Tuesday, January 10, 2017

Read or I Punch your Face - The Epileptic Vampire Anthology - Poems, Prose, Short Stories - Newamba Flamingo 2008-2017

I’ve written occasionally my whole life, mostly just for school or work, and didn’t really get into it seriously (subjectively speaking) until I came back from Britain to Florida in 2008 and used writing as therapy to deal with some personal issues I’d been facing.

While taking an English course at Manatee Community College, I was exposed to Ginsberg, Plath, and Tim Dorsey for the first time, and they inspired me to start writing poetry and stories, or at least something resembling that.

Then I found Everypoet.net, Myspace blogs, and Literotica, and posted a few pieces for the fuck of it, and things snowballed from there.

I met other writers from all over the world and was subsequently encouraged to submit to literary mags, some of which actually published me, and I had over 300 subscribers to my blogs at one point and would end up getting over a million page hits and thousands of comments, emails, and even some threats of physical violence from humans, vampires, Canadians, and aliens from other galaxies.

The most fun I had was probably getting into BTR online radio shows with 10K poets, Yossarian Hunter, Nick and Dan, Murphy Clamrod, Hijack Flