Over Wright

Inside impossible 3D movie
Aunt Thelma speaks of trips taken with her parents
who were my grandmother’s parents
though I didn’t think that in the dream.

I watch the footage around me
as it skitters through different years
until I see a faded image which may have
been myself dancing (only it’s not)
which I notice as I approach
after shouting out “It’s Me!”
only there I am, walking away
because he will not go to camp.

I walk up beside him
and take his hand (or is it mine?)
which he can’t feel
because he’s stuck in the past
and I’m merely a projection of some kind,
a rejection of some mind,
but I tell him:

“I know you can’t feel me,
but I’m here and you need to hang on…
because your life will get better.”

I really say that,
like I’m some fucked up Youtube
Stranger Days scifi
gay teen After School Special.

Thieving assholes
attempt to steal retro-futuristic
gizmo thingy,
source of my cross time travel bullshit…
but I won’t let them escape –
I tackle –
and they go down harder than I ever have.

A young older man
who looks like a younger David W (not my dad)
tells me that he’s amazed by the season finale of “The Good Fight”
but he won’t watch any longer because he’s turning off the service….

He wears a black leather jacket.
I tell him I’ll send him copies.

The two girls he’s with are pressing on me;
making fun of me
but I know they’re doing this because they like me
so I tell them I’m gay,
that I suck cock and to leave me alone.

I walk away but look back and tell them not to behave
like it’s a disappointment because it’s fucking awesome!

They regret and search for me (the 3 of them)
but I hide.

The bouncy castle must be a hell of a place to work.

Later, on the farm, Mrs. Brooks visits me,
asking if I’ll record something for her too,
a program that I can’t remember now.

When she arrived I was looking at roses that I’d planted
in the left back garden corner
where I’ve dreamt of soft core porn adventures
and experienced them as well….
I had been planting seeds using a gun
with special bullets that turned themselves
down into the ground and then released the seeds…
but hating the use of the gun I stopped firing and poured
the open shells around the base of a tree – that’s when she arrived.

I read of such differing things in a newly Dusted book.

I asked if she’d like to take a walk
and she said she couldn’t go far
but we walked around and past the longer than usual
front of my family’s home.

I woke, worried for Aunt Thelma.

In the dream, she was on a diet but had
given in to temptation.

As I sussed out the contents of my head,
I remembered the hot guys
who have no dicks
but are tops (with their Thunder Sticks)
and are somehow more beautiful
despite the seeming flaw of their condition.

This isn’t poetry
but fuck it.

Written by Jason Wright
March 10, 2018

Dark Congress Lover

Gay brother is hurried,
frenzied and anxious
with no hint of sexualized identity
beyond godly reunion
with labyrinthine daddy issues.

He speaks of personal demon monsters
that come for him
and I wonder
do psychotropic medications
rob him of sex
like the monsters that snatch him away;
like Gobblers forcing spiritual circumcision
on unsuspecting Golden children?

He teaches,
reaching out
to a fragmented world
for a mythological unified self
that I can’t quite believe in
despite of it’s appeal.

“Do you want to begin?”

Hell yes, I do!

Written by Jason Wright
March 6, 2018

Drugs Are Quick

In snowcapped Vermont
artists interpret MADNESS
in nine songs that jangle
pleasantly through
my short term memory,
where they fade away to nothing,
save vaguely happy impressions
of experiences I wish I could hang on to
for longer than Ambien will allow.

Xanax RATTLES in my pocket
as seemingly female
child rearing occupant
makes other passengers
noticeably uncomfortable…
the smell of talcum powder
makes me think of boyhood erections
and vaginal cancer.

The sound of “Kryptonite” comes from
3 Doors Down
and I’m dragged back to San Francisco
drunken backseat passenger ride
from one unknown location to another.
THE MAN beside me is wearing my black clothing,
my leather collar,
while I am wearing someone else’s dress…

What ever happened to that Dorothy looking shit?

So intimate to see him wearing my goth rocker drag
while I feel the cool autumnal chill
on unwieldy knees which have never felt more naked.

