:: Article

Six Poems

By Beezle Bloom.

Disaster cannot be spelled out in Esperanto

I bleated like a sheep
Creaked like a door
to make a path towards the inside lines
of your sideshow
I watched you bathe in their tiny islands
bury the native girls first blood
crouched down you measure it
between your thumb and forefinger
your lust clearly defined by
the trail you leave behind
each time
I never paid enough attention to
the details of your itchy swinging
one day you just sewed
everything up into your
pockets so fast
leapt through my kicking screams
out to the shorelines
All that rationed hope you
shoved up my cunt
was an orchestra to help you rise above me
These days I wake up naked
And alone by the roadside vegetable stand
The one where that Russian girl got smashed to smithereens
by #23 on the football team
I staple teddy bears and breakfast strudel
to the telephone pole
I don’t know her dietary needs
but I know all ladies appreciate
A fluffy inanimate object
Battered by the north winds
Caked with saliva and gnats
And quite possibly, your cum.
I wipe this pole everyday
before I get a pint of pleased to meet you
For when
you get back
down on your knees
for me.


Don’t borrow Jesus’ Tupperware if you aren’t going to give it back

The inside of my crown antler
Houses a surgically enhanced
Church bell
From which the leggy soccer moms
sit. stare. hang upside down from
shooting spitballs and giggles
out of their nether regions
while the audience of androgynous nuns
Spoon out brands of eternity
Like Mike and Ikes to the children
Closing their eyes they dream of sucking
on a cherry flavored Almighty
Who tastes suspiciously
Like my grandmothers pink one ply toilet paper
That was never strong enough to hold
The maps of mars I created
Only in the cold, safe night
as my escape route
to block out the messages
Jesus left on the answering machine
Lambasting the old crows for
Stunting his spiritual growth
by demanding new sexual positions. sofas. rhinoplasty.
Every fiber of their express train lives
Lead them to a window in Jerusalem
Where babies are being baptized with bullets
While they stare at a chip in their nails


Beatboxing with your mother, suitcase in hand

The seasons and I have a history
I fainted dead one time in the winter
When the snow hit my eyelids so hard
Knocked me into the street like a shovel
One pint of blood five hours and counting
Till the lilacs bloom so I can drink
From the DDT
Quench my thirst and hold court
with the Harlem drag queens
Who look so vulnerable when they trip and fall
their faux mahogany holes shimmy dirt
Quarters. bottlecaps. memories.
inside my streetlight eyes
These tricks can make you breathe magic
Unhinging occurs again in the wake of
The appaloosa heat wave
My ribs turn to jelly and I have to share my skin
with the boys and sometimes
the girls
It’s an understanding that the
polyphonic air pockets
can act as a Viking shield against
my ON OFF switch.
Hindsight chases the empty overages
into a facility where
the framed brains
halt to trip and
snuff out my uncles catch basin.
His pretend belief
Of the other half of others
But not himself
has him lost again
loitering outside
The liquor store
Doing his manic bible dance
Looking for the love of each
And every
Candy coated ass
Filling up virgins like balloons,
then popping them with a pretense nobody saw coming
Except the bottom of my telescopic feet.
mama says
lie down
take these pills
he can’t eat your
Christmas smile here.


Training Day


full throttle
astro pop
breath short
sides popping
elbows interlocking
Mariachi man
pants over railing
the cross
my face
every time



Delivered Machinations

It burned to swim with you
That night in July
When your lips turned to ash
And blew away from your face
I could see you through
My goggles
I saved some of your words
To put into a jar.
            Strychnine Picnic. Highway Median
              Chardonnay. Ramones
                At least 3 beans in the salad.
Now I want you so bad
It gives me the shits
Whiskey dick and all
Even without your face paint
I’m a fiend scratching to get
Inside your landing gear
With the rest of the animals
It’s a sign
That all the holes in your body
Are aligned toward poles
Like mine
Stretched movements
Heavy fondling
And worked up torture
Are all the same
If you’re
Locked in my closet



She fell off the tightrope
351 seconds ago
becoming the last human animal
to sheathe herself in suppositions
of such high tone and belief
God almost invited her into his lap
crying only to the crescent moon
she shaped a scene of herself in mind
Hand folded an imitation of it
to sail down the Seine
her sleepy riot independently
careless to the seekers
and their numbered footsteps
who hit her stride so ferociously
a kid split in half down the block
the unexpected sequence of their
combined worldly exits blocked out
the suns appearance
briefly disbanding the nutrients
of their collective namesakes
the lingering bits scattered themselves along the plains
to become one flawless entity
in the end
their headstone simply read:
Atmospheric Wish Wash


Beezle Bloom is an American living in America, Massachusetts to be exact. She has been published in Thieves Jargon as well as Litchaos. She is a waitress at a pub and therefore hates people but loves to drink the whiskey.

First published in 3:AM Magazine: Wednesday, October 13th, 2010.