BALD JASON'S GAY GOTH BOY BLOG
A Work in Progress…Welcome Back!
The shaking sweaty confrontation
with one’s own reflection
when memory is shattered,
fragmented,
splintered beyond recognition
and momentary awareness
is threatened
with mindless annihilation.
Will I remember this later…
or will an older Jason fight
through a therapist’s session
to recover the me he has lost?
Written by Jason Wright
June 26, 2018
Before I leave
but after I wake
there is an overwhelming terror;
a senseless type of heightened stress
triggered by my inner ticking clock,
which never trusts
and fears interruption.
After I leave
but before I arrive
there is inspiration,
analysis and exploration,
a journey into self
where understanding
will one day hopefully reside –
this contemplation is nearly always
external, as it’s flooded out of my brain
down through my fingertips
thumbtacked onto paper pages –
an activity I have often despised
which has become my truest salvation.
In the breazy 70 sunlight
city streets of New York
my indoor apathy
is burned away to cinders…
and I can smile
at the rainbow swirls
projected before me,
which originate in last night’s misery
once refracted through the murky depths,
the prism of a cuckold’s constant lust
which transform that sickening nauseating
sensation into chemical reactions
associated with sensuality;
the impotent erection
of the overstimulated
yet never truly satisfied bottom.
The reasoning behind transitions
is all but lust
– FUCK –
is all but LOST amidst an intensely
brief panic when I lose track of my letters,
memory once again escaping from the prison of my mind –
How could I have
forgotten this horror?
Is this to be my future hell?
WRITE IT DOWN
SO YOU CAN’T FORGET!
Time for tests
and uncomfortable questions.
A lack of specificity
resembles the oft forgotten pattern.
Not names but films,
not train letters but direction…
This is NOT like
THE ME
that I have known
until this recent phenomena.
Perfect score on memory test
at therapist’s office
though there is visual spatial strangeness –
my cube doesn’t begin with a square
and my clock is a Salvador Dali sketch:
“The Persistence of Memory”
becoming an ironic and completely menacing title.
Nothing to worry about, she says
and I hear these words,
like poetry.
Tip of the Tongue Syndrome and
lexical access occurs in stages…
I remain fearful but also amused,
inspired and enamored with her decisional words.
Our time is up
despite the continued ticking
of my misshapen clock.
Written by Jason Wright
June 26, 2018
I play a numbers game
in hopes of recalling the percentages,
the statistics and rates and proportions
of a love affair between two unknowns.
What is the sum total
of a failed relationship?
There were seventeen summers
before that summer when we met,
and that was seventeen summers ago.
But we were
both of us
older than seventeen
when we met
and made love for nearly five hours,
on the eighth day
of the seventh month
of the two-thousand-and-first year.
We spent nine weeks together;
four of them happily.
I once waited seven days in his bedroom,
reading five-hundred-seventy-six pages
of “The Prince of Tides”…
before I drove one hundred and forty-one miles,
back to Ann Arbor
and waited to be betrayed.
Betrayal arrived on my twenty-seventh birthday,
the twelfth day of the eighth month,
but I wouldn’t learn the truth
for several more encounters.
On August thirteenth, which fell
on the second day of the week,
my stomach became partially paralyzed,
and I’ve been sick every day since then.
Before he told me the truth,
he sent me flowers,
made love to me and tortured me with lies
and abandonment…
those flowers were like perfumed poison
when I learned the truth
and saw them wilting in my bedroom.
The last time we had sex
was August twenty-fourth.
The first day that we met
there were fireworks; beautiful bursts
of poisonous flowers,
omens which lit up our lives
and then faded all too quickly…
but our lust prevented us from seeing
this prophetic truth
as anything other than
celebratory pyrotechnics.
Numbers are often deceptive because
they don’t truly reveal the truth
with the accuracy that they are ascribed;
they don’t calculate the geometry of emotion
or the calculus of grief and lust and shame.
