BALD JASON'S GAY GOTH BOY BLOG
A Work in Progress…Welcome Back!
Bleak sin plantation
of bitterness bleach.
Darken my eyes
and study my lips.
Speak incantation
of gibberish speech.
Pardon my thighs
and bloody my bitch.
Night I decided was
night never chosen.
Blood suck syringe
pause rejoice afraid.
Sight that divided applause
never spoken.
And fucking the fringe
was a choice never made.
Written by Jason Wright
November 4, 2017
I see him undressing
through counting of sheep.
I see him caressing
around where I sleep.
I breathe in his secret
as you play the game.
I witness my weakness
for lust laced with shame.
This dream leaves me broken
though roused when it beckons.
I dream of these moments
more often than seconds.
Written by Jason Wright
November 4, 2017
The New Order
whispers into my ears
of 22 year old hauntings
in Jewish boarding houses,
communal showers
and a seemingly gay 1963 assassination.
Behind the whispers
are Dominican conversations,
New York realness,
Subway tuna on flat bread
and yogurt scooped in Harlem train station,
only a few blocks from the famous Cotton Club.
Hypnotic androids devour the starving
amidst a pride of dykes
who clearly believe that
orange really is the new black.
All American Boy
croons as I make my mistake,
as I make my escape,
but I will return
so save me my seat.
Written by Jason Wright
November 2, 2017
1 Mother Goose
Saturday night,
Pinocchio arrived at our door.
He was better looking in the flesh,
with the same witty internet banter,
yet fused with that vital magical glimmer;
that liveliness in his eyes.
The supposed Blue Fairy,
the one who actually had turquoise hair,
had fashioned Pinocchio into a real boy
for this blue fairy,
despite the wood that grew between us.
I know what you’re thinking,
but in spite of his need to come calling after sunset,
he was definitively not a lost boy.
Boys that are found to be real
grow up to be fathers of their own after all.
Pinocchio
(respecting the Sabbath)
and having suffered rejection by a prince
(who turned out to be a frog),
left Never Never Land
after the cow jumped over the moon
to visit Elphaba & Glinda
in Rapunzel’s 6th floor condo,
where handsomely dressed
in the emperor’s new clothes
he conspired with my wicked step-mother
to turn me into the double stuffed gingerbread man.
2 Holy Father
My partner,
deep inside of his name twin
as fourth father repeatedly stabs deep
inside of my joyously remembered
childhood cunt.
This doesn’t seem possible;
like a hazy wet dream
brought unexpectedly into being;
twisting the world into impossible shapes
that couldn’t have happened
before Aaron arrived at our door.
And while we writhe and wrestle
into differing rock formations
we fuck repeatedly in that wondrous configuration;
that sexual transmogrification
of inspiration, reemergence & renewal,
a cycle of hunger, thirst, cravings satisfied
and yet sparked aflame without end:
My lover pours himself into him,
as he pours himself into me,
and I pour myself over us all…
and yet we do not come to conclusion.
And at the third movement of the third hour,
this triumvirate charmed me to the spiritual power,
wrought through my flesh twixt symbolic clocks:
I survived crucified on their mystical cocks…
And forgive me for rhyming
for that moment still guides me…
Third time’s the charm
that I took them inside me.
Later,
as time is running out,
stranger friend injects me one last time as I curse.
The penetration is welcomed
yet overwhelming with sensation, vision,
pushing me deeper into myself –
further beyond my walls
where I can finally hear
what my body has been telling me all along.
I grip my lover’s thighs,
looking deep into those thoughtful blissed eyes,
charged connection between us
as man we just met
stimulates my deepest secrets
with the prick that we’ve both just worshiped.
As new father fucks deep into his unwanted son,
with his polyisoprene covered billy club,
my spirit seems to tear in two:
two different Jasons for two different Aarons.
DADDY.
FUCK.
SHIT.
DADDY.
DADDY.
DADDY.
DADDY.
FUCK!
Seven positions. Like ballet.
The Nutcracker: Sweet.
His thick, upturned cock hurts and heals me
with it’s transformative power.
And in the aftermath,
we whisper secrets in the dark…
as we all fail to convince ourselves that we were not
blessed, consecrated and purified.
Blasphemous? Maybe.
But then the truth often is.
3 Prostrated
Today,
during my prostate exam,
Doctor said he was sorry
as he inserted a single finger.
I told him it was fine.
I wanted to say (but didn’t)
that he could use more than one.
I didn’t say
that his finger felt amazing
but was only a shadow of what
I’d felt earlier on Sunday morning.
The exam was brief and painless,
but left me wet.
My doctor is a horrible tease.
The doc says everything’s great
and that there’s no blood;
no sign for worry;
no cause for alarm.
I nearly ask him to try again
but instead I give thanks
while marveling that I remain
both physically and spiritually
intact.
Written by Jason Wright
October 31, 2017
“Prostrated” was finished and released first, but the notes on the other entries were made at the same time and complete the cycle. These were begun in July and finished in October.
Hearing disappointment which matches
THE SICKNESS INSIDE ME
threatening to overtake me.
Breathe.
The train is already departing one six eight;
perhaps this panic is for nothing?
Why do the only loud people
in the car gravitate toward me?
Hungry. Terrified and hungry.
Some things never change…
but I can.
Relax. Breathe.
He cannot hurt me here.
She is safe.
And I will eat before long.
If the show has begun
I will eat without fear
and rest,
knowing I’ve seen this particular show
three times before,
and I will be there for Aaron
without compromising
sanity or the denial of self.
If I make it there in time I will be
collected and calm. I will take in
this special show with
no need of regret
for I have controlled my fear
and done my best to travel
especially on the
fucked up weekend transit.
Now relax. Breathe / Ground,
and be the Jason that you want to be.
Written by Jason Wright
October 29, 2017
Cowering there
beneath the cold swell,
Violin swing;
bequeathing it’s spell,
Showering tears
grey has not faded…
Exists beyond years
in lives of the jaded
who stare at the sun
as pain washes clean…
The music that comes
when we each turn eight-teen.
Written by Jason Wright
October 28, 2017
For Carter Burwell
Here we are again
on the cold bathroom tile.
The green wild of summer
is fading between us,
as the young horned lord
smiles at our recognition.
The lilting, hissing piping
of ancient heating system.
We’ve been together
here before, haven’t we?
So strange at first,
that tremulous meeting
of strangers, only
we’re old friends now, aren’t we?
We know one another.
This place,
this collection of rooms
is more than what it was
when I first entered.
You were spotless…
though clearly brutalized,
hungry, lonely and welcoming.
You had known others,
just as I had;
no virgin blood would be spilt on our account.
I wasn’t sure how much I liked you then,
but I put on a brave face
and did my best
because as broken as we were,
we both had our needs
and the desire to satisfy them.
It was kind of you to select me,
despite my noncommittal attitude.
I’m not certain what quality
you saw in me…
I’ve no idea what ignited your interest
and we’ve never spoken of it.
Most of our time is spent silently,
if urgently.
In the moment of our joining
you were like a part of me that I’d yet to explore.
You gave me shelter
in your embrace
even as you fed off my desperation.
I understand that our relationship
has never truly been romantic
but I can appreciate you, can’t I?
I can miss you when I’m gone
and recognize how much you’ve helped bring me peace.
This solace, this sweetness
cannot truly be forever…
You know it as well as I.
This imbues our activity
with a delicate urgency;
bereft of permanence
we exist in a fleeting moment
of movement,
connection, separation
and acknowledgement
of all that we are,
which is somehow not diminished,
but is actually heightened by all that we lack.
Hold me.
Hold me here as we whisper
heated words between only the two of us,
Knowing one day I must walk away from you
and find the strength to never again return,
Knowing that I’ll never again be inside of you
though a part of me will remain here forever.
Hush now.
Don’t weep.
We will not end when we part,
you and I.
My silent echo will fill you,
completing the circuit between us;
never quite actualizing,
ghosting us forever until the end of our days.
No one will guess when they see us.
No one will sense the stain that we’ve left on one another.
Memory, our only souvenir
will be a secret we take to our graves.
But I will always hear you
in the piping sounds of autumn,
like Pan, greeting me
in the desiccated ruin of the green.
But come now,
come
and let us make the most of nights remaining,
when we may know one another
without fear, sadness or shame.
You have entered me,
as surely as I have penetrated,
you are inside of me,
and we will know one another
for as long as we can remember.
Written by Jason Wright
October 26, 2017
This is a love poem dedicated to our NYC apartment on Wadsworth Avenue in Washington Heights. It was written listening to the soundtrack to the 2015 Todd Haynes film “Carol” by Carter Burwell, after watching the movie at home for the first time after seeing it in theaters.
He’s uniquely shaped
like a patchwork of flesh…
Like Frankenstein’s monster
and love coalesced…
With a talent so bare
and a mood so enlightening,
A mixture so rare
that his beauty is frightening.
An eyes glazed insurgent
who’s wanted and lost…
With lazy gaze urgent;
still haunted by cost…
Who writes and performs
on a stage made of pain…
The ache in his eyes
borders on the insane.
And his music jingled
by others was lovely…
Though form never mingled;
if so it was roughly…
In show strung together;
so blissfully jumbled…
The best of intentions
by those that he’s humbled…
His powerful art
in a story so sparse…
Less than the sum
of it’s excellent parts.
Written by Jason Wright
October 25, 2017
For Ryan
These rambling skeletal nothings
prepare a Shakespeare on the Rocks
that will put you to sleep
faster than arsenic, absinthe, abstinence or Nyquil.
These holes where people once stood
are empty by choice:
“It makes for a better tango partner.” she twitters
as she looks at your palm,
smashes a fortune cookie
and calls it psychoanalysis.
These prickly amusements
are friendly Goddess daughters
when we smile and laugh and congratulate,
but let your drowsy mind betray the truth
and see them bare their fangs
to rip your throated poetry to shreds.
Unless of course you’re doing something
which requires respect or silence…
because then they’ll be making
far too much noise to have noticed.
Written by Jason Wright
October 24, 2017
I was just told
he’s amazing in bed.
“Amazing hung fuck.”
were the words that he said…
But I never doubted:
in fact always knew…
Perhaps I have always
denied what is true.
For back in the then
years before I was here…
Way before Gay
had become so damned queer…
He said the worst things
but his lust was the truth…
We traded in barbs
but escaped without proof.
“You remind me of Adam…”
(who was absent then, luckily)
“Does that mean you hate me
or that you want to fuck me?”
I thought he might hit me
for the spark in his eyes…
A predator wounded
behind his disguise.
And I was so righteous;
he’d angered the slut…
I should have kissed him
to keep his mouth shut…
Well maybe not shut
while adjusting our lungs…
With no lies between
the thrusting of tongues.
Secrets of youth stand
to leave me here taunted…
Seven-teen years and
still I am haunted…
Did I loathe that man?
Did he truly loathe me?
Subtexting lust
through so·lil·o·quy.
Written by Jason Wright
October 24, 2017
For Joel
Back in the late 90s, my friend Karen Edwards got me to chat with her in a gay chat room at “gay.com”, which at the time hosted various chat rooms. There were rooms devoted to countries, states, cities – and interests. In our local chat we made a wide assortment of friends and I dated and / or hooked up with several men from there. There were many people that I never met though, who I only knew as a screen name. I think I stopped chatting there around 2011?
Back in the early days I had a romantic entanglement with Adam Gram. His screen name was GoddessSexyBoi, or something like that. It was on and off again, that relationship. We were never a couple exactly, but we cared enough to cry and have emotional conversations – and though we didn’t end up together for various reason, I cared about him. He later hooked up with another patron named Joel, screen name “Freedom” (I think). And directly after, Freedom became openly hostile toward Adam, which offended me. I defended him.
I later crossed paths with Freedom / Joel at a party (in 2000) – a meet in person party for gay dot com peeps. He was handsome. Attractive. But I still found his behavior toward Adam to be horrible so I resisted. At the club (which I only went to that once, as it was a bit out of my way) I flirted with a boy / girl couple, kissing both, and they were going to follow us to the afterparty (at Joel’s home) to hook up with me, but they never arrived, so I was disappointed. Joel drove us there and there was a lot of weird energy between us, which was hot but tinged with something I couldn’t name. At one point he said loudly for everyone to hear that I reminded him of Adam, to which I notoriously responded: “Does that mean that you hate me or that you want to fuck me?” – which silenced him, and seemed to shake him. I don’t think he ever spoke to me again.
Years later, in 2016 or 2017, I spoke to Adam Gram on the phone and this came up in conversation and Adam said he didn’t really care about how Joel had behaved because he was amazing in bed. lol Which made me see things a bit differently. Not long after the party in 2000, the bi couple reached out to me through e-mail to tell me that he seemed to lose them on purpose – which I wasn’t aware of, but in retrospect, I think he may have done because he didn’t want me to have sex with them. Maybe he just didn’t want them at his house? Or maybe he wanted me for himself? Who knows? There was a lot of drama back then. It seems stupid now. I should have just said what I wanted. Oh well. I don’t know Joel’s last name or I’d share this with him – not because I think it would change anything, but because I feel like writing about someone and not sharing it with them is a little cowardly. I hope he’s happy.