…My Head Is Spinning…

Gay gangster rap pours into my brain
as latex allergy flashback rips me in half
on preacher boy’s beautiful blonde cock….
and that last time was totally worth it.

The Midrin has thankfully done it’s ruby stained work;
Thank you Peter Murphy (The Scarlet Thing is actually in me)
and I’m dancing at the Kit Kat Klub
where all orientations
are surprisingly segregated
when angry heterosexual cis-woman
calls me a faggot
before I turn to make out
with her stupidly aroused boyfriend
just to spite her.

Off the train and I stop at random village pharmacy
for cough drops
before Jumpin’ Jack Frost
tells me we’re done:
just 2 more meetings and out…
I’m lucky it’s still Tuesday
because I’m gonna need a drink.

“Do you want to begin?”

Back in the dress I wore
so preacher boy could see me naked,
and I have no idea that 18 years later,
on the opposite side of the country,
I’ll still be scrawling about him singing
“Bewitched, Bothered & Bewildered”,
“When You Wish Upon a Star”
and assorted unspeakable lyrics
that he traced across
my unguarded vulnerable ambition.

This part sucks
but it’s just a draft
and doesn’t need to be as perfect
as Cocaine Sex in
countless naked backroom dance parties…
bodies writhing in dark congress,
riding waves in darkened corners –
pain, disappointment, lust & loneliness
expressed in acid light,
opium torture and heroin bliss.

Feed me water.
Slake my thirst.
Let them drink wine!

Just give me cum, prayer, piss and whiskey.

Written by Jason Wright
March 6, 2018

Queer Street

This night is as queer as
the gay mohawked punk
who complimented my jacket
on my way to the A train
in the village,
only the night isn’t actually half as interesting.

The asshole sitting next to me
has boundary issues
and a fur lined hat
that only Putin could love –
he also talks loudly in Russian
to his imaginary friends.

How have I lived this long without JeffisHe?

This express train
is running far too locally.

Russian weirdo rips his top
and snaps his fingers on nipples
as orange as Trump’s face.

“Smile Bitch”

His sick room gas mask
is the perfect touch
and brings everything together
in apocalyptic chic.

“Now runaway.”

His stripey pants replacement
smells better but transmits plague
as if it’s a rebel yell
reaching across the air waves
to stifle, strangle, promise and repeat.

My reviews are honest but petty…
street queer deserved better.

Written by Jason Wright
March 6, 2018

Ginger Root Tea

My faded dream memories are highlighted
by sexy black and white music videos

and yet his defenseless freckled skin,
his sensitivity to illumination and to touch,
to my mistakenly hurtful turn of phrase,
not to mention the weak and tremulous light
through his lambent luxurious locks…

All of this to illustrate
through those color coded passages,
confirming what I knew
was truly blushing and divine.

The achromatic ginger
waited lifetimes to be mine.

Written by Jason Wright
February 27, 2018

The Balcony Scene

He has to leave. We’ve not slept.

We fooled around all night
while his parents wondered where he was.

We’d met at a kind of masquerade party,
where he fed me tequila,
but that was a different night.

The night we met I went home
with him and his friend David,
and although I slept naked between them
nothing was allowed to happen…
because all I wanted was him.

Looking back, I wonder…
what would have happened if I’d not objected?

Would our threesome have continued?
Would we all have remained friends?
Had they ever shared a lover before?
Did they do so long after I was gone?

I’ve never considered any of that,
but it doesn’t really matter.

Back in the moment, after our night
spent together and he’s still leaving.

He’s not even leaving my place
because I’m staying with a friend.

Was it in Diamond Heights?

“It’s funny how beautiful people look
when they’re walking out the door.”

Even then, I heard those words
as I was watching him go,
feeling the joy of what we’d just shared
and the sting of our parting; back then I’m
not sure if I’ll ever see him again.

I grab my camera, walk out onto the balcony,
call his name and snap the picture that confirms
Toni Collette’s line from “Velvet Goldmine”.

He was beautiful.
Facebook lets me know that he’s still beautiful.

