BALD JASON'S GAY GOTH BOY BLOG
A Work in Progress…Welcome Back!
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
Your music makes me sad
like an echo from the past…
You were queer
and in my dreams
you were here
beyond extremes…
At least my memory means
that our encounters always last.
You ghosted through my city
like I wasn’t even here,
like you’re gone but you are always
somehow more than what I fear.
You hosted my obsessions
and inspire even more,
and I am just the sum
of what our passions wrought before.
Written by Jason Wright
May 20, 2018
1
Pain radiates
through smoothly shaven flesh,
Unseen skull
in burning wrapping paper,
I skitter to share
what it seeks to prevent…
The years are a bitch
and I ache to betray her…
For words in this gloaming
are enabled by night…
Even when tinged
with the heartbreak of sorrow…
Thoughts freely roaming
until morning sight…
Might seem unhinged
come the light of tomorrow.
2
There was a morning, a day, a hot afternoon
where I thought my life would change…
where my wandering
had finally altered my direction…
but it wasn’t meant to be.
Perhaps every day is like this for others…
but the day I am thinking of,
the day of sex before the sermon,
I believed that I’d finally arrived
somewhere I was meant to be,
only to learn across the years
that I would seldom ever return,
and I wish I would have known
how special that time was,
how precious those moments.
It’s altogether different
yet somehow the same
when watching you
watching whales…
when the music you share
nearly kills me with it’s mournful beauty –
giving me fever chills and death spasms
before my fever breaks
and I’m allowed to dance
in the trance of our shoegazing
dream pop.
In the fever
all that could comfort me
was the seemingly old
but younger woman
with the ghost on the porch…
An echo of that first reading
joining my pain across two different eras.
3
The first would have been discovery,
and on the very brink of puberty
as I stumbled through that sea of trees
to find a validating fiction.
And now the feeling: brotherly,
yet still cherry stink of nudity
as I’m humbled by our deities
to bind an animated friction.
And the proof
it is not fair
but the truth
is he’s out there
begging for money,
trading sex for drugs hungry
while the whales circle round us
tasting sweetly table scraps.
And the lie
if there is one
is that life
is a shotgun
because life hasn’t drowned us
baby please don’t go like that.
Written by Jason Wright
April 19, 2018
For Sean (Mobley) and Steve and Anthony.
Our shared experiences in the past
seem to mean nothing to those reflected
in the world’s window screen.
I watch them all
hoping for recognition / reconnection
while sister hurts and Sean struggles.
Steve is happy listening to sad songs
which make me weep.
I want to tag myself in a million posts
in every place I’ve ever gone.
Fuck this song.
Fuck this.
Life changes us
and you’re a stranger that I once knew
or at least I thought I did.
I have pictures but they don’t seem to matter;
they don’t seem nearly as real as yours.
I tell you the secret in the past
but you are blind.
I dive for real love
at the beach house
with men that I trust
while Lauren Moloko Hatchie St Vincent
(actor out of work in the radio Dept.)
decides the time is now
to try to speak your true name
amidst disarray antidotes,
preoccupations with daysleepers
and their creation…
and now the meaningful
nonsensical rhyming must begin
as we fade away to nothing important:
I get a little blue
as I listen to your tunes
as I Facebook stalk your trek
across the place I never knew…
And Sean is turning tricks
paying rent by sucking dicks,
and nothing really matters
if our lives are candle wicks.
But I want to visit woman
with the ghost out on the porch…
want to live my life again
when I am out of sorts….
want to read of witches
as my fever threatens soul…
Your aura ghost echo
(lost orca in ghetto)
and only espresso
can make us both whole.
Written by Jason Wright
April 19, 2018
In the office
in the freshly minted safe space,
Tina Fey’s lesbian twin
speaks to me of exposure exercises,
the New Yorker, sexual disconnection
& other terrifying topics that
(to my credit)
only momentarily make me think
about hurting myself.
Intense.
But even in the shadow of all of this trauma
Bright Young Man
Scrubbed & Gleaming
catches sight of my mostly random hotness
and the moment of recognition / Attraction / Shared Experience
SURGES <——————————————-> BETWEEN US
signals sent and received
with no conscious effort:
A sign post to lead me back into the light.
“And they say it’s not natural!”
Written by Jason Wright
April 12, 2018
The gentleman next to me
is charming in his quietude…
when he speaks he is kind
with some type of speech trouble –
says he’s headed down to lower level of Hell,
Beaver, near Wall Street.
He wears a wedding band
made of gold
on his left hand –
his right hand looks broken
while the left hand holds a dusty old flip phone…
Aaron hands me his fancy bells & whistles
and I smile as I read about the war
Sue is waging on my behalf:
Aaron loves me.
Written by Jason Wright
April 11, 2018