The moments between us are filled with such stillness…
Cherished, Exchanged, Sharing our stories…
With chapters in common and frank allegories…
He gives it to me and I’m touched without touching…
He whispers to me and I’m flushed without blushing…
He leaves me with passion transcended to form…
The canvas is thunder; his heart is the storm.
The sea of emotion by these colors rendered;
the work of a man who never surrendered,
The man in the painting who’s insides are bruised…
Is haunted by faces that used and abused.
Some of the faces are drugs that he’s taken…
Others are ghosts that still leave him shaken…
Some are illusions, Others invented, Some are the sins that he’s never repented.
Others are faces of boys he’s not dated…
He thought that he had but they really translated into nights meaning nothing except what he’s losing…
For riches imagined and instrument moving…
The face is the horror of waiting untasted…
The face is my mirror…
The face of time wasted.
Written By Jason Wright August 14, 2011
For: Johnny Vaughn, who’s artwork inspired it.
Johnny V passed away a little over 6 years after I wrote this. He was a caring friend when I deeply needed one. He and I had shared history but his adventures had been with people who were only ever on my periphery and I cherished each and every story that he gifted me with. He was also a brilliant painter and gave me the work that inspired this poem, though I also put in as many references to his tales that only he might recognize. I’m gratified that he read this and had such a positive reaction.
Edit: 08-12-26 – This was serious. This was a signpost that I followed, which changed my entire life. 4 months later I was in a relationship. 5 or 6 months later I had moved and had a new job. Less than a year after that I was moving to New York. I also got back into therapy around that time and I’ve worked at it ever since, with a lot of hard earned progress.
No whisper, plea, cock or song has penetrated deeply in ever so long not enough to be felt Just the hand he’s been dealt The boy in the shiny black dress.
With eyes made of riddles telling lies like they’re gospel the boy is a wizard who needs to be seen.
In the lacy black darkness those eyes hide a hardness that the frilly black silk tries to harness obscene.
My words make no sense in the light of such madness The light of the day drives dreams dripped in sadness.
But what of the truth in the dark of such magic The night of such lies is what makes us both tragic.
And there is no song, cock, plea or whisper can charm the illusion behind the boy’s zipper not enough to be felt Just the hand he’s been dealt The boy in the shiny black dress.
