BALD JASON'S GAY GOTH BOY BLOG
A Work in Progress…Welcome Back!
I need to sleep
but the boy in the field
won’t leave me in peace
or admit that he’s real
so I can’t close my eyes
until I have captured
the verdict of spies
that has left us enraptured
by twig and by leaf
by bird and by bone
by fall of rain water
and on him it shone…
the boy in the field
may never be real
but he looks like another
and they have each other.
Written by Jason Wright
April 9, 2018
She’s safe, if not whole
and he’s unwanted, broken & insane.
Insanity may seem like a good cause
for forgiveness or comfort
but it’s actually a piss poor substitute.
Quivering on shattered legs,
his spine broken by revelations
gained in his “fall” from a great height…
he fell so far and landed so hard
yet he has never recovered
from the truth of his actions.
The smile from the rickety defenseless monster
seems so sincere that others make note
and inform me of his safety; his well being;
his painful continued death rattle.
This skeleton shell of a scarecrow man
once preached sex and brimstone,
starvation and salvation,
while his inverted path to heaven would save us all
even as he damned us to this forever Hell.
Written by Jason Wright
April 5, 2018
New location for
poetic censorship is discovered
days after Facebook nudes
are similarly desecrated…
Artists MUST be mad!
I think of Sour Girl Shawn
as I pull on Stone Temple Pilots
and walk to the train
on my journey to Brooklyn.
I bring tracks from CD #3
and Mood Swings sing me to poetry
between 168th & 145th.
I can’t remember
attraction to Boy in Orange;
attraction died ages ago
without my notice…
Still nice to see him if I’m ever so lucky.
Scribbler illustrates the back of my mind
as I tunnel through Manhattan
to deal with angry humiliating disappointment
which I refuse to surrender to
despite the temptation to ralph
on the sidewalks of NYC.
Written by Jason Wright
March 19, 2018
Gay brother is hurried,
frenzied and anxious
with no hint of sexualized identity
beyond godly reunion
with labyrinthine daddy issues.
He speaks of personal demon monsters
that come for him
and I wonder
do psychotropic medications
rob him of sex
like the monsters that snatch him away;
like Gobblers forcing spiritual circumcision
on unsuspecting Golden children?
He teaches,
reaching out
to a fragmented world
for a mythological unified self
that I can’t quite believe in
despite of it’s appeal.
“Do you want to begin?”
Hell yes, I do!
Written by Jason Wright
March 6, 2018
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
My faded dream memories are highlighted
by sexy black and white music videos
and yet his defenseless freckled skin,
his sensitivity to illumination and to touch,
to my mistakenly hurtful turn of phrase,
not to mention the weak and tremulous light
through his lambent luxurious locks…
All of this to illustrate
through those color coded passages,
confirming what I knew
was truly blushing and divine.
The achromatic ginger
waited lifetimes to be mine.
Written by Jason Wright
February 27, 2018
They struggle through spin,
repeatedly heated,
Spritely ghosting across the years
to inspire long after intentions are forsaken,
forgotten and buried.
The contradictions are too numerous to name
as each star burns to nothing
plummeting from the inverse sky
in a brilliant spark unseen
but heard in echoes of erotic aural bliss.
Written by Jason Wright
February 13, 2018
Not all brothers need be the same
or enraptured by the mirror ball illumination
glittering on the skin of our shared origin story.
The aspects of dissimilar experiences
guide us to drastically different outcomes
as we are nourished (and sometimes poisoned)
by the same rainbow roots.
Written by Jason Wright
February 13, 2018
When you walked in to Starbs
with my man on your arm
in your charmingly gay jeans,
I smiled
and I thought that this could be fun.
I ran into an old customer
who told me about his son’s tumbling class
as I watched you both ordering coffee,
with an easy,
relaxed manner,
that spoke volumes of what was to come.
Your sing song ramblings
were the essence of adorable
and you seemed younger
than your pictures,
while also managing to look completely different
from whatever angle
I spied you from.
We agreed on Buffy’s Gift
and disagreed on LGBT actors,
though not in the typical, angry, grating way,
which Aaron and I had just discussed
in relation to a similar friend,
who has already secretly been mentioned here.
We had matching board games
which we managed to win
before I took pain killer
when I expected no more games to be played.
This, aside from
the tongue fuck of a kiss
which was seemingly dared
and then shared without mercy.
Later, that other kiss on the kitchen counter,
and you were the ghost of Sean Mobley,
whispering across my skin
before we all retired to the place
I expected us not to go…
which in all fairness,
I had insisted on.
There were obstacles to overcome
but in a relaxingly hazy, lustful way,
or that’s how I experienced it at the time.
Your sexy ass,
which I yearned to devour,
was sadly out of service…
and my painkiller infused erection
was quickly down for the count,
yet your beautifully thick dick
and mouthwatering sack
were open for business.
I did fucking love your sex drenched cock,
stretching me open
after riding your face
like you were some kind of bucking bronco.
You were energetic,
switching positions,
still looking different from every angle,
painfully / pleasurably
thrusting deep inside me,
filling the rubber with an impressive load of cum.
You left soon after,
since you don’t like to cuddle,
and the two of you needed to be up early
the next morning.
You took Ian McKellen (as James Whale) with you
and we traded messages on this or that service
but I don’t hear your voice in those words.
In these random exchanges
it’s hard to tell what is real;
hard to tell if we’re going to see you again.
Perhaps you really were just a shadow of Sean,
come to sing me carols and wake me with a kiss.
But I’d like to talk to you again: face to face.
It’s not all about your dick;
it’s everything else too;
all those angles are views I’d like to explore.
My sentences sent to convey this seem awkward
and desperate, but that’s not how they’re meant.
Like I said, it’s hard to tell what is real
in the light of day;
hard to decipher if what we experienced
was the beginning of friendship
or merely the end of a short, yet satisfying game.
Written by Jason Wright
February 13, 2018
For Joe
Photograph style
is nearly eclipsed
Epitaph smile:
the curve of his lips…
Warpaint & love:
perfection misshapen.
The feint hint of blood
or am I mistaken?
The light in his eyes:
are they tears or illusion?
Can’t quite surmise
yet I’m steered by confusion…
It’s clear that his visage
is something inspired…
It’s clear that this image
is someone desired…
The paradox here
is not worth denying…
Men can be beautiful
while they are crying.
Written by Jason Wright
January 31, 2018