Musician, Age 25

Musician, Age 25

"He's lonely and you're a whore."
A witch in New Orleans told me.
We both laughed, 'cause we knew
It was true.
Not that we weren't friends; good friends,
Traveling to the city that care forgot
On my 21st birthday, staying in a red
Brick room with a French Quarter balcony,
Where I played guitar.
I got sick on oysters, but that didn't stop
My old man friend, 65,  from hitting
On me every fucking day...

It's been four years now, as I let him put his
Moist hands all over me; and I give his everlasting
Hard-on a hand job 'cause he loves it when
I hold his dick. Loves it more holding mine,
In so many showers we've taken together
I feel wet just remembering.

Thought I'd have to live with him when
My Parents threw me out at 24.
Let me keep my studio, but threw me out.
Out, now there's irony. I'm no gay-boy.
Then came a miracle. I met a girl.
I met two girls- her and her best friend.
They invited me in and I went in again and
Again. They bought me meals; gave me gas;
Bedded me in their dorm. Gave me whatever.
Damn, if I didn't go from whore to gigolo.
And there I play my guitar, and sing every fucking
Day. 'Cause, you know? I'm living the wet-dream.


Jameson 10-5-'15

jolt

Life dumbs down to dark

Gray Southern winter skies

Colorless crumbs for food

Bloodless afternoon belies
Energy half asleep

Like a mammal in hibernation

Until you come 

Offering me compassion

Gentle and caring from your

Embrace letting rise in me

Passion like a blazing transformer

Burning in the night 

Jack

1/10/12

Send Off

Your old guitar with its broken string
sits still in my living room
two weeks after Nashville
two weeks after we were high 
on Starr's porch and you hugged me
saying how freaked out you were
frightened like a child shaking
as I calmed you told you normal
would return as I knew it would
the day we had our send off 
the day pre-cum glistened on you
a pearl on the family jewel
offered erection for me to grasp
that pearl a slippery symbol 
of our sexuality fluid but never
getting there five years after
we first shared that pink source
of your pleasure your compass

Broken string on your old guitar
broken words that failed us
our love recedes into those 
memories of walks and food shared 
warm showers in a host of states
where we slept together naked
forgotten now as you answer my
question which of our travels did
you like best "they all had good 
and bad moments" no recollection
of standing on an overlook above
Asheville in a moment of pure 
camaraderie
discerning the waxing Moon

As you continue to gaze into the
Looking Glass be careful as you fall
deep within your mirror lie strange
experiences to shatter complacency
shatter your fragile self-esteem bending
the straight road you imagine lies
before you because your path of life
is like the road to Starr's filled 
with curves and twists that will
discomfort you ransack you just as 
we probed ourselves for seven years
from excitement to disappointment
no point in my being on your mind
swallow now that the song is over
it was a fine affair an enterprise 
of great pith and moment
of great pitch and foment
or whatever it is you recall or pluck
on the old guitar strings of your ego








Jack Jameson
 The End of 2015

song

Now there is no longer choice

No longer free will no turning back

No longer can I not be

Your lover because

More precious to me than your

Semen your sperm ejaculated hot

On my flesh still warm to my taste

Wet from your orgasm of surrender 

To me

More precious than that nectar

Are your tears

Spilled down your face from

Eyes open to me 

Naked and hurt

Pleading

For a love we already have

And that neither of us can deny

Any more than we can deny

That we breathe 

Jack 1/12

Bent (The Curvature of Space and Time)

Bent (the curvature of space and time)

Ninety-five years ago young Albert

Proved  straight lines do not exist

Space is curved as celestial bodies

Fall into one another

Since I was eighteen nine bodies

In my orbit  prove the nonexistence of

Straight men celestial or otherwise

Young Alfred's scale appeared when I was one

Of my nine men seven wed women

With seven I had sex for years

Six are fathers three I fucked

A fourth asked for it but I had no condom

Jack 4/6/'11

note: Albert= Einstein
Alfred= Kinsey

djccwbjjs

Language

Language

Humans created words and language

To extend the joy and wonder of life

Just as the denizens of caves

Painted images of aurochs bison deer

And the hands of shamans

Jack 4/5/'11

----

My Type (a work in progress)

My Type    (A Work in Progress)

Where shall I begin

Flamenco dancer

Wet dream at  thirteen

Dancing up against me

Under the live oak tree

Shaking her red ruffled dress

Stomping her feet in the grass

Until I ejaculate

The boy at  Episcopal camp

Bedding me a night of mutual

Masturbation

Pretty pearls of metaphor

And discarded innocence

Hairless chest abs of 15

Eyes of wonder skin with sheen

Scarlet blond hair delicate neck

Presenting herself to me on our bus

Across the hills of Virginia

Lucious lips invent a story of her life

A month later sweet as honey

She finishes  her virginity and mine

Melting like ice cream on the cone

Playing Chopin all passion Botticelli's

Pianist with El Greco's  fingers

Hard as his keys and as white in the moonlight

Grace as he emerges from the salt sea

As we open up ourselves on the beach

Jacksonville

Six hot weeks of nocturnes

And so they go the images of my

Memory my dreams my existential

Embodiments Afro-American to Zapotec

Not the ontology of desire

Not want not need

Now my type dives  in over our heads

Flowing with  music  penetrating with words

Jack 4/5/'11

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