If I Give My Confession (content) (revision)

[heslopian]

Does that mean that I’ll run a tube from the car like Anne?
Or bake my head in the oven like Sylvia?
Is that what it means to peel back a life—
to slice off the skin—
does confession mean death?

The first two lines are brilliant, though as I adore both Sexton and Plath I may be a wee bit biased. Nevertheless, the central question here is a very potent one, which I've pondered many times myself, and you convey it in a concise yet powerful way.

I write about my feet twisted like taffy.
I write about the blood streaming from my face.
I write about the mother who had to fuck everything
who moved to add some warmth to her life.

The first line reminded me of a bit from Anne Sexton's Red Roses, where the little boy's leg is compared to liquorice. Instead of "had to fuck," would "fucked" have sufficed? I would have removed the second "who" and replaced it with "and," as I don't like the repetition, and is "some" required?

I write about discovering there is a God,
to feeling power move my body—
like a Shaker—
like an old-time-fall-on-the floor-rattlesnake-Pentecostal.

Is "there is a" needed? I would have written, in lieu of your second line, this: "feeling the power shake my soul." That may be a personal thing, but I think your version is slightly too long.
The last two lines are dynamite, so evocative and strong. They made me think of a Deep South sermon or revival meeting, a ramshackle church packed out with rednecks, trailer trash and such, as they belt "Oh Happy Day" and fall on the floor.

I write about hearing the voice of God
and not being nuts.

I write about empty swings,
bowls of fruit with marshmallows,
and prophecy.

I like the imagist twang to the penultimate two lines. Those "empty swings" and "bowls of fruit" held a quiet power which I really enjoyed, and they juxtapose well against "prophecy."

I write about writing. I hate writing
about writing. I hate reading
about writing, or memory, or dreams, or any fucking cliché
television drama disguised as poetry.

I can empathise with this. I love reading poems about the craft, but hate composing them myself, as they always turn out cheap and blase, or at least so I think.

But hypocritically, I keep writing
about the crank that removed my friend’s eyes,
replaced them with black glass,
turned his blood to sludge
even while his brain vibrated
harmonic strings

I liked the contrast between "blood" and "sludge" and "harmonic strings." An elegant mix of the grand and grotesque. One minor quibble: the syntax of the latter phrase in those closing lines: "while his brain vibrated/harmonic strings," sounds a bit clunky in my opinion.

his girlfriend with so many needle holes
she had to shoot-up between her toes,
slumped over like a broken doll,
dribbling vomit down her chin.

Again, the syntax sounds a bit clunky here. Would it work better like this?:

his girlfriend riddled with needle holes,
reduced to injecting between her toes,
lay slumped in the corner like a doll,
dribbling vomit down her chin.

The doll simile has been done to death, but you somehow make it original here, I think because you explain it so well ("slumped"/"dribbling vomit down her chin") and therefore it seems genuine.

I write lies that might be true, but
they’re still lies.
Memories that aren’t as
clear as I remember them
but are somehow more true.

This reminds me of a dedication Stephen King made in his novel It , which said that fiction is the truth inside the lie.

There were no sunsets.
There was a pink bleed
coming out of the corner of my eye.
There were no conclusions.

"There was a pink bleed/coming out..." doesn't really make sense. Would it work better as: "A bright pink stream/flowed free from my eye"? Of course this edit is quite subjective, but I think that something of that sort would serve the purpose.

Fifteen years, and there are still no conclusions.
The villagers didn’t hate you.
They didn’t wave your heart around on a spit:
You weren’t important enough for that.

Is the second line a reference to the last verse of Daddy by Sylvia Plath? The last lines seem a tad too long. Might "they never stuck your heart on a spit," and then, in lieu of the forth, "why would they bother?" work at all?

These are my words, my time, my blood, my spit—
these are my lies, not the truth.

"My time" doesn't seem necessary. All three together - "my time, my blood, my spit" - lengthen the sentence beyond what's needed (IMHO).
For me, the poem ends at this point. The final couplet is extraneous, at least from my point of view, and is a wee bit too blunt in hammering home your message.

This is my confession.
Now fuck off!

This is much more aggressive than your usual work, but none the worse for that. I enjoyed it very much, partly because of my passion for the subject matter, but also because it's just well written.