And my many naked memories are more beautiful
than waking life would seem to deem possible.

Written by Jason Wright
February 27, 2018

The Same Deep Water

The beautiful savage
drifting in the back of my mind
is nearly forgotten
beneath ginger dreams
and transgender crushes.

“Everybody knows the boat is sinking”
but if I’m not there to witness it…
does it capsize and submerge
or does it merely fade away?

Kate Bush struggles to reel me back in,
but seductive as she is
I have far too much to do and explore
to immediately surrender to her siren sway.

And yet I want to return
and travel through those fictional waters,
which slowly swallowed me whole
a mere decade before.

Ten years ago and so much has happened
but an unexpected blessing of chance has allowed my survival
that I may reencounter that phantom vessel;
to finish the cycle which began before my awareness &
to finally bring my drowning to completion.

Written by Jason Wright
February 27, 2018

Bill & Ben (It’s Them Again)

They struggle through spin,
repeatedly heated,
Spritely ghosting across the years
to inspire long after intentions are forsaken,
forgotten and buried.

The contradictions are too numerous to name
as each star burns to nothing
plummeting from the inverse sky
in a brilliant spark unseen
but heard in echoes of erotic aural bliss.

Written by Jason Wright
February 13, 2018

Diversity

Not all brothers need be the same
or enraptured by the mirror ball illumination
glittering on the skin of our shared origin story.

The aspects of dissimilar experiences
guide us to drastically different outcomes
as we are nourished (and sometimes poisoned)
by the same rainbow roots.

Written by Jason Wright
February 13, 2018

Game Night

When you walked in to Starbs
with my man on your arm
in your charmingly gay jeans,
I smiled
and I thought that this could be fun.

I ran into an old customer
who told me about his son’s tumbling class
as I watched you both ordering coffee,
with an easy,
relaxed manner,
that spoke volumes of what was to come.

Your sing song ramblings
were the essence of adorable
and you seemed younger
than your pictures,
while also managing to look completely different
from whatever angle
I spied you from.

We agreed on Buffy’s Gift
and disagreed on LGBT actors,
though not in the typical, angry, grating way,
which Aaron and I had just discussed
in relation to a similar friend,
who has already secretly been mentioned here.

We had matching board games
which we managed to win
before I took pain killer
when I expected no more games to be played.

This, aside from
the tongue fuck of a kiss
which was seemingly dared
and then shared without mercy.

Later, that other kiss on the kitchen counter,
and you were the ghost of Sean Mobley,
whispering across my skin
before we all retired to the place
I expected us not to go…
which in all fairness,
I had insisted on.

There were obstacles to overcome
but in a relaxingly hazy, lustful way,
or that’s how I experienced it at the time.

Your sexy ass,
which I yearned to devour,
was sadly out of service…
and my painkiller infused erection
was quickly down for the count,
yet your beautifully thick dick
and mouthwatering sack
were open for business.

I did fucking love your sex drenched cock,
stretching me open
after riding your face
like you were some kind of bucking bronco.

You were energetic,
switching positions,
still looking different from every angle,
painfully / pleasurably
thrusting deep inside me,
filling the rubber with an impressive load of cum.

You left soon after,
since you don’t like to cuddle,
and the two of you needed to be up early
the next morning.

You took Ian McKellen (as James Whale) with you
and we traded messages on this or that service
but I don’t hear your voice in those words.

In these random exchanges
it’s hard to tell what is real;
hard to tell if we’re going to see you again.

Perhaps you really were just a shadow of Sean,
come to sing me carols and wake me with a kiss.

But I’d like to talk to you again: face to face.

It’s not all about your dick;
it’s everything else too;
all those angles are views I’d like to explore.

My sentences sent to convey this seem awkward
and desperate, but that’s not how they’re meant.

Like I said, it’s hard to tell what is real
in the light of day;
hard to decipher if what we experienced
was the beginning of friendship
or merely the end of a short, yet satisfying game.

Written by Jason Wright
February 13, 2018

For Joe

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