The New Order whispers into my ears of 22 year old hauntings in Jewish boarding houses, communal showers and a seemingly gay 1963 assassination.
Behind the whispers are Dominican conversations, New York realness, Subway tuna on flat bread and yogurt scooped in Harlem train station, only a few blocks from the famous Cotton Club.
Hypnotic androids devour the starving amidst a pride of dykes who clearly believe that orange really is the new black.
All American Boy croons as I make my mistake, as I make my escape, but I will return so save me my seat.
He was better looking in the flesh, with the same witty internet banter, yet fused with that vital magical glimmer; that liveliness in his eyes.
The supposed Blue Fairy, the one who actually had turquoise hair, had fashioned Pinocchio into a real boy for this blue fairy, despite the wood that grew between us.
I know what you’re thinking, but in spite of his need to come calling after sunset, he was definitively not a lost boy.
Boys that are found to be real grow up to be fathers of their own after all.
Pinocchio (respecting the Sabbath) and having suffered rejection by a prince (who turned out to be a frog), left Never Never Land after the cow jumped over the moon to visit Elphaba & Glinda in Rapunzel’s 6th floor condo, where handsomely dressed in the emperor’s new clothes he conspired with my wicked step-mother to turn me into the double stuffed gingerbread man.
2 Holy Father
My partner, deep inside of his name twin as fourth father repeatedly stabs deep inside of my joyously remembered childhood cunt.
This doesn’t seem possible; like a hazy wet dream brought unexpectedly into being; twisting the world into impossible shapes that couldn’t have happened before Aaron arrived at our door.
And while we writhe and wrestle into differing rock formations we fuck repeatedly in that wondrous configuration; that sexual transmogrification of inspiration, reemergence & renewal, a cycle of hunger, thirst, cravings satisfied and yet sparked aflame without end:
My lover pours himself into him, as he pours himself into me, and I pour myself over us all… and yet we do not come to conclusion.
And at the third movement of the third hour, this triumvirate charmed me to the spiritual power, wrought through my flesh twixt symbolic clocks: I survived crucified on their mystical cocks… And forgive me for rhyming for that moment still guides me… Third time’s the charm that I took them inside me.
Later, as time is running out, stranger friend injects me one last time as I curse.
The penetration is welcomed yet overwhelming with sensation, vision, pushing me deeper into myself – further beyond my walls where I can finally hear what my body has been telling me all along.
I grip my lover’s thighs, looking deep into those thoughtful blissed eyes, charged connection between us as man we just met stimulates my deepest secrets with the prick that we’ve both just worshiped.
As new father fucks deep into his unwanted son, with his polyisoprene covered billy club, my spirit seems to tear in two: two different Jasons for two different Aarons.
Seven positions. Like ballet. The Nutcracker: Sweet.
His thick, upturned cock hurts and heals me with it’s transformative power.
And in the aftermath, we whisper secrets in the dark… as we all fail to convince ourselves that we were not blessed, consecrated and purified.
Blasphemous? Maybe. But then the truth often is.
3 Prostrated
Today, during my prostate exam, Doctor said he was sorry as he inserted a single finger. I told him it was fine.
I wanted to say (but didn’t) that he could use more than one.
I didn’t say that his finger felt amazing but was only a shadow of what I’d felt earlier on Sunday morning.
The exam was brief and painless, but left me wet.
My doctor is a horrible tease.
The doc says everything’s great and that there’s no blood; no sign for worry; no cause for alarm.
I nearly ask him to try again but instead I give thanks while marveling that I remain both physically and spiritually intact.
Written by Jason Wright October 31, 2017
“Prostrated” was finished and released first, but the notes on the other entries were made at the same time and complete the cycle. These were begun in July and finished in October.
Hearing disappointment which matches THE SICKNESS INSIDE ME threatening to overtake me.
Breathe.
The train is already departing one six eight; perhaps this panic is for nothing?
Why do the only loud people in the car gravitate toward me?
Hungry. Terrified and hungry. Some things never change… but I can.
Relax. Breathe.
He cannot hurt me here. She is safe. And I will eat before long.
If the show has begun I will eat without fear and rest, knowing I’ve seen this particular show three times before, and I will be there for Aaron without compromising sanity or the denial of self.
If I make it there in time I will be collected and calm. I will take in this special show with no need of regret for I have controlled my fear and done my best to travel especially on the fucked up weekend transit.
Now relax. Breathe / Ground, and be the Jason that you want to be.
These rambling skeletal nothings prepare a Shakespeare on the Rocks that will put you to sleep faster than arsenic, absinthe, abstinence or Nyquil.
These holes where people once stood are empty by choice: “It makes for a better tango partner.” she twitters as she looks at your palm, smashes a fortune cookie and calls it psychoanalysis.
These prickly amusements are friendly Goddess daughters when we smile and laugh and congratulate, but let your drowsy mind betray the truth and see them bare their fangs to rip your throated poetry to shreds.
Unless of course you’re doing something which requires respect or silence… because then they’ll be making far too much noise to have noticed.