Every number that walks through the door
can determine our differential and
satisfy our algebraic need for multiples;
while concurrently erasing the totality of truth;
simultaneous equations of salvation and destruction.
Numbers, you’ll learn, can be vicious…
because numbers will often lie.
Written by Jason Wright
June 26, 2018
One year ago tonight
you whispered
into my unhearing ears
with the flick of your tongue
across my lover’s desperate flesh
over oceans of thought, fear and lust
you joined that which was mine
while never knowing or desiring
my anatomy.
You, who knew not
to be yourself
except reflected in strange foreign eyes
which we have separately drowned in,
we have shared that beautiful body.
I am nothing to you
but an invisible partner
who plagues not your existence,
a ghost that is haunted
by tiny little deaths
which interred you both
on sweet Budapest fabrics
to the strains of Porgy and Bess.
You were musical phrases
that created a distinct melody
of an already exotic piece,
a hunger I may yet understand
but will never truly experience.
That night I was lost in your tonal pattern,
deafened by an overwhelming silence
which inspired want and hatred,
pity and indifference,
a longing that may never be satiated.
I say “your”
though the stress was not singular –
it was a harmony
that brought me to tears,
tore at my soul & ripped me apart,
boiling me down to my essence.
You were a crucible
by which all fear was melted away,
an intersection in which,
by way of paradox,
he and I were joined in honest surrender,
a yielding so keen
that it’s wounding pleasure
healed the breach,
sealed the rift,
and eased the strain
until nothing could keep us apart.
Written by Jason Wright
June 25, 2018
For Zsolt Krasznár & Aaron Sanko
A murder of crows
has led me to you.
For you are the ghost
of the men that I knew.
You are the haunted
and you are unrested.
The men I had wanted
but never accepted.
You’ve gone through the wringer
defined by my lies.
No wonder you linger
behind my closed eyes.
No wonder the sadness
has left you so ashen.
For you are the madness
of sorrow and passion.
You are the death that
was saved by machines.
You are the flesh that
has made me obscene.
You with your trousers
convexed by confusion.
Coven carousers
confessed by collusion.
We left ourselves open
and thusly unbuckled.
Deftly unspoken
and clumsily suckled.
You parted my lips
like a concave whisper.
And departed eclipsed
by a conclave of scripture.
Written by Jason Wright
June 9, 2018
This book of words
is falling apart
while makeup mistress
weaves together
a patchwork creation
meant to imitate perfection –
free from the rhyming couplets
that have held us all prisoner
and made a fairytale
of our dungeon.
The underground roars
through hollow hills
beneath beautiful graveyard labyrinths –
a necropolis that invites the living
to congregate with the dead:
the mouldering corpses
of past aspirations,
childhood dreamscapes
and unfinished poetry.
In an autumnal sunset
over a long Decembered
spring awakening
lies a barely remembered
ginger haired mutant
of a carcass.
Seventeen summers
have taken that once orgasmic beauty
and flayed him into living dead road kill
swollen skull
dried up brains
in that monstrous
Mount Rushmore sized
flesh blossom.
Lucky to have had him
before he was this
completely ugly
unfortunate thing.
Long before his wickedness
was so outwardly apparent
for all the world to see.
Written by Jason Wright
June 7, 2018
I wake in that dream
with your glare there beside me.
I take in that cream
with a fifth deep inside me.
Our translucent grind
has a mind all it’s own.
Our movement is timed
to the grime in our bones.
Our union and flow
erects no objections.
Communion is slow
but perfects our erections.
We vibe one another
and cleave to sensation.
Describe someone other;
believe penetration.
Believe in the truth
of the lies of this action.
Achieve what in youth
was denied satisfaction.
You’re glazed in the bleeding
of sugar and spice.
I haze in the dreaming
and make you feel nice.
I scream in delight
as I ache to premiere you.
I dream this tonight
and wake to be near you.
Written by Jason Wright
May 31, 2018
Your music makes me sad
like an echo from the past…
You were queer
and in my dreams
you were here
beyond extremes…
At least my memory means
that our encounters always last.
