BALD JASON'S GAY GOTH BOY BLOG
A Work in Progress…Welcome Back!
Behind eyelids I’m spinning
like carny fair attraction
Mollie would have me ride
for pleasure of her laughter.
Kesha in my ears.
Whiskey in my veins.
Eyes closed.
Reaching for childhood secret
to last year’s confession.
Could it be time?
I’ll dance first
and then let you know.
Written by Jason Wright
August 10, 2017
Afraid of the water
but desperate for memory
dying for liquid blue
and sun daze
of historical bliss;
we split the difference and now there’s only
the gathering and it’s aftermath.
The express train is overwhelmed and runs local.
A wise, if inconvenient choice.
Monsters lurk just out of view
but they’re old friends
and I would embrace them
if they dared step into my light.
Man at my right
reads all as I scrawl
but looks away shamed
at being so named.
It matters not.
The monsters are still there.
They want to burn down my simple joy
but only because they’re cold and lonely.
“Come.
Join my fire.
No need for us to be enemies.
We are brothers of the same trauma;
pieces of a collective whole.
Our birthday approaches.
Coalesce. Experience. Rejoice. Weep.
Remember when we were only one little hungry child?
Adulthood comes for us all.
Don’t fight.
Face it with me.
Can’t leave you behind.
We are stronger together.”
Written by Jason Wright
August 10, 2017
Before our partnership was born
I bled in desperation
blood for blood
my spirit torn
bereft of integration
past & present
interwoven
divided over years
you saw my life was badly broken
guided me through tears
you wouldn’t judge and helped
as this beginner deeply delved
without a touch you held
as I embraced my other selves
and what achieved together
I acknowledge here with pride
for you have changed my life forever
and left me well supplied
with lessons learned
and skill sets earned
you’ve taught me that I’m able
to meet this end
success my friend
for you I’m always grateful.
Written by Jason Wright
August 10, 2017
For Jamie Bloom
We live in a Hard Hat Area.
A place where lesser beasts go to feed
and are slaughtered.
A place where all history must bet shorn
to ensure future happiness.
A place filled with nightmares of betrayal
and fantasies of same.
A place that I must wake up from
if I am to survive.
Written by Jason Wright
August 9, 2017
Men’s eyes can be laughing sparkle,
heavy lidded with hunger or stupor,
dead with rejection,
ghosted with tears,
shaded with guyliner,
or frosted with burning hatred.
All that matters is that they stare
if only momentarily
into my own.
That mind jolt penetrating to the core of inspiration.
That look a month ago –
with listen and spark,
sex and magic –
has yet to be replaced or forgotten.
There are waves
of imaginary men
rolling toward us
with intended potential excitement
but they seem empty,
devoid of spark.
Aaron squared was more
than a somewhat clever joke.
Expanded healing pleasure / honest friendship,
minus the fantasy lies
that fuel countless tear stained orgasms
with an intense burst
of impossible wet dream madness;
a bruising lust which stings
while it drives senses to extremes –
a Cenobite encounter
plagued by hardships
with luscious pleasures
yet to be realized,
yet to curse or release me
through a torturous curative of transformative sex.
My lover’s name twin is sweet
and tempts me with poli-normative affection…
he shames me with his goodness
in the shadowed eclipse of my darkest desires.
His double penetrations are pure spiritual retreats
which offer to halt my advance into the endless abyss
of my deviant sex drenched day dreams.
I still struggle toward the depths
but their darkness seems twice as blinding
after his personal brand of effervescent sparks.
Written by Jason Wright
August 9, 2017
Reading old words
written by younger self
with partial memories stirred,
fleeting moments recorded,
stolen experiences
lost in time,
with these bone fragments
left behind to ponder / decipher…
Pieces of a larger whole;
impossible to imagine.
Written by Jason Wright
August 9, 2017
Her name had been Min;
that’s what she told me…
She recorded our calls
for assurance of quality…
Androgynous voice;
deceptive, adroit…
In truth she sounded
like sex-bot android…
Was she truly a person
or just a voice in the dark?
Alone in boudoir
in this farce shaded noir
all that I know is I still have my snark.
Written by Jason Wright
August 6, 2017
I thought it quite hopeless:
the sinking of sailors
this future of men
historical failures
regardless of numbers
of men you’ve seen naked
when love is your goal
then truth is what’s sacred.
You find what is right
divided your vanity
profound and forthright
provided profanity
your life can be balanced
to challenge insanity
your strife can be silenced
by licensed humanity.
Confession is destined
to threaten the legend
with ill timing rhymes
keeping time with suggestions
of paradigms mined
which cheapen perfection:
to deepen my crimes
I ask myself questions…
Can vintaged affliction
for starters be shagged?
Are satisfied victims
just martyrs in drag?
Yes what of those sailors
you suckled in waves?
That fleet of men cuddled
then left to their graves?
Each master troubled
by freedom from slaves…
Beneath the sheets struggled
bereft of enclaves.
Can seamen be free men
unshackled from lust?
Can jocks with the cocks
that tackled love, trust?
What tax unleashed
by men so deceived?
Can climax be reached
before they’re conceived?
Can we release
when these stakes seem too much?
or will we repeat
these mistakes when we touch?
Written by Jason Wright
August 6, 2017
Aching for him in
cyber-hereafter,
Waiting is cruel when
aroused by his laughter,
Innocence twisted
to meet my demands,
My lover handled
by innocent hands
committing a crime
of passion and craving,
He thinks that he kills me
but my life he’s saving,
It’s my lust that drives him
and corners him here,
He has no idea
that I’m not sincere,
He thinks me a victim
or thinks me a fool,
He’s only a pawn
providing me fuel
to achieve the experience
of realized fantasy…
Transcending world
through beautiful tragedy.
Written by Jason Wright
August 5, 2017
Secrets they’re uttering…
sound of sweet suffering;
lies so seductive
that saints die to tell them.
The sightless observers
listen to murmurs
of priests spreading rumors
that they might dispel them.
A riddle so simple
it makes your skin tingle;
symbols are sinful
for they hide the truth…
And beasts that still plague us
are priests begging nakedness;
a feast for his holiness
who only eats youth.
Written by Jason Wright
August 5, 2017