Author: Jason Wright

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Peter Pan Syndrome

I know you’ve been bad
and I know you’re unhappy.

I know that I love you
and I want you badly.

I’m asking the question
I must ask you sadly:

Not sure who you are…
but are you my Daddy?

You look like him, sure,
and the smile’s the same.

But his smiles were toys
and our love was the game.

His insides were broken;
said I’m not to blame…

But I’m frightened that Daddy
will leave out of shame.

Now bathe me in piss
and spank me with lust,

You feed me betrayal
that hardens my thrust,

I am roused by your lies
and I know it’s fucked up…

Daddy
is the only man
that I trust.

But if that’s who you are
and you still want to play,

With sticks and with balls
(and I don’t mean croquet)

I’m frightened that Daddy
will lie when he strays…

And frightened that we can’t survive
in this phase.

How many licks must I take
to be dutiful?

How many pricks must you slake?
It’s inscrutable.

Answer.
Be strict; not inexcusable.

How many dicks will it take
to be beautiful?

I know you don’t know

and I know you’re deserving
of much more respect

but the pain keeps reverting…

Forgive me,
this mess
can be disconcerting.

This is how children behave
when they’re hurting.

Written by Jason Wright
June 26, 2017

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The Beautiful One

He was always so talented;
always so driven,

Always so drawn
to the darkness forbidden,

For he was the light of love;
he was a vision,

And yet he was blind
but kept that part hidden.

His friends never knew
and of those there were legion,

For he’d traveled the world;
he’d taught great collegians,

And all of them blinded
by his dazzling beacon,

The blind leading blind
teaching bliss behind treason.

He could not believe
and though he was a cutie,

Because he was blind
he could not believe beauty,

And so he befriended
and seemed to have plenty,

But behind his disguise
he believed he was empty.

I know this is true
for I’ve tasted his honey,

I’ve loved him so gently
and I’ve loved him roughly,

I love him so much that his pain
leaves me bloody,

But I fear to be beautiful
he’s made himself ugly.

Written by Jason Wright
June 26, 2017

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The Lion Sings Opera

He wants Aaron,
tells me I’m beautiful,
asks if he can piss on me,
and it’s not until
he cowers
that I lose my erection.

His fear disgusts me.

I once was fearless,
I’m seemingly peerless…

I dance with the others
who fail to march outwardly.

Their fear leaves me wounded
and feeling excluded…

Rather fearless and stupid
than smarter and cowardly.

Written by Jason Wright
June 21, 2017

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Scruffy

My lover stands
in Budapest
while I’m training
beneath the ground.

He speaks to me in ecstasies;
all the rage without a sound.

Madonna sings
Ilyssa speaks
Once again the girl is drowned.

Enough of talk
It’s time to walk
What was lost may yet be found.

Written by Jason Wright
June 21, 2017

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Blurred Lines

Waking from migraine nightmare
as waves crash on Fire Island sunset.

My eyes are blurred by unshed tears.
My cock is hard.
My boyfriend kisses the swelling flesh
before running to meet Essa.

After orgasm, shower and
multiple doubts & setbacks
I emerge feeling like I’ve awakened again;
eyes blurred by possibility.

Written by Jason Wright
June 14, 2017

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The All Seeing I

I attempt to document
the immorality of Xanax
but the only evidence is a kooky fortune teller
who reads my chai tea leaves
and tells me I’m wasting my time.

I agree.

I think of him in California
on some app
naked and hunting
for affirmation of his desirability –
giving his attractiveness a score
equal to the number of dick pics he receives.

Will he thank them with blowjobs?

I don’t think he would cheat
but of course I never expect him to lie.

And why carry naked pictures
on a mobile device
if you don’t intend to share them?

I’ve seen things that I shouldn’t…
or should I have?

My inner I
is cloudy / wounded / bloody.

The red tears fall
and lubricate my way to the future.

Written by Jason Wright
May 25, 2017

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In the Window to the Soul

He turns
looks into my hunger
and kisses deep into my longing.

“Aaron… You don’t have to…”

He abolishes my protestations
with the writhe of his lithe quenching desire.

The morning after and I am
UGLY / WOUNDED / ASHAMED
until he convinces me otherwise
with every touch, thrust, confession and truth (?).

Music sings me to joy
as I race beneath an ocean of asphalt
before my forgotten phoenix returns
to haunt, burn, perish and resurrect.

The “truth” is that all poets are fucked;
metaphorically or otherwise.

Written by Jason Wright
May 9, 2017

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Our Assholes Are Not Different*

My asshole is liberal
and apparently terrifying.

In Chechnya, gay men like me are tortured
while I’m riding a bicycle for the first time in nine years.

I’m racing downtown
along the Hudson River….
just like Michigan childhood,
yet decidedly different,
feeling simultaneously young and very old;
muscles aching, blood pumping.

I have to eat soon and all of this must end.

Coffee in Lincoln Square? Lincoln Center? Lincoln somewhere.
Mingling with opera singers; this is my life now.
This, while those in Mother Russia
who survived the purge of A.I.D.S. have been incarcerated
by an astonishing ignorance,
in a war they can not hope to win.

We are not wayward heterosexuals.
We are born; not converted.
And it is those that hate and fear us so much
who are responsible for our creation.

The only FAGGOTS I’ve ever met were
conservative terrifying assholes.

Conservative or Liberal…
at least our assholes seem to match.

*with all due respect to Arthur Rimbaud.

Written by Jason Wright
April 11, 2017

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The View Upstairs

Haunted night
is filled with fairy ghosts
of candles burnt
forty-three years
endless summer days
and countless aching seconds before they sang!

The ash of memory
collects / connects / coalesces
between a dreamed of future
and the year before my own birth.

Music plays,
dancers sway,
Listen now to what they have to say…
Feel the truth of an imagined confession.

Now you know that art is magic,
alive and tragic,
raving, righteous & tempestuous somehow…
that is what you know in the now
but back in the then
before the circuit could complete –
before you finished kiss so sweet –
the fire spread as coward fled.

Written by Jason Wright
March 16, 2017

For Max Vernon

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Showered

Showering after sex
my mind is overcome
by thoughts, sensations, memories.

“Call Me by Your Name”
has reminded me of Rob –
the way he made a pass at me
when I was 17 –
the way I reacted
and the way I’ve often wished
I could change that moment –
erase it, rewrite it,
never experience that level of self loathing
born of inexperience…
that impression of what I lack.

Still…
kissing at church has to count for something.

My conversation with young relative returns;
how I tried to calm his fears
on Trump and AIDS and love and sex.
It only takes one time, you know?

A boy I knew who worked on Fire Island
died of an “infection” a few weeks ago –
life support turned off –

INFECTION
FIRE ISLAND
GAY
DEATH

The words that silently scream at me what I believe to be the cause
while everyone politely refuses to mention what has happened…
And the band continues to play on.

Men I’ve been inside of,
Men who’ve been inside of me
are positive.

Best friends,
Loved ones,
Infected but seldom mentioned
because an illness
is easily
the least interesting thing about them.

I think of Aaron and the tears he shed
and the words he said
and the progress he confirmed…
the wonderful weekends we’ve had.

I think about upcoming hearing while
trying not to face it with terror or worry
while the video they’re supposed to send me
has never arrived (three times).

But the shower must end
and scalding hot water must cease it’s spray.

And so I dry myself –
step back into the world
and I forget.

Written by Jason Wright
February 27, 2017

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