BALD JASON'S GAY GOTH BOY BLOG
A Work in Progress…Welcome Back!
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
The boy across the field behind my house
had more in common with me than
ancestors;
most other kids I played with
were related to me
but he was always my favorite
because of the way he looked at me…
Later in life he was damaged in a tragic accident
and our future conversations ceased to be.
In an unseen instant he was ripped away
although he was still alive,
and that’s more than can be said for others
lost in that era of AIDS and ignorance.
I shake the love letter postcards out of my skull
and pick one at random:
I remember his breath on my neck;
the feel of our young bodies pressed together
like the pages of a trashy tattered copy
of a seldom read incest fantasy,
which I will forever remember as the first time that I made love;
the first time that someone I loved made love to me.
His reaching, reciprocated touch was tender,
terrified and then joyous.
His movement: considerate, then brutal within the landscape
of a language that we both finally understood.
In our joining, our words from a hundred lying conversations
gained new meaning and were finally made honest.
His kiss informed me that I was never truly alone.
His cock translated every secret code
I had ever witnessed
in the eyes of countless lonely strangers.
His thrusting within me
within the home of his grandparents…
that place between sheets
and layers of blood magic was always
and will forever be sacred.
My love letter postcard memories
are holy relics
now tumbling out of my decades old skull.
Rectangular snapshots of a time before
we were allowed to be who we truly were…
In a time before he lost who he truly,
secretly had been…
A time when we had dreamed
of a very different future
that had been reflected in
our tangle of shared flesh and blood.
Written by Jason Wright
April 5, 2018
everyone looks like everyone else,
or at least
everyone I meet of late
reminds me of others I’ve known
like my life is a friendly little shop
filled to the brim with charming knick-knacks,
inspirational quotations and echos
of a hundred baristas
filling thousands of coffee cups…
where lilting Donnie Darko music plays
as Mobley Mouse’s older younger brother
sits like a ghost in the corner
of my clearly obsessed brain.
FireLion smiles as my other sibling selves
recite poetry with all the power
that we can muster.
Written by Jason Wright
March 22, 2018
In snowcapped Vermont
artists interpret MADNESS
in nine songs that jangle
pleasantly through
my short term memory,
where they fade away to nothing,
save vaguely happy impressions
of experiences I wish I could hang on to
for longer than Ambien will allow.
Xanax RATTLES in my pocket
as seemingly female
child rearing occupant
makes other passengers
noticeably uncomfortable…
the smell of talcum powder
makes me think of boyhood erections
and vaginal cancer.
The sound of “Kryptonite” comes from
3 Doors Down
and I’m dragged back to San Francisco
drunken backseat passenger ride
from one unknown location to another.
THE MAN beside me is wearing my black clothing,
my leather collar,
while I am wearing someone else’s dress…
What ever happened to that Dorothy looking shit?
So intimate to see him wearing my goth rocker drag
while I feel the cool autumnal chill
on unwieldy knees which have never felt more naked.
…My Head Is Spinning…
Gay gangster rap pours into my brain
as latex allergy flashback rips me in half
on preacher boy’s beautiful blonde cock….
and that last time was totally worth it.
The Midrin has thankfully done it’s ruby stained work;
Thank you Peter Murphy (The Scarlet Thing is actually in me)
and I’m dancing at the Kit Kat Klub
where all orientations
are surprisingly segregated
when angry heterosexual cis-woman
calls me a faggot
before I turn to make out
with her stupidly aroused boyfriend
just to spite her.
Off the train and I stop at random village pharmacy
for cough drops
before Jumpin’ Jack Frost
tells me we’re done:
just 2 more meetings and out…
I’m lucky it’s still Tuesday
because I’m gonna need a drink.
“Do you want to begin?”
Back in the dress I wore
so preacher boy could see me naked,
and I have no idea that 18 years later,
on the opposite side of the country,
I’ll still be scrawling about him singing
“Bewitched, Bothered & Bewildered”,
“When You Wish Upon a Star”
and assorted unspeakable lyrics
that he traced across
my unguarded vulnerable ambition.
This part sucks
but it’s just a draft
and doesn’t need to be as perfect
as Cocaine Sex in
countless naked backroom dance parties…
bodies writhing in dark congress,
riding waves in darkened corners –
pain, disappointment, lust & loneliness
expressed in acid light,
opium torture and heroin bliss.
Feed me water.
Slake my thirst.
Let them drink wine!
Just give me cum, prayer, piss and whiskey.
Written by Jason Wright
March 6, 2018
This night is as queer as
the gay mohawked punk
who complimented my jacket
on my way to the A train
in the village,
only the night isn’t actually half as interesting.
The asshole sitting next to me
has boundary issues
and a fur lined hat
that only Putin could love –
he also talks loudly in Russian
to his imaginary friends.
How have I lived this long without JeffisHe?
This express train
is running far too locally.
Russian weirdo rips his top
and snaps his fingers on nipples
as orange as Trump’s face.
“Smile Bitch”
His sick room gas mask
is the perfect touch
and brings everything together
in apocalyptic chic.
“Now runaway.”
His stripey pants replacement
smells better but transmits plague
as if it’s a rebel yell
reaching across the air waves
to stifle, strangle, promise and repeat.
My reviews are honest but petty…
street queer deserved better.
Written by Jason Wright
March 6, 2018
The beautiful savage
drifting in the back of my mind
is nearly forgotten
beneath ginger dreams
and transgender crushes.
“Everybody knows the boat is sinking”
but if I’m not there to witness it…
does it capsize and submerge
or does it merely fade away?
Kate Bush struggles to reel me back in,
but seductive as she is
I have far too much to do and explore
to immediately surrender to her siren sway.
And yet I want to return
and travel through those fictional waters,
which slowly swallowed me whole
a mere decade before.
Ten years ago and so much has happened
but an unexpected blessing of chance has allowed my survival
that I may reencounter that phantom vessel;
to finish the cycle which began before my awareness &
to finally bring my drowning to completion.
Written by Jason Wright
February 27, 2018