BALD JASON'S GAY GOTH BOY BLOG
A Work in Progress…Welcome Back!
Cruising the surface
the tempest remembers.
Bruising the cervix;
embarrassing embers.
The blush of disgrace;
the wet of excitement.
The cold wind of fate
as it screams for indictment.
But what you created
and what you kept hidden…
What you castrated
with words so malignant…
The preacher made jealous
and crazed by imposters…
The creature angelic
was praised by his monsters.
Written by Jason Wright
August 22, 2018
I deal out desire;
invite a new player.
Conceal and conspire
in light of betrayer.
I match and he scores
as he breaks all the rules…
As I catch on all fours
an outbreak of fools.
He tells him
he’s lonely;
I “can’t understand”.
He tells him
I’m only
a shell of a man.
He sells
controversy
to man who would take him.
He tells him
he’s thirsty
and I cannot slake him.
He whimpers and sighs
and admires our plunder.
He whispers these lies
to inspire my hunger.
He lays out the shame
that I’m hot to defray.
He plays out the game
that I’ve taught him to play.
Written by Jason Wright
August 22, 2018
Migraine med blitz is
confusion and sleep…
Lust without sensation.
Trust with augmentations.
His imagined betrayal
is hotter than
anyone’s physical loyalty.
Written by Jason Wright
August 7, 2018
Blanco, the great white car
devours its passengers
as seemingly old friend
dives into eardrums
to deliver smiles;
to sing us August carols.
The world leader in orthopedics
is spotted from east side highway
near river where helicopter passengers
recently drowned.
I’ve never crossed that bridge;
maybe I never will.
This slice has been topped with sticky sweetness,
bleached smell of potential lives failing to take hold;
failing to enrich anything
save my experience
and his imagined diet?
Not true!
Even in dreams
my shot penetrated no flesh
yet left me penetrated all the same;
slicing through me,
I lay bleeding copious conflicting sensations
that may yet one day kill me
if left untreated.
Better to die knowing truth
than to live knowing nothing of the kind.
Written by Jason Wright
August 7, 2018
In last night’s sleep
the nightmarish visions
of not deluded sheep
simulate incisions
as the blue Nazi glow
in The Mountains of Madness
melt us like snow
and dissolve us to sadness.
In the unrhyming aftermath
of implied Aryan birth,
nazis are defeated and left for dead:
Good riddance to bad rubbish!
And being quintessential explorers
and seeing twin pubescent horrors
where the rhyming never ceases
as our timing falls to pieces.
But what may not be apparent
is that I’m the young man
in living dead film phallusy
who hungers mightily
for pleasures only
a sleeping captive human
audience could love.
I ask myself, if I am truly the protagonist,
then how might I also be this quiescent observer?
This slumbering host body?
How can I be this sleepwalking witness who follows him
through long night light hours
as he mouths disembodied flesh
which I recognize all too easily?
How can he be so real as to
feed my woolgathering desire
when it is I who nurses him through
his hungry nightmare adolescence?
I cannot answer HOW or WHY; I can only say
that we both know it to be true.
I grasp what I can as I struggle
to take it to the waking world.
Stolen movie set arthouse penis is
still pissing and cumming on cue.
Mark agrees it must be fake
as I swallow.
His earbuds are too loud
and though I put up a fight
I surrender in the end
and allow him his jam session.
Clive Barker is a blue/purple devil
in this portrait pictured novel –
the eyes really do seem to follow you, don’t they?
The motion comic images relay
our illustrated conversation.
Is he the devil or a saint?
A demon or a mutant?
X-Man or author?
You can feel him pressed up against you,
behind you,
where his urticating
perforating fur
penetrates ever pore
in pleasurable striation.
Before opening eyes, I wonder
is this Mark curved around me
or perhaps that blue devil, Clive?
I wake,
wrapped in Aaron’s arms,
there is love in every scrap of contact….
completion found in our oft referenced
flesh and blood puzzle.
His scratchy chest hair
pressing firm in the soft of my back.
Without disengaging,
I reach for pen and microphone
as I set out to capture
what languishes inside me,
a dream with much meaning
which can never truly be reclaimed.
Written by Jason Wright
July 31, 2018
The day after dreaming
of lakes and of drowning
with lost lovers speaking / escaping / surmounting…
The day after Brian
had turned forty-two
(though former Hawaiian was lost to me too)…
The day that a cousin
came out to heartbreak
and family treasure was lost in a lake…
When Aaron confessed
to the death with his crying:
Was my dream of sex
just prediction of dying?
Written by Jason Wright
July 30, 2018
Go or stay
with a scream or a bow,
Blown either way
I lose TRUTH somehow,
His passion on one side;
Her gift on the other…
I can’t please them both
without shaming the mother.
I can’t malign length
with her eyes watching me.
I shan’t find my strength
with my lies crushing me.
I write to stay sane
when I go to repress…
“Poetry priest when I can’t confess.”
When NIGHT SILENCE falls…
When I am restrained…
When FRIGHT VIOLENCE calls…
When I’m all that remains…
When I am restricted
although it betrays me…
“I am conflicted when poetry saves me.”
Written by Jason Wright
July 29, 2018
I smell his impulse
from a half day away.
The hint of a riddle
in the half light of pain.
The soft siren song
that tempts me with silence.
The voice of the child
bereft of my guidance.
I see what is hidden
as I feel what he fears.
We share the forbidden
truth shed in our tears.
We are each other
in flesh father carved.
This child is me
and I won’t let him starve.
Written by Jason Wright
July 29, 2018
In the dream, on Brian’s 42nd birthday,
Aaron drives into lake,
which covers family riches.
And back at campground
I find well adjusted Michael,
with his playful latin lover,
who allows us our alone time
to heal, cuddling naked
and sharing our long overdue kisses,
shared decades after repeatedly fucking
for close to 10 years
straight.
This is something
that he wanted for so long
and I try to let him breathe
and I’m surprised to learn
they fixed that years ago –
I didn’t know that they could.
He’s happy and clean,
old with regret yet somehow
young in the satisfaction
of decisions finally made.
There was
no wife –
no children –
no victims –
and he was saving himself
before drowning in his own lies.
Written by Jason Wright
July 24, 2018
Seeing these men
who never find themselves,
save in these sacred gay spaces,
who often actually lose themselves
in the overwhelming tide of acceptance…
That story, often read, was never truly mine;
a disconnect, which likely saved my life…
but perhaps, although I did the smartest things,
memorizing all of the rules
to this deathly game of life…
perhaps after all that I’ve done (or not)
I simply have survivor’s guilt?
I found my Fire Island / Castro,
found my Stonewall / found my Eagle,
found my Saugatuck and Folsom,
found my Pride in my reflection.
In the after wrath of AIDS
amidst the slaughter of my peers.
In the aftermath crusades
I came of age and faced my fears.
A generation’s gurney
closure fighting to be free.
A journey overwriting
what my story yearned to be.
Free to live a lonely man;
this glut tricked out obsession.
Free to be the homo man;
the slut without protection.
Free to be the ones in hell
about to hearse to college.
Free to be the ones who fell
without the curse of knowledge.
Free to pluck the pain from hearts
of seedy sly arrivals.
Free to fuck the pain apart
with no need for survival.
Written by Jason Wright
July 24, 2018