by bird and by bone
by fall of rain water
and on him it shone…
the boy in the field
may never be real
but he looks like another
and they have each other.
Written by Jason Wright
April 9, 2018
She’s safe, if not whole
and he’s unwanted, broken & insane.
Insanity may seem like a good cause
for forgiveness or comfort
but it’s actually a piss poor substitute.
Quivering on shattered legs,
his spine broken by revelations
gained in his “fall” from a great height…
he fell so far and landed so hard
yet he has never recovered
from the truth of his actions.
The smile from the rickety defenseless monster
seems so sincere that others make note
and inform me of his safety; his well being;
his painful continued death rattle.
This skeleton shell of a scarecrow man
once preached sex and brimstone,
starvation and salvation,
while his inverted path to heaven would save us all
even as he damned us to this forever Hell.
Written by Jason Wright
April 5, 2018
The boy across the field behind my house
had more in common with me than
ancestors;
most other kids I played with
were related to me
but he was always my favorite
because of the way he looked at me…
Later in life he was damaged in a tragic accident
and our future conversations ceased to be.
In an unseen instant he was ripped away
although he was still alive,
and that’s more than can be said for others
lost in that era of AIDS and ignorance.
I shake the love letter postcards out of my skull
and pick one at random:
I remember his breath on my neck;
the feel of our young bodies pressed together
like the pages of a trashy tattered copy
of a seldom read incest fantasy,
which I will forever remember as the first time that I made love;
the first time that someone I loved made love to me.
His reaching, reciprocated touch was tender,
terrified and then joyous.
His movement: considerate, then brutal within the landscape
of a language that we both finally understood.
In our joining, our words from a hundred lying conversations
gained new meaning and were finally made honest.
His kiss informed me that I was never truly alone.
His cock translated every secret code
I had ever witnessed
in the eyes of countless lonely strangers.
His thrusting within me
within the home of his grandparents…
that place between sheets
and layers of blood magic was always
and will forever be sacred.
My love letter postcard memories
are holy relics
now tumbling out of my decades old skull.
Rectangular snapshots of a time before
we were allowed to be who we truly were…
In a time before he lost who he truly,
secretly had been…
A time when we had dreamed
of a very different future
that had been reflected in
our tangle of shared flesh and blood.
Written by Jason Wright
April 5, 2018
everyone looks like everyone else,
or at least
everyone I meet of late
reminds me of others I’ve known
like my life is a friendly little shop
filled to the brim with charming knick-knacks,
inspirational quotations and echos
of a hundred baristas
filling thousands of coffee cups…
where lilting Donnie Darko music plays
as Mobley Mouse’s older younger brother
sits like a ghost in the corner
of my clearly obsessed brain.
FireLion smiles as my other sibling selves
recite poetry with all the power
that we can muster.
Written by Jason Wright
March 22, 2018
I’m wearing Sean’s Tori Amos shirt
which he gave me 16 years ago…
yet it always somehow remains his.
Maybe because he lost his mind
again
last year,
He tossed me to the proverbial curb
as if I were the junkie that he confessed to be,
though who the fuck really knows?
Not that it doesn’t make sense…
It actually explains a lot –
actually connects many dots –
solves so many mysteries
when combined with our own histories
only we’re all addicted to something, aren’t we?
Alcohol, as a drug, betrays you very quickly.
Anne Rice said something to that effect once,
which I’ve always remembered though I can’t find the exact quote.
I can’t tell if I’ve been addicted to food…but if I have,
then it is a drug that has betrayed me all too quickly.
Perhaps this is why he shivers inside me;
not “Long Gone Sean”,
but that child version of Jason Wright
who whispers always beneath my skin
and behind my eyes.
I struggle to feed him
but his pained and palsied
nearly lifeless form
rejects the medicine he both craves and abhors,
never knowing which decisive reaction is truly best
after our fucked up father ripped his world inside out…
Sean’s biological father (“Ted”) was rock solid awesome
while his step-father was less so;
addicted to pain pills, he gave me my first tab of Xanax
after I fucked his son in Sean’s gay, white trash,
St. Helen, Michigan bedroom.
I reached my hand up to cradle his head
to prevent it’s rhythmic bruising crash against the wall
and I felt his confusing reaction as it quivered down
from his brain, down along his spine, back through
his blissfully tight asshole around my hard and horny thrust.
Later he told me no one else he’d been with
would ever consider such a kindness…
his stories were always so wondrously sad.
That 2008 reunion was nearly 10 years ago
and apparently wouldn’t last the decade to come.
I wonder where he’d be today
when this shade of Jason will struggle
to jam a needle in his arm
and feed our craving
without judgment or rejection.
“We all have our junk and my junk is you.”
Junk: What William S. Burroughs was high on
until he woke from “The Sickness”,
when secretive Not-Dr.-Seward
was cavorting with his Mugwumps.
Junk: The so-called yards where I played
to escape the insanity of my own brutal
“Protoplasm Daddy” complex.
Junk: The word is now forever associated
with the 16yo boy at safe sex instructional
who was the first I’d ever heard equate cocks, dicks & pricks
with an addictive substance.
My so-called junk
relieved Sean of his unwanted virginity,
while his Naked Lunch variety
relieved us of our treasured friendship,
filled his veins with human immunodeficiency virus
and bubbled out of him in a hateful madness
which I will never allow to murder my love for him.
Written by Jason Wright
March 22, 2018
New location for
poetic censorship is discovered
days after Facebook nudes
are similarly desecrated…
Artists MUST be mad!
I think of Sour Girl Shawn
as I pull on Stone Temple Pilots
and walk to the train
on my journey to Brooklyn.
I bring tracks from CD #3
and Mood Swings sing me to poetry
between 168th & 145th.
I can’t remember
attraction to Boy in Orange;
attraction died ages ago
without my notice…
Still nice to see him if I’m ever so lucky.
Scribbler illustrates the back of my mind
as I tunnel through Manhattan
to deal with angry humiliating disappointment
which I refuse to surrender to
despite the temptation to ralph
on the sidewalks of NYC.
Written by Jason Wright
March 19, 2018