BALD JASON'S GAY GOTH BOY BLOG
A Work in Progress…Welcome Back!
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
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
Their eyes sought me out
cross the waiting room floor…
Their gaze drifted down
to the demon adored…
Their feet and their legs
brought them quick as you please…
and I barely kept up
from off of my knees.
Hot Doctor Craig
and Doctor Antell
approach me
and coach me
on living so well…
They compliment
garment
and offer me sex
behind my closed eyes
as they search for who’s next.
The shirt that I wore from Party That Wasn’t /
Middle-Earth shirt worn by someone who doesn’t
exist or persist in interest of others…
I barely seek to or speak to my brothers
who once stripped for me
in convent abandoned…
this clothing’s been holding me;
constant companion.
It’s Nina who sings to me
blissed through my tears…
who aids and then fades to me
kissed through my fears…
as music comes up and
and asks with a twirl:
A demon to some…
could I be your girl?
Written by Jason Wright
October 9, 2018
For Antell & Arden, Simone & Barker,
& the lovers that we never were.
Shakey frostbite artist scrawl
in painful seizure Chevrolet
Fuck! My chest scraped open
in bloodless abandon!
I wonder if Sean has received
my owl? And if not, will it
reach him in time? And will he care?
Or will he once again reject me?
I’ll be close to an hour early
when this earthquake on wheels
jitters to a stop as I cling
to psalms once pressed together
for Laurie’s benefit.
Words written slowly
as we inch by Carnegie Hall.
I don’t feel like writing anymore.
A spare thought that becomes truth,
that becomes despair.
But I don’t really completely finish until
I reach my destination (who does, really?)
even when scratched beneath a different shade of ink.
Written by Jason Wright
October 9, 2018
For Sean Mobley,
my lost inspiration and seemingly perpetual muse.
And for Laurie Finney ,who was kind enough
to sing my praises when I attempted to DJ for
her circle of friends. Were it always so blissful!
In 9 days it will be 17 years
from the night we first met.
And though you discarded me
in a mostly cruel and senseless fashion
I still write & think of you often.
Some of the words I write are angry,
hurt, longing or strange…
And though I’m PROUD
that I refused to chase someone
who chose to run away
from me and our truth
I miss YOU
more than any other pain
that you have caused me.
Written by Jason Wright
October 9, 2018
For Mobley Mouse, for Theodore
and all the other names I’ve come to call you.
Whispering in my ears
in a memory I never had,
because I never heard you
but you sounded sad…
and the words that you spoke
were like singing beneath
the sound of your breath
and our rhythmic heartbeats,
and the song found me dreaming
of a man that I follow…
lost in the depths unbelieving
and hollow.
The day that you caught me
without saying much,
The way that you haunted me
there with a touch
that I couldn’t feel
save the dream of your sorrow…
that came to be real
come the gleam of tomorrow.
But you stayed with me singing
and circled around…
You gave me the bringing
and brought me your crown…
You lingered behind me
when others had left…
You whispered and signed me;
you loved me to death.
But that’s not the end
of our ghostly tale…
For you proved a friend
and mostly prevailed
when I circled round you
and found you still smiling…
I knew you were there
with your stare so beguiling.
The look and the dance
and the music: Slowdive.
The words are romance:
“only lovers alive”.
Written by Jason Wright
October 6, 2018
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.
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.
Tired sleepy eyed transformation awaits.
The unconscious cut in line
but are more lively than I am
and I’m mostly awake!
I’m wearing scruff,
no makeup or jewelry.
Halloween may be every day
but will be celebrated more than 50 moons from now
as I remain here in my complete lack of drag
save my Joy Division shirt.
“Some Girls Are Bigger Than Others.”
How much for a cup of coffee?
Just your self respect,
as I’m reminded daily
of orange shrimp with tiny baby hands
and the day I wandered
into his seaweed castle aquarium
to beg for sustenance.
Being stuck underground in the Heights
I should be panicked and pissed
about my horribly fucked up Starbucks drink,
but my Vitamin Water Whiskey mixture prevents this.
Luna Park
in headphones and I chill.
Whiskey
rushing through my veins.
Nothing
satisfies the bones.
The scrape on my hand
was unintentional;
one must not fist androids.
Mashup from decade ago
(or longer)
returns in Times Square.
My hands are blotchy
and I thought
the food seller bathed in Windex
but it’s actually asian hand sanitizer.
The hot random to my right is less than perfect
which somehow makes him hotter,
though he disappears at Penn Station,
undoubtedly reappearing for others
as he leans in,
kissing my neck as I continue to write,
still listening to Justin and Enrique
make love to one another.
Time to meet Monica
and ease on down the road.
(I’m returning The Wiz, if that isn’t too obvious)
“There’s no place like home.”
Written by Jason Wright
September 2018
featuring Monica Lane.