Category: Jason’s Favorite Poems

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Cetacean Sadness

Our shared experiences in the past
seem to mean nothing to those reflected
in the world’s window screen.

I watch them all
hoping for recognition / reconnection
while sister hurts and Sean struggles.

Steve is happy listening to sad songs
which make me weep.

I want to tag myself in a million posts
in every place I’ve ever gone.

Fuck this song.
Fuck this.

Life changes us
and you’re a stranger that I once knew
or at least I thought I did.

I have pictures but they don’t seem to matter;
they don’t seem nearly as real as yours.

I tell you the secret in the past
but you are blind.

I dive for real love
at the beach house
with men that I trust
while Lauren Moloko Hatchie St Vincent
(actor out of work in the radio Dept.)
decides the time is now
to try to speak your true name
amidst disarray antidotes,
preoccupations with daysleepers
and their creation…
and now the meaningful
nonsensical rhyming must begin
as we fade away to nothing important:

I get a little blue
as I listen to your tunes
as I Facebook stalk your trek
across the place I never knew…

And Sean is turning tricks
paying rent by sucking dicks,
and nothing really matters
if our lives are candle wicks.

But I want to visit woman
with the ghost out on the porch…
want to live my life again
when I am out of sorts….
want to read of witches
as my fever threatens soul…

Your aura ghost echo
(lost orca in ghetto)
and only espresso
can make us both whole.

Written by Jason Wright
April 19, 2018

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Transformative Moments

Beautiful man sparks
out of the corner of my eye –
– of my consciousness –
The smile in his gaze
and recognition / realization
makes me ache with sorrowful pleasure.

Scott. He tells me his name is Scott.
Not Louis de Pointe du Lac. Not Nothing.
Scott with two T’s.

So much going on behind those luminous eyes –
Eyes that sparked my attention –
Eyes that fit that transcendent face –
Beautiful. He is beautiful
and at least 23 years younger than me.

My 23 years younger self
would have no idea what to say to him
or how to convey what his bravery meant to me
[to the world]
nor how his honesty had transformed him
into this Vampire Angel Masculine Satyr –
I would not have known that ethereal creatures
could be anything so mundane or wondrous as
Gay, Male, Top or Bottom –
or that they could satisfy my base cravings for penetration & kink.

I tell him none of this.

He seems innocent…
brilliant, yes, and undoubtedly breathtaking…
but innocent
and I’m 23 years older,
partnered and flying back to NYC
in just 4 days time.

I tell him the truth:
I tell him I am happy that he has found this place
and wish him well…
mention my old site
and become his Facebook friend.

All this in the same spot where
12 years before
I met Shane, his brother,
the one who changed everything,
taught me to want, to believe,
to stretch and grow,
and who, in the end,
left me haunted for all my days to come.

Somewhere Shane is smiling now
and Scott must see this
joy behind my eyes.

Written by Jason Wright
April 12, 2018

For Scott Perry

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The Pole Vault

Young woman says she’s a slut;
that sucking 7 dicks in 26 years
has ROBBED her of her valuable imagery,
as if her precious virginal appeal
were a STRONGBOX that had been BURGLED
by a gang of 7 THIEVES.

I tell her that I’ve been fucked by nearly 100 men,
I’ve fucked and eaten out 5 different women,
(sometimes with other men inside of them),
I’ve licked and fucked countless assholes
and sucked a multitude of cocks…
I’ve had more than one prick inside me at the same time
and swallowed gallons of various fluids…
and I DON’T feel like a slut at all –
because I don’t permit anyone to devalue my worth.

She says it’s completely different for me because I’m gay
and because I’m a man.

She says that as a woman she must remain

LOCKED UP —————> (((((TIGHT)))))

She envies my homosexual brethren
because we’re allowed to be sexual outlaws.

She excitedly whispers that if she were a FAG
she’d never stop fucking – – –
says she’d use her gay male privilege to
explore every fantasy and
taste every forbidden fruit
in every possible COMBINATION…
to blow her prison door off it’s hinges
with a dynamite explosion
of long repressed desire
long denied satisfaction…
never playing it SAFE ever again.

Written by Jason Wright
April 12, 2018

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Gentleman Callers

The gentleman next to me
is charming in his quietude…
when he speaks he is kind
with some type of speech trouble –
says he’s headed down to lower level of Hell,
Beaver, near Wall Street.

He wears a wedding band
made of gold
on his left hand –
his right hand looks broken
while the left hand holds a dusty old flip phone…

Aaron hands me his fancy bells & whistles
and I smile as I read about the war
Sue is waging on my behalf:
Aaron loves me.

Written by Jason Wright
April 11, 2018

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Access Deride

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

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Disconnect

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

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The Truth That We Craved

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

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Sean’s Junk

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

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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

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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 photo / experience that inspired it.
The spelling error printed version I took to my poetry group.

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