crack don’t crack it


I write too much, I think I’ll just put anything in this thread to keep track of cos I don’t wanna clutter up the forum? I dunno. Here’s something about dissociation.

"In the proper place – where my beasts are bedded."
– Arthur Miller, The Crucible

nightly my father stumbles
to the stable, past the corn field to where
he keeps his boy, his monstrous body, lowing
as he pushes the jaws agape, his hip-hung love
still fatherly in its affections and tonight,
i want to ask my father a riddle
but he keeps swatting away
the body's sphinx hands, won’t stop reaching
or touching and i want to ask my father
a riddle, but he won’t stop moving
the meat around and i want to ask my father
something about a man and his limbs
in the morning but he fists
four fingers in the mane, yanks
the line of the boy's neck back, be quiet
you hear? you got to be quiet
and i've heard this voice before, in the field
in his dreams, the morning after backhanding my mother
my father, never a man for words his hands
still in some war his hands still on his son,
me standing so tall outside of myself
i am headless, the shifting and snapping of hooves
in the straw, the hands either side of the skull
as though to crush it, proximity a violence in its own right
i want to ask my father a riddle
but he can't see past the body in his hands
the quickening of limbs his cloven son
won’t stop leaping from his flesh
his monster child, of course
in the body, there is nowhere left to go –
my father's rough hands
pushing my middle-school mouth open,
the quickened silence swelling as though
his voice and violence are all
inside of me.


feeling messy, should clean this up later but I wanna get it out

in ninth grade i scrawled faggot on the dead kid's locker

even though it didn’t make the kid not dead. they say bullies just wanna make you cry but jaime i dunno what i wanted more than a fuck with you behind algebra i’m sorry i hope you know i loved you like that before i knew the word for what i was which was faggot. you were the monster at the end of the maze, faggot. my faggot. i came to your recital before i came in your mouth or into your house your parents thought i was trouble but not the kind that got down pants your dad had a heart problem where the veins were clogged and they say that don’t they, like father like son, don’t they? faggot. dear faggot with a heart problem. dear empty violin case and gap next to me in chem, dear tongue not in my mouth. dear dead boy why couldn’t you finger girls like your violin? there’s a g there too. i forget black boys die like faggots too. with a bottle of heart medicine and a slur on an empty locker.

Jacob S

this is therapy first and I don't want to diminish that at all but you have real writing talent.



bo'y be quiet
and on your knees. bo'y
box. bo'y stretches arms
and meets flesh
wall. bo'y blows and shrieks.
bruised bo'y. bo'y collects drool
in tin bo'y bleeds gums bo'y guns
down the gunner bo'y
slips heartache into
bo'y. bo'y stuck
in bo'y. bo'y gets big
and don’t know how not to be
bo'y finds a way
into other bo'ys.
lickety split bo'y. bo'y splits
and is full of sand. bo'y picks up gun
and tries to swallow
its insides. bo’y picks up gun
and tries to deep throat it. bo'y wants
to suck everything. his fingers. his father.
that cock. bo'y rubs cocks
to light. bleed bo'y
quiet bo'y
bo'y box. bo'y polishes skin
in dark. bo'y opens


i have just one photo of my brother without a tear inked under his eye

and i could say

this is because the only way his eye could bleed

was to bleed, which is to say we ink

what shame has damned. which is to say

i'm sick of the cliche.

we cannot manufacture any more sadness

for the men we unmanned. a dam

is no natural instrument to us but still

we have built them in the murky waters behind

the widening mouth

of our pupil. when you were still a pupil

and got better grades than me when your face

was still my face and not

a murderer's or a con's or a criminal's

when i rolled a joint and told you

to loosen up so you did, you are young

in this picture. we are not yet

american. i still miss your tongue

and don’t know what to do without it, i see a woman

speak spanish to her children and i want to lick it

out of her mouth. what happened to the eye

that choked the mouth? what happened to the eye

that cut the tongue? my american thug.

behind bars i wonder

if you are a poet yet.

what will we do

with our sadness.


this bed is drowned in crickets. bug boy. carnival room. circus tent where a father keeps throwing peanuts at his son. chained beast. dance! damn bear. throw him a bone at least keep a boy hungry enough and his hips will sway seduction at any price. off in a basement miles away from the rubbed crickets a goat in a basement is stuck in a bad position. off in afghanistan a man fucks his goat. the boy writes poems he didn’t think were possible, or the boy writes breath into pages. he said I’ll fuck you like a war.


