BALD JASON'S GAY GOTH BOY BLOG
A Work in Progress…Welcome Back!
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
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
July says goodbye
heading east into August…
The truth is a lie
or at least it’s not honest…
For “the truth” is deceptive;
the term’s a mirage
which no contraceptive
confirms with applause.
Your secret is known
and your lies are the truth…
Turning flesh into stone
despised by my youth.
Written by Jason Wright
July 15, 2018
The man on the train is
overly friendly,
he sings too loudly & is apparently
allergic to soap.
My fourth train today
in just three hours.
My music protects me.
The pen resurrects me.
As good humor returns
everything (again)
seems possible.
Sickness will return and
these assholes will rip my muted sanity
asunder…
But this is bliss
in the absence of victory…
This bristle brush crisp
of ever present consciousness –
scrubbed raw in effervescent spray
of flaming frothing humanity.
Written by Jason Wright
July 2, 2018
Crying baby
has yet to learn
the lost language
of abandonment
which must be taught to
more than two-thousand
changeling children
in perverse dollhouse
TV replicas of unloving
American schoolrooms.
The impossible pressing of flesh
that distance provides
may well be revelatory
but God bless those
who are spared such unwanted visions
of cursed solitude.
God bless those
who are forced by their innocence
to endure such disturbances;
such nightmarish realities
that they may forever struggle
to reclaim what has been
or soon will be
forever stolen
from them.
May they survive, prosper,
find comfort of some kind
in their shared experience,
those tear stained imperatives.
Written by Jason Wright
July 2, 2018
The shaking sweaty confrontation
with one’s own reflection
when memory is shattered,
fragmented,
splintered beyond recognition
and momentary awareness
is threatened
with mindless annihilation.
Will I remember this later…
or will an older Jason fight
through a therapist’s session
to recover the me he has lost?
Written by Jason Wright
June 26, 2018
Tight press
of bodies in cars and in stalls…
in bars and in halls…
in times of stress:
relentless madness
get undressed
in spite of sadness.
Written by Jason Wright
June 21, 2018
A murder of crows
has led me to you.
For you are the ghost
of the men that I knew.
You are the haunted
and you are unrested.
The men I had wanted
but never accepted.
You’ve gone through the wringer
defined by my lies.
No wonder you linger
behind my closed eyes.
No wonder the sadness
has left you so ashen.
For you are the madness
of sorrow and passion.
You are the death that
was saved by machines.
You are the flesh that
has made me obscene.
You with your trousers
convexed by confusion.
Coven carousers
confessed by collusion.
We left ourselves open
and thusly unbuckled.
Deftly unspoken
and clumsily suckled.
You parted my lips
like a concave whisper.
And departed eclipsed
by a conclave of scripture.
Written by Jason Wright
June 9, 2018
This book of words
is falling apart
while makeup mistress
weaves together
a patchwork creation
meant to imitate perfection –
free from the rhyming couplets
that have held us all prisoner
and made a fairytale
of our dungeon.
The underground roars
through hollow hills
beneath beautiful graveyard labyrinths –
a necropolis that invites the living
to congregate with the dead:
the mouldering corpses
of past aspirations,
childhood dreamscapes
and unfinished poetry.
In an autumnal sunset
over a long Decembered
spring awakening
lies a barely remembered
ginger haired mutant
of a carcass.
Seventeen summers
have taken that once orgasmic beauty
and flayed him into living dead road kill
swollen skull
dried up brains
in that monstrous
Mount Rushmore sized
flesh blossom.
Lucky to have had him
before he was this
completely ugly
unfortunate thing.
Long before his wickedness
was so outwardly apparent
for all the world to see.
Written by Jason Wright
June 7, 2018
We know your perfection
is merely a myth…
We know your infection
is hard to resist…
We know seacoast loving
reflects in your eyes…
We know almost nothing
except your goodbyes…
We know you persist
but can’t make that call…
We know you exist
but don’t know you at all.
Written by Jason Wright
May 30, 2018