BALD JASON'S GAY GOTH BOY BLOG
A Work in Progress…Welcome Back!
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
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.
Our shared experiences in the past
seem to mean nothing to those reflected
in the world’s window screen.
I watch them all
hoping for recognition / reconnection
while sister hurts and Sean struggles.
Steve is happy listening to sad songs
which make me weep.
I want to tag myself in a million posts
in every place I’ve ever gone.
Fuck this song.
Fuck this.
Life changes us
and you’re a stranger that I once knew
or at least I thought I did.
I have pictures but they don’t seem to matter;
they don’t seem nearly as real as yours.
I tell you the secret in the past
but you are blind.
I dive for real love
at the beach house
with men that I trust
while Lauren Moloko Hatchie St Vincent
(actor out of work in the radio Dept.)
decides the time is now
to try to speak your true name
amidst disarray antidotes,
preoccupations with daysleepers
and their creation…
and now the meaningful
nonsensical rhyming must begin
as we fade away to nothing important:
I get a little blue
as I listen to your tunes
as I Facebook stalk your trek
across the place I never knew…
And Sean is turning tricks
paying rent by sucking dicks,
and nothing really matters
if our lives are candle wicks.
But I want to visit woman
with the ghost out on the porch…
want to live my life again
when I am out of sorts….
want to read of witches
as my fever threatens soul…
Your aura ghost echo
(lost orca in ghetto)
and only espresso
can make us both whole.
Written by Jason Wright
April 19, 2018
He was here more than year;
he was here for so long.
He was queerly sincere
and shrouded in song.
He was there with despair
in mysterious scars…
He was blonde and absconded
from bright lights and bars.
But these words obscured
are like gospel from me…
My words are not heard
by apostle to thee…
Who worshiped and wept
though you never knew…
How he stayed where we played
as I fade into you.
Written by Jason Wright
October 1, 2017
For Mazzy Star, Saint Etienne & the boy (now a man), who made them matter.
– ABOUT THE POEM –
The title springs from a word I saw (Delirante) at random when I wrote, which means delirious, which is how I felt at the time. “He’s Gone” are lyrics from the Saint Etienne song “Like a Motorway”. There’s a guy I met in early 1995 in Michigan, named Steve Rink. We were never close but we had several friends in common, went to some of the same bars, read some of the same books and listened to some of the same music. We also hooked up once in an odd sort of circle jerk in summer of 1996. I don’t know him well, but for whatever reason he’s popped up a lot in my poetry, or at least my perceptions of him pop up now and again; I don’t feel like I actually know him that well. I’ve always found him attractive, but I find lots of people attractive and there are many such people that I never write about at all. So I don’t really know what that means.
When I moved to New York, or relatively soon after, Steve was living in NYC as well. We traded messages about possibly hanging out, but it took me years to adjust to being here. In many ways, I’m still adjusting. And I also struggle with connecting with people. If I’m at a place, talking to someone in person, I’m very good at this. But on the phone, via text or email or whatever, I really suck at making things happen. And so nothing ever did. We were friends on Facebook though and he’s always been tapped into music that I love since I first met him. I loved when he posted about this or that piece that I didn’t know, because I knew that it meant I would most likely love it as well.
Before Steve lived in NYC he lived overseas somewhere. I don’t even remember where. I only knew because before Facebook we were friends on Myspace. He married a man, whose name I don’t remember. There was a video of the wedding and them dancing to “Fade Into You” by Mazzy Star, which struck me as perfect. Years later, when he left New York, he posted a video of Saint Etienne’s “Like a Motorway”. And that’s where some of this springs from.
He doesn’t seem to be on Facebook anymore. He’s off being a serious whale watcher / conservationist / photographer. From a far, I’m happy for him. I’ve heard from several friends in Michigan that when he’s in our old stomping grounds that he’s on all the apps. Good for him. Good for them, I guess.
What I’m saying, I think, is that I wish I knew him better. And I miss having music cues from him, because he really did listen to the best shit! But I’m happy he’s out and about doing his thing and I hope he’s happy.
So that’s the story.
YMMV, especially on the motorway!
Four of us there;
though it’s hard to believe:
Bald Jason, Paul
and Darla and Steve.
The latter I stripped
in Ann Arbor fountain
before baring flesh
pressing into his bottom;
concealing our pact
(which they labeled obscene)
and that this healing act
had in fact made us clean.