3AM, lit by my laptop after i couldn’t say no


i flick through obscene stills of men
with their legs spread before i am made old
cold in my skin, these videos of amateur couples
and their love they want me to get off to
or one where the screen flashes black,
letters crawling up through skin spelling
tested, all models were tested thoroughly
tested all models,
thoroughly, models

cells in the body of the man raking nails over the skull,
thinking they must know the answer that will get them inside


what it means to love a man
through pixels, what it is to choke yourself through climax
on his hip-hung name
what must happen when the cameras run
themselves out of breath, when the red light flickers
out and the bodies must dress themselves again
when the flesh must be stepped into and buttoned to the throat

the man who must go home and lather his soapy flanks,
spin another fairytale to tell his mother this month, and not
the legend of the body he entered for gold

maybe he really did love his boy for a night
and his boy made him good, how they churned
each other into butter and the minutes stretched
into measured years of fucking and then all that was left
was something soft and wet
enough to be spread

my bedspread red
and roiling, so maybe
i knew before i knew


the myth of this pixel man
who did not take off his shoes before he came
inside me who wiped his soiled soles all up my cells,
i would tell you i remembered his name but i do not
and i will not, i would tell you the veins in his hands
kept trying to latch onto me and i shrugged
the pest-plants off

instead, i take apart my body in a diagram
show you all the flesh i flicked flies from
the hum-drum of insects hungering
for my blood

i lay there like i would
for any other beast, letting the slow animal
of my body do what it must

maybe i thought of god
when he was most inside me
or maybe i thought of nothing at all
my other man at home, the dinner he dragged
from his stomach warm and worrying on the counter

the body that writhes above my stillness,
that did not hear the field gutter, halting
below him, strange chemical, new drug
foolish fallow who did not know the stitches of flesh
could be undone, who knew already there were no words
or ring to stop the flesh doing what it will
and so bad things happen
to anyone who does not watch their drink

i could not tell you and i am sick
of trying


once, back before
i fucked any foolish enough to let me come hammering
through their blood, i began the building of my temple
in whoever let me level their flesh
all i have sought in these years of desert-
madness was one bed where no one
has fucked before, one gleaming marble column
where my man can lead me in by the neck and lay me down
by the altar, his knives unsheathed and singing
for my neck, sinews,

if you are looking for the soul
i have put it somewhere men can’t reach, i have put it
where it cannot be hanged or burned or diseased
i have learned the heart is flesh
like any other cut of meat and fails
just as faithfully, i have learned my body has become worn

you cannot spend your summers in a field
with your arms swaying above your head, blind
to the feet trampling all the crops down into earth
you cannot still expect them to yield any more hunger

O if the body were a tree let it be the hunched one
weeping all its branches into the river
O if the body were a boy let him be one who was never entered
who is all clean inside who is not meat but a child for a while longer
O if the body were a monster it would have no limits
for every head severed two more brains would bulge
and O, the body was not my tyrant


i thought for so long if enough of my men could fit inside
surely, they would find the cure, the cancer spot
to be shrunk and destroyed as though i were a fruit
with a bruise on a side i couldn't reach, as though i were one hunk
of pulsing matter with a single tumor to be severed

so thank you, to the man who begged me open my gates
and when i would not, sent his troops marching in anyway
soldier by obedient soldier wreaking havoc
in every cell that thirsted for worse, thank you
to this man and his army in my blood, the war drums
of the pulse thumping the heart into every cell-corpse

i would say when he left me i saw muhammad under the L or i knelt
behind his truck and stretched my throat to the singing blade
of dawn, that i let my sinews unravel and begged
forgiveness, that i knew in the moment i woke
without him i am all the tumor
i am bruise-boy, wound-willow


there is nothing in me that has not begged
to be rubble
see how reverent the de-
construction of flesh, see my fingers
crawling away and the arms detaching, all the marrow
undoing itself and spitting from skin, flesh beaten
into tenderness, peeling itself from the blackened
heaving lump of the heart, the ribs clattering
the matches scattered and dry as bone, my pyre
my body, my fag dangling
from the lower lip, my
funeral ash


the man chokes
his lover into oblivion on the blue light
of the screen, i push
one ice cold hand below the waistband
and quicken.