Brock Hessel: Certifiable, scary-good crimes for HOOD

The Amityville Horror
filling and refilling
the gay whore
fucking with immunity
Ronald Defeo Jr.
wandered the hallways
hardened, while
rubbing himself
peered into the bedrooms
of his sleeping
parents and siblings.

Jr., a Bathhouse Betty
in flip-flops and towel
looking to blow a load
or two into Sr.
He liked daddies
mommies, sisters
and bros
Immunity whores
don’t care
laying on their stomachs
asses in air
A crime scene
the Defeo family
all face down
and bloodied
Some had it coming
some were innocent
Some had it coming—
horned up
on some trash can
Embracing the amity
of anonymity
Some don’t care,
embracing apocalypse
and a couple of
dollars more than
Flies on the faces
of orphans in Africa
Kathy Lutz shoeing
swarms of flies
out of her sewing room
I’d rather be face up
to see what Jodie the sex pig
has coming,
what this red eyed
ghost pig is sowing
Awake to feel the
green slime
Ooze out of me in a sling
In a dark room
Could I live through you
and fuck your men
and wear your clothes?
Better yet,
slice off
and slip into
your skin?
A one-woman show—
I’d take your part 
and tuck away mine
While swaying to
Goodbye Horses,
in front of the mirror you use to
take selfies
I’d picked up
what I sliced off—
literalize the fag hag
Wear your face like a
Dollar store witch mask
and continue
your selfie spam
It wouldn’t be
the perfect fit,
but it wouldn’t be a
One of your statuses did say:
“Make wallets
out of my tattooed skin
when I die.”
But being your masochist fruit
I’d rather skin myself
and have it sent to you
just to see what you would do
Please make me your new purse—
your fag bag to rock
while strutting through the doors 
of a codependents anonymous meeting
Or pin up the scraps of me left
on your bedroom wall,
amongst the pictures of your
God’s Girls bff’s
Skin them down
from the wall
in anger when they’re too far away,
too five 5 years ago
to answer your wolf
cries for help
Toss them in a basket
on the floor
to collect dust
Squirts of lotion miss the
palm of your hand,
hitting the floor nearby—
preserving nothing
The hide I’d send is nothing to the
two years worth of
dead skin cells,  
mine mixed with yours
in all the cracks and crevices
around your bed
where we slept like
If you find the rest of me
in some nearby river,
please know that
My skin’s a fruit peel—
pick away the scabs
for a juicy meal
people like to say we’re
Like brothers
But I’m your biggest fan
the madwoman 
in the attic
Let’s be
plastic fantastic
rubber baby bugger
Railing shards
of clear plastic
that looks just like
daddy’s meth
making gl
ass love all night
Pretend I’m Jennifer Tilly
if you have to
but I guess that would defeat
the purpose
I had to slash, crack
and smash my way
through a lot of rubber,
 porcelain and
 plasticized polyvinyl chloride
to get to you
to get underneath
your stripes
and overalls—
my hand-me-downs
It melts the mask
(made of
my competitors)
deeper into my pores
to know that my doll ‘d’
has been where
your flesh
coloured briefs
be be
I guess my desire for you
began before
there even was
a you
Hasbro knew I’d
have no bro
coming out with
The My Buddy Doll
the year I was born
But my buddy’s clothes are
sewn on making it
impossible to
dress him
him up as Kid
or scissor him
as we do
My buddy does
not chuckle
as I unbuckle his
Butcher knifing
(when my back is turned)
the plastic battered
wife on and in me


Brock Hessel is a poet, performance artist, comedian, and maid. He is finishing his BA in English Literature and Sexual Diversity Studies at U of T and will be starting an MA in English also at U of T in September. At Videofag, he runs a poetry cabaret called Pussy Basket. His Facebook group Social Abjects Unite was featured in Jordan Tannahill’s exhibit at the AGO last summer. His academic essays, journalism, and poetry have appeared in VOX, Hardwire, Nest Magazine, Zhush Redux, TOZ, The Gargoyle, and The Buzz.

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