The nerve that in public
made time seem to end:
Perving the lovesick
with crime through the lens
of twenty-one years
flashing by in a blur…
The party that wasn’t
for the people we were.
A moment of lust
that had built beyond reason,
Momentous trust
in the shadow of treason,
A moment of courage
acknowledged and shared,
Encouraged by touch
though we weren’t prepared
for the judgment of strangers
and friends left outside,
as we puzzled through riddles
with longing our guide,
But licentious struggles
are seldom rewarded,
For all our successes
we may have been thwarted…
For the world gazed in fear
as if love were contagious…
Our fumbled premiere
saw us stumble toward greatness.
Written by Jason Wright
September 20, 2017
Steve was a shadow
I swore not to touch.
A slip of a boy
with eyeliner smudged.
That he was forbidden
made him all the more tempting.
Catherine Wheel sang
while I was pretending
that I did not want him,
as if he was nothing…
When behind my closed eyes
we were constantly fucking.
Written by Jason Wright
July 27, 2017
Like whispers in the dark
corrupted coven of my youth
The matrix of our lives;
a subtle subterfuge of truth
The damage of desire;
a curse both brilliant and Orwellian…
For nothing can save the damned
but the crucible of rebellion.
Our covenant
was destroying us
A sacrifice
was our need
But high is the price of redemption
and all of us would have to bleed…
But someone would have to begin this quest
into the dreaded evermore…
I was the perfect choice for this mission
because I had bled before.
In the fountain of repression
where the battle was about to begin,
I took my cue from another
and surrendered to unholiest sin,
The pain and the pleasure mingled
as they stripped away inhibitions,
And I understood in that moment
the consequences of our decisions.
The danger of destruction
heightened experience beyond any other,
At last we could face the truth of our pact;
we could finally LOVE one another,
And we understood that this blasphemous act
could save or destroy us all,
But nothing could destroy this moment in time;
nothing could make us fall.
Our clothing was torn asunder
in order to change the coven’s fate,
But still the question remained:
Were we in time or were we too late?
In our minds we’d fucked each others’ souls
in our orgy of repressed lust…
Our symbolic salvation:
Eternal damnation
or renewal of friendship and trust?
The surviving coven members
were a breed both tempered and pure,
Defeating disaster and embracing desire
that no power could destroy or inter…
Sex was our drug and deliverer of choice;
denial our insanity cure…
And so this was The Party That Never Was
for the lovers that we never were.
Written by Jason Wright
July 6, 1996
For Paul, Steve and Darla –
and all of the other coven members who couldn’t make it to the party, because it never happened.
From within
my brutal dreamscape…
the Incubus takes control.
His somber gaze inflicts my heart;
his countenance takes its toll.
For once you’ve drowned
within those eyes of his…
eyes like burning coals:
Their memory will haunt you,
tempt, rape and taunt you…
and torment your immortal soul.
This riveting integration
of arctic death and heated desire,
burns colder than any blizzard
and blows hotter than any Hellfire –
his torrid aura bathes us
as his jubilant sufferings inspire,
he’s the passive assailant –
the willing victim –
he is the conquered survivor.
This archaic newborn…
This pedagogue of innocent corruption…
This algid inferno trapped
within a flesh enshrouded seduction
is an intimate portrayal of pain
and of a generation’s self destruction.
Written by Jason Wright
April 1, 1995
– For Steve –
Who is far too damned beautiful
for his own twisted good!
I wrote this, half in love with this guy that I didn’t know, but hesitant to pursue him. There were good reasons not to, or so I felt. He was quite young, though I met him at a bar. And there were rumors which I later learned were spread by an ex-lover, that made him seem slightly predatory. I liked the word play and I’ve always liked contrasting opposites, and my lust, trepidation, and mistrust (aimed more at myself than at him, given my then recent breakup with a man who had raped me) was clearly apparent. I gave him the poem and hoped that he liked it, though I’m not sure that it’s very flattering. Someone, I can’t remember who, later told me that a boyfriend of his (Matt) who had read it, brought it up in an argument and said that I’d painted a perfect picture of him, which has always made me feel a bit guilty. It felt like something I’d written had been used against him and that hurt me. I doubt anybody remembers this now except me. I mean, people are always telling me that they are astonished by the kind of things that get stuck in my head and this is likely one of them.