BALD JASON'S GAY GOTH BOY BLOG
A Work in Progress…Welcome Back!
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
Experiment #001 is blonde,
purely fictional,
musical
and a deeply hungry bottom.
Nothing wrong with that.
He has broken no laws
and this investigator finds that
he has shattered no expectations;
we have a pretty low bar here.
He arrives promptly
for down low dirty sort of movie watching,
needing and twitching
to satisfy carnal cravings
for satisfying chemical sex.
He inhales Jungle Juice
like it’s an oxygen tank,
allowing him to swim
through seas of endlessly
horny barebackers while never returning to
(and never delivering more than)
the shiny deceptive surface.
He forgets why he is there
and must be reminded
that he will not be taking
multiple cocks at once
during this session;
an apparent rarity for him: how quaint.
He says he feels sorry
for the “drunken dickless loser faggot”
and wishes for his inclusion…
be it from actual decency
or merely his endless thirst…
a question that is never truly answered.
His sorrow does not prevent him
from wolfing down various white substances,
although this investigator suspects
he may never return to the scene of this non-crime,
as even thusly fed,
he appeared to be suffering from withdrawal.
Recommendation:
Suspension of Experiment #001
until such time as he is recaptured. Until
such time as he rejoins the other experiments
we must find new test subjects.
Our mission is crucial
and must not be circumvented.
Written by Jason Wright
October 2, 2018
For Matt, with affection.
The burden ceaseless; undefeated.
The circuit recently completed.
A bridge too far for most to win
which sparks to life the ghost within.
He’s loud of late. He screams at me.
When wide awake he dreams my sleep.
He means it well but then he hurts me.
Screams; they dwell when he deserts me.
The way he feels that I once left.
The way he feels that I regret.
The way he hurts, I hurt with him.
Way that we were once a victim.
Way he dreams is so compelling.
Way he screams is overwhelming.
Need extreme. I need intensive.
Heed the scream. Incensed insensitive.
Need your pledge to shape the circuit.
Need the edge to scrape the surface.
Need the barb, the fierce insane.
Need the sharp to pierce our pain.
Toughness dimmed to shuck free armor.
Punish him to fuck me harder.
Need to bleed to block this drubbing.
Need your seed, your cock, this fucking.
Written by Jason Wright
September 26, 2018
For Little Jason. I hear you.
For Aaron. I need you.
Horrible night filled with horribleness
and nearly all of it feels like my fault.
can’t keep it down
couldn’t relax
couldn’t just take a bath
phone almost dead
can’t be listened to
trains can’t be trusted
even veins can’t cooperate
My timing sucks
trying too hard
to make it alright.
Phone charges while I stumble
in the dark
towards not the right theater
on not the Wright night.
But our paths finally cross
and the best photo is taken
which will sweeten this memory
as the horror fades
to dimly arousing afterimages.
Written by Jason Wright
September 20, 2018
For people named Aaron,
who somehow managed
to make this night less wrong.
I wake from 6 hour slumber
wordlessly, thoughtlessly
(thankfully) hungry.
In such moments
I’m not a person defined by starvation or it’s opposite.
In such moments
I’m not a person at all.
In such moments
I am simply HUNGER,
with no itellection or sentiment attached.
It’s so much easier when I don’t have to suppose,
reckon, consider or cogitate…
but knowing this, (paradoxically)
makes it that much harder
to NOT think about it.
I proceed toward the kitchen;
a compartment
that is far too compartmentalized;
a meaningful place
with far too much meaning.
Aaron always says that
I move with the silence of a ghost;
I believe I know why this is so,
yet I’ve never expressed this to him
because I’ve never expressed it to myself.
Everytime I leave our bedroom
I must approach that ignominious addiction;
that nutritious poison
which others proudly consume,
while my own natural cravings
are an endless source of personal shame.
“If I openly admit what I desire,
then monsters might hear me
and devour innocent children.”
What you could never understand is
that I know this to be true…
Still, I slip out while others are sleeping
or likely unobservant;
when distractions (and witnesses)
are unlikely to stir any sense
of self awareness.
But this ghost walking shell
is clumsy and trips an alarm;
the theft alert klaxon
of the unreached microwave.
I know I mustn’t eat now
but as panic approaches
I strive to curb its consequences.
Scented wax is melted
to burn away the odor of consumption.