You ghosted through my city
like I wasn’t even here,
like you’re gone but you are always
somehow more than what I fear.
You hosted my obsessions
and inspire even more,
and I am just the sum
of what our passions wrought before.
Written by Jason Wright
May 20, 2018
There was a boy…
There was a summer boy
who had us call him Sebastian…
and though this name fit him perfectly,
I was never quite convinced
that this is what his unseen
unknown parents had christened him.
He had traveled cross country
to visit a friend of mine
whom he had never met
or seen face to face.
The friend and I were only ever friends in name only
because our friends were friends with one another…
but we never once connected without the others…
and if he was blind to what was actually happening,
well, I wasn’t going to cross a line
or clue him in;
not when he’d often been as cruel
as the summer wind which
drew us out together that long ago
summertime evening.
Summer boy Sebastian
from exotic southern state
had beautiful teeth
and a slight but sexy drawl
to all his decidedly decadent
turns of phrase
which spoke of unvoiced attraction.
We never acknowledged this aloud
but it was an understanding
between us,
like we were the couple
and everyone else had tagged along with us
for the voyeuristic fun of it all.
Hot, sticky Michigan summer night –
the kind of night that usually drove us
to backwoods skinny dipping pond,
instead lead us to old haunted
devil worshipping sorority house,
near the fancy two-story McDonald’s
where Anthony used to give me free fries…
where we collected on the asphalt
like mardi gras gutter trash
as we exchanged stories…
as Sebastian subtly signaled,
slyly suggested and studied my every glance
with a scholar’s dedicated devotion.
Later, after pink moon drives
with mosquito infested breezes
I saw snow fall in the sweltering desert
which he had finally gifted me with,
ice crystals catching on eyelashes
and melting on our lips
as we said our final goodnight.
I never saw him again.
But he never slept with our companions either…
He waited until the coast was clear
and then fled the scene
before any of us knew
what the night had taken from us…
leaving us as haunted and questioning
as the abandoned and seemingly evil sorority house.
But those moments before abandonment
are always remembered with a sad sort of smile
when I stumble across the miracle he gave me
when he must have known our time
had finally come to an end.
Written by Jason Wright
April 30, 2018
1
Pain radiates
through smoothly shaven flesh,
Unseen skull
in burning wrapping paper,
I skitter to share
what it seeks to prevent…
The years are a bitch
and I ache to betray her…
For words in this gloaming
are enabled by night…
Even when tinged
with the heartbreak of sorrow…
Thoughts freely roaming
until morning sight…
Might seem unhinged
come the light of tomorrow.
2
There was a morning, a day, a hot afternoon
where I thought my life would change…
where my wandering
had finally altered my direction…
but it wasn’t meant to be.
Perhaps every day is like this for others…
but the day I am thinking of,
the day of sex before the sermon,
I believed that I’d finally arrived
somewhere I was meant to be,
only to learn across the years
that I would seldom ever return,
and I wish I would have known
how special that time was,
how precious those moments.
It’s altogether different
yet somehow the same
when watching you
watching whales…
when the music you share
nearly kills me with it’s mournful beauty –
giving me fever chills and death spasms
before my fever breaks
and I’m allowed to dance
in the trance of our shoegazing
dream pop.
In the fever
all that could comfort me
was the seemingly old
but younger woman
with the ghost on the porch…
An echo of that first reading
joining my pain across two different eras.
3
The first would have been discovery,
and on the very brink of puberty
as I stumbled through that sea of trees
to find a validating fiction.
And now the feeling: brotherly,
yet still cherry stink of nudity
as I’m humbled by our deities
to bind an animated friction.
And the proof
it is not fair
but the truth
is he’s out there
begging for money,
trading sex for drugs hungry
while the whales circle round us
tasting sweetly table scraps.
And the lie
if there is one
is that life
is a shotgun
because life hasn’t drowned us
baby please don’t go like that.
Written by Jason Wright
April 19, 2018
For Sean (Mobley) and Steve and Anthony.