BALD JASON'S GAY GOTH BOY BLOG
A Work in Progress…Welcome Back!
Write for retirement;
just at your leisure.
Write for requirement
or write for just pleasure.
Write without warning
for real life and poetry.
Write about mourning
or strife (if unknowingly).
How is it my choice
supported thy fighting?
How is it my voice
(distorted by writing)
is what liberates me
when lies often do
more than castrate me
when lies are the truth?
Written by Jason Wright
September 12, 2019
Confusing DILF picture
adds layer of lust
to bruising filth mixture;
betrayer of trust
who back in the past
when present was future,
through lack of the ask
cast gent as abuser.
*
Doctored exuberance
from strangest of men.
I was awkward pubescence
and patience by then.
My doctor was present
which deftly he used.
Doctor was pleasant
which left me confused.
More than one patient;
Jason inside me.
More than one statement
was latent inside me.
And doctor was plural;
what’s quizzically true
is that doctor was neural
but physical too.
More than one practice.
More than one patient.
More than one mattress.
More than one Jason.
Deranged dereliction
of duty imbued
with strange contradictions
that strangely are true.
Innocent action
or wholly obscene?
Fact that this fraction
unholy was clean.
With no penetration
in sterile space.
And no abdication
of crime or disgrace.
With no policed questions
the proctors undress me.
Priests at confessions;
the doctors molest me.
Doctors are judged
through initial neurology.
The awkward begrudged
judicial apology.
*
And DILF in the picture
looks back from the past
and I am not injured
but was I the last?
And was I the only
or was I just lucky?
With no testimony
at least I’m not bloody.
Written by Jason Wright
August 12, 2019
Last night it rained
I slept in my blasphemy.
Woke up with pain
from dreams of my family.
Choked on the truth
as I ran to the freezer.
Spoke to my youth
who did nothing to please her.
Snuggled with ice
and disguised my not knowing.
Struggled to rise
and devise plan for growing.
Buckled with verbs
and humbled by breathing.
Struggled with words…
Struggled with meaning.
Written by Jason Wright
August 4, 2019
I’m making this rhyme
to fight what I squander.
Taking this time
to write and to ponder.
Grasping suggestions
condoned by the lawless.
Asking these questions
alone in my solace.
Alone in our room
we fill now with others.
Cologne from my groom
distilled from our summers.
History haunts me
for task is a demon.
Mystery wants me
to bask in my freedom.
But I make it hard
although it’s quite easy.
For I am the the starved
and I could fight greedy.
Could drown in the drink
and choke on the meaning.
Backdown what I think;
provoke quarantining.
Could flail to shake crimes
twitch slake my incense.
Could fail to make rhymes
which make any sense.
Could fail in bestowment
to get what I need.
So I’ll take this moment
to see I succeed.
Written by Jason Wright
August 4, 2019
We have quandaries.
We have schools.
We have each other
and our family jewels.
We have boundaries
and we have rules.
And we may teach our brothers
to swallow our tools.
But we are together
and we are united.
Our bliss makes us better
and keeps us delighted.
We’re not under pressure
and we are not frightened.
We’re wonder and pleasure
and all of it heightened.
Written by Jason Wright
August 3, 2019
I spoke to my boyfriend
and three of my exes….
I broke through the wasteland
of various sexes…
Left message for fourth
with no one inside me…
Saddled and spurred
with no one to ride me.
Written by Jason Wright
August 2, 2019
I want to kiss him
and taste of his lover.
I must abstain
if I want the other.
All taste the same;
the lie that I tell.
I know desire
will send me to Hell.
I want to read
and weep through the diction.
Allow me to breathe
and keep to the fiction.
Allow me to feel
all the lies that we tell.
Allow me to heal
and despise what we sell.
Allowances given.
Allowances taken.
From what is allowed
we may not awaken.
What is allowed
may infest us inside.
What is allowed
would best be denied.
Written by Jason Wright
August 2, 2019
There
at night, in the illumination
of contrasting partnership norms,
be it the seemingly liberated,
“Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” policies
of sadly beautiful Palm Springs marriage,
or sexless lesbian bed victims
who either choose to deny their ghostly existence
or claw their way back toward sensation…
There
in the power bottom afterglow
of newly confirmed relational status
and haunted by parallel love lives
which will echo
and color the weeks that follow…
leaving overstimulated,
near madness, hyper inspired
unanswered inquiries
and nearly celibate nightmares…
There
under the weight
of all that came before
is where we must truly define ourselves as WE – as I
reverate all possibilities
and all combinations.
Written by Jason Wright
July 24, 2019
Holding him up,
bare chested,
helping him piss
with as much dignity
as we could manage
in his drunken confessional state…
“Is that guy really your type?”
His dream was an unsuspected plot twist
which he felt had ruined his character;
an angry embarrassing accusation
which left me flattered, confused
and deeply protective.
His dream inspired a jealousy
that I couldn’t have fathomed.
He never told me the details
and I never asked.
This early stumble,
an unexpected crucible
which allowed for nothing less than
hot hard facts
inspired by revelatory dreams
which haunted us both.
My ego suggests his version of the truth
might have been why
he drank to such excess that night…
but who am I kidding?
That’s what alcoholics do.
And yet his light of day
honesty united us more than
any nighttime weaknesses
could have shattered us…
transforming anger into respect,
confusion into admiration…
and an unexplored threatening lust
into the building blocks
of a friendship long shadowed by
an insistent innocent eroticism.
Written by Jason Wright
May 23, 2019
For Bryan
From January 1994 until September 2012
I used to go dancing once or twice a week.
Well, there was about a year in there
that I didn’t go as often.
I was in a relationship and I felt like going dancing
was like stepping out…
because the way I danced
usually led to men dancing with me.
Later, I realized that dancing gave me joy,
and I resumed my weekly routine.
But in the last 6.5 years I’ve only
danced a handful of times.
The change happened when I moved to New York.
My mode of transportation changed from private
to public…
and getting around all dolled up
became a slightly more frightening
experience.
In 4 months I’ll be 45 years old
and maybe 45 year olds don’t go dancing anymore.
People always tell me I look younger,
and usually I feel younger too…
but lately I’ve been feeling old.
Death has taken far too many friends and idols
in the last several years for me to pretend that
the time I have left won’t just continue to dwindle.
I tell myself I can decide to change.
To change back.
But I remind myself that I need to be out tomorrow
and Monday
and I should take things slowly.
And I know that I’ve somehow gotten old,
or at least that my thinking has changed over time,
that I think in responsible bursts
before everything blurs
and diminishes…
fading away into dust.
Written by Jason Wright
April 14, 2019