BALD JASON'S GAY GOTH BOY BLOG
A Work in Progress…Welcome Back!
You were lost in the dark
and I sounded absurd.
Exhausted remarks
left you feeling unheard.
I swear that I heard you
and I feel regret.
I’m aware I deferred you
and caused our upset.
My only defense
is a timeless cliché.
My lonely pretense
is a rhymeless betrayal
of love and of care but
was truly attraction:
Thought overwhelmed
by the prime crime of passion.
Written by Jason Wright
November 29, 2018
For Aaron
Strike the match.
Strike that.
Strike up the band
and burn us to the ground.
Listen to nothing.
Listen to no one.
The deaf,
moved by deepest vibrations,
rise up to meet us
betwixt silence and cacophony;
teaching us how to feel
and interpret the words
they can’t hear
but feel with a depth
which we sometimes lack.
We are blind
and struggle –
reaching out to recognize
the face of reality –
the face of the universe –
inverse infinity –
infinite perversions of intended design.
Revelation yearned for
is as momentous as imagined…
if only for moments
which we believe were imaginary.
Written by Jason Wright
November 29, 2018
The boredom of youth
relieved by seduction –
no love or lust;
just blissful destruction –
just practice;
no hardship;
no need for regret –
just beautiful lips
of boys he’ll forget.
Beautiful boys
together in boredom –
the time of their lives
in self enslaved whoredom –
beautiful boys
who’ll one day be men –
who dreamed they were toys
when they would be again.
Written by Jason Wright
November 29, 2018
A new direction
to an old destination,
A true connection
devoid of sensation
response to divergent
influent stimuli…
Lifelong corruption
to utter destruction –
beyond deconstruction
say live and let die.
Written by Jason Wright
November 28, 2018
The beast confessed drink
is poured toward successful.
The greased suppressed wink
is abhorred and disheveled.
The least caressed kink
is a sore spot for several.
The priest dressed in pink
is a whore for the devil.
Written by Jason Wright
November 28, 2018
I have the sickness.
I have to express.
I have the thickness.
I have to confess.
I have the wetness.
I have the shame.
I have been sexless.
I have been stained.
I have been tested.
I’ve been observed.
I’ve been suggested.
I have been heard.
I have been labeled
as purely obscene.
I am disabled
by being unseen.
Written by Jason Wright
November 21, 2018
The fighting: concerned for me;
I fell to pieces.
The writing returned for me
when I was sleepless.
The sound in your eyes;
the scent of your song…
Drugs may be quick
but they never last long.
Written by Jason Wright
November 21, 2018
Before it began, something was wrong
and we didn’t (couldn’t?) see it.
I wasn’t in the mood. He wasn’t feeling it.
This possible malignancy…
This possibly unexplored unreal territory,
This possibly unexposed notional strife…
was like a DANGER sign that was somehow misread as
STILL SLIPPERY WHEN WET –
an honest, if possibly fatal mistake.
It’s difficult to differentiate
where I end and he begins,
between what is wrong with us
and what is wrong with me…
but perhaps the two are not the same;
perhaps we two are not as one.
Months ago…
(I really should have kept track)
in the moments before usual masturbatory apex,
unreconciled paste spills upon perplexed fingers
absent blissful climax rush;
the poorly mixed paint
lubricates and froths,
gushing forward some 30 guesstimated seconds
before still stroking right hand
leads me to delayed
yet not unpleasant orgasmic sensations.
What the fuck had just happened?
I still don’t know for sure….
But when it didn’t happen again
I imagined it a fluke…
until it wasn’t.
I told him and he later experienced it fourth hand.
28 days x 6 months, minus whatever it is to make it 160
is my guess for how many times I’ve ejaculated since the beginning.
Five aberrant orgasms
with no discernable pattern…
but I speak to urology office shortly
before the sixth occurrence.
That was a few hours ago.
In the shower,
as I washed away all evidence
of any malady,
I imagined him leaving me
after his retreat
and choosing to keep my
completely imagined cancer diagnosis from him
so as not to blackmail him,
so as not to keep him tethered to me
against his will out of shame or pity,
or some maligned commingling of the two.
I’ve not been diagnosed with anything,
but it’s the dream image
that is the first moment in which I feel actual fear
in regard to my (or our possibly) undiagnosed condition.
It is in that first moment of fear
that I imagine him leaving me,
emotionally as well as physically,
in which I am finally able to see us
as two separate beings;
the division of cells,
the division of selves,
until all are finally set free.
Written by Jason Wright
November 20, 2018
For Aaron
and for Little Jason
In Nightmare Asylum
they don’t let you sleep.
“Sleep doesn’t matter”
they say as you weep.
You can’t shed your tears
or they keep you for longer
so stand against fears;
I know you are stronger than
maliciousness doctors and malcontent nurses.
Though we cannot speak –
And we cannot sleep –
We exist here together
inside of these verses.
Written by Jason Wright
November 20, 2018
For Aaron
Regimes bathed in scarlet
ceremony behavior.
In dreams lathed and starlit:
my loneliness savior.
In creams craved by artist
named only betrayer.
Yet I am the harlot
and he only player.
Condition is chalky;
deplores the reboot…
For position we jockey;
he scores and I shoot…
I launch at my folly;
I stream with no joy…
I relaunch and volley;
I scream for the boy.
The stream precedes chasm;
the target is painted…
The dream seeds orgasm
and harlot is tainted.
The player has won
as my body is cheated…
Two halves made one…
disembodied…
depleted.
Written by Jason Wright
November 20, 2018