Those mouth watering aromas
were long ago converted to putrescence
to save the lives of terrified children…
and though I know now these were lies
told by a sermonizing demon father,
that doesn’t actually make his words any less legitimate.
I remove layers of complication.
I scrub nauseatingly disruptive dishes,
scouring them clean of repulsive remnants
before placing them in the
mechanical dishwasher because
there can be no trace evidence left behind,
even when the sins committed are not my own.
Still, my continuing hunger must be punished.
I don’t wait. I use my weakness like strength.
I walk down 92 steps and over several city blocks
to local grocery store, where I nearly leave empty handed.
It is not uncommon for me to leave unsatisfied
several times over…but I haven’t the strength today.
I remind myself to breathe; to pay attention to how I breathe,
as I negotiate with a monster’s former victim.
Get something.
Anything.
Just get something!
There’s no bus but I count this as blessing.
I walk several uphill blocks and
I struggle in hope that exhaustion
will bring me back to dumb unknowing salvation.
After stumbling up 92 steps
I fumble senselessly into
cramped space of torture and horror –
where my lover drags me kicking and (silently) screaming
back to the awareness I’ve fought so hard to bury.
As partner tries to touch me
he removes still washing dishes,
preparing to make another noxious concoction
to stifle my progress.
What the fuck?
Righteous anger briefly explodes behind my eyes
before quickly dimming upon recognition
of his otherworldly normality.
My beloved is not like us
and he does not see the monsters.
I think to begin the cycle again;
with thoughts on emptying the trash
and cleansing the filth
which likely still rests on his office desk…
but exhaustion overwhelms us as I slink away to bedroom
where I scrawl this across notebook pages,
interrupted only momentarily by my darling’s entrance;
I refuse to stop writing or look love in the eye –
because I have to write this out –
because I’m falling apart –
because he needs to be acknowledged if we are to continue.
But as I finish, I read out what I’ve written
because
this madness is not all that I amand Aaron’s love has a way of breaking me free
of my ruinous captivity.
Written by Jason Wright
September 15, 2018
I dreamed of a conversation
which more or less actually happened.
This summation is not quite poetry,
but it’s what I scribbled in my notebook.
Back in the dream or back in the memory or
back in the memory of the dream or
back in the dream of the memory…
Franklin, an ex-boyfriend of mine
tells me he has something very important to ask me,
as I remember him kissing me a lifetime ago…
2002 with the Green Dragon.
“Is this Christian really as hot
as he looks in your pictures?”
“Do you have a particular Christian in mind? I don’t really keep track
of the religious views of my friends. I, mean, I like to know about my friends,
but religion isn’t currently in my polling questions.”
“No. Christian.”
Then Franklin says Christian’s last name,
pronouncing it correctly the first time (which I did not)
and I smile.
“Oh! That Christian! Yes. Yes, he definitely is that hot.
He’s also funny, talented, compassionate, friendly, insightful,
he has a nice laugh and his wardrobe is both classy and slightly,
in my opinion, pornographic.”
“Pornographic?” and I can hear the smile in his voice.
“You’d have to see it to understand it completely, but I’ve
seen grown men drool at the sight. I mean, I’ve been one
of those men. But if you think he’s all that and a bag of chips,
just wait until you see Charly!”
When Aaron hears me tell Franklin this he calls me a bitch.
Franklin, with disappointment: “His boyfriend?”
“No. Christian doesn’t have a boyfriend,
though you and I do.”
“Then who’s Charly?”
“Charly is Christian’s better half.”
“But you said…”
“Yes I did. And I promise that I was telling the truth,
because Charly is definitely not Christian’s boyfriend,
husband or man friend.
“How to best describe Charly?
Charly IS a beautifully stunning, exceptionally gifted individual…
who manages to be ethereal yet completely approachable, and unfailingly sweet,
though not in an artificial, obnoxious kind of way.
“Charly is one of those people who you meet
and the subtlety with which you are beguiled
leaves you haunted for days afterward.
Christian has a similar allure, so I can see
why they make such a good couple.
“Charly is Christian’s muse. She’s also his girlfriend.”
And then Franklin calls me a bitch too,
and I laugh for several weeks.
I send Franklin to Christian’s website to see clips of his magic.
“His website is almost as hot as yours, though for different reasons.”
I think I’ll have to tell Christian about this the next time I see him,
only I’ve not seen him in a month
and who knows when I’ll see him again, really?
As I’ve said, I then had a dream
about this conversation and I like the extra details,
a bit of fiction which compliments reality.
I write this down on my way to therapy,
then transcribe it to Facebook less than 24 hours later,
to be published a few weeks later
on Christian’s birthday.
Written by Jason Wright
September 11, 2018
For Franklin, who inspired it,
just as he inspired me when he first crossed my path,
more than 16 years ago…
For Christian, who inspired Franklin’s question.
For Christian’s wardrobe, which, to paraphrase Radiohead,
is surely a siren, singing others to shipwreck.
For Charly, who inspires Christian and who inspired my response.
And for Aaron, because it always comes back to Aaron, doesn’t it?
Nobody calls me a bitch quite the way you do. ♥
Part I: Sweetheart
He’s unlike any other lover
that I’ve ever had.
There have, in the past
been talented enthusiasts,
skilled contortionists,
beloved boyfriends
and romantic one night stands…
but after nearly seven years
he knows me;
knows more about what happens INSIDE ME
than anyone who ever previously came that way.
With the others, skilled as they were,
there was always something more;
something secret transpiring behind my
ORGASM
CLOSED
EYESBut by now he knows everything he needs to know,
which he uses to his advantage,
bringing me to my oft contemplated conclusion;
he looks at me with his insider’s knowledge
and he sees inside what others could not.
The path to my bliss
is a code which he has broken;
a cypher that my body,
my outward appearance
could never hope to betray,
for all the contradictions therein.
He feeds my desperation
with erotic confections,
candied pornography,
titillatingly told and suggestively supplied.
He says all the right things,
evocative, provocative things,
pressing all the right buttons,
pulling all the right strings,
whispering nearly impossible encryption,
like an incantation (if not a description);
such nectarous wines which some find grotesque
as my redolent rhymes at last come undressed.
And there, in the harsh light of spray,
as frenzied fantasy is glazed with stud honey,
he looks deep into my opened eyes
and tells me how much he loves me.
Part II: Sweet Dreams
I sleep like the dead.
A door slams
and I am awakened;
a scenario which has always made me sad.
Returning to consciousness ALONE is shocking.
Previous waking memory
involves being nakedly wrapped
in another man’s embrace…
he was just here.
My deathly slumber has robbed me
of too many farewells.
How do men disentangle
themselves from me so easily?
Perhaps when lulled
into a false sense of security,
I fail to cling effectively?
The most satisfying
sexual encounters
of my life
seem predicated on utter destruction
come the merciless
light of day.
Perhaps
that early sweetness
before such raw transformative
encounters have bruised us
is life’s deceptive way of
getting us all to take our medicine.
Part III: A Bitter Pill to Swallow
He says he’s been crying all morning;
that we’ve not planned this day well.
He wishes we were together.
We are frustrated that my thoughtfulness
was unknowingly seemingly thoughtless.
Should have asked for headphones.
Should have called when doorslam woke me.
Should have moved this appointment
but the confusing calendar info
has only recently been translated
and my therapist has no other window
so I take the car he scheduled for me
to the appointment he scheduled for me
and I hope for the best,
swallowing any bitterness
by remembering last night’s sugar.
Written by Jason Wright
August 28, 2018
For Aaron
36: the oft repeated number,
mentioned in passing
and jingled out during repeated conversations,
as the amount of time he’ll be spending
before jetting off again,
halfway around the world.
And then he says 18.
But 36? I ask.
Bad math he says.
More than 24, less than 36.
My pain spikes.
A surprising, unforeseen reaction.
I’ve been fine but this seems like too much.
I want to ask him many questions
but he’s tired
and it seems selfish,
so I remain almost silent
as the car full of people shout over me
with a flashed dick pic nearly killing them all.
Later, as I struggle to rectify this disparity
between what I expected and what will be,
the distance between what I believed I felt
and what overwhelmed me in the conversation,
as tears stream down my face,
the telephone rings.
He’s sorry.
He knew what I was feeling.
He always knows.
We’ll have more than a few stolen moments,
despite the never ending ticking.
And he can’t wait to be in my arms again.
Less than 36;
more than enough.
Some people are never so lucky.
Written by Jason Wright
August 24, 2018
For Aaron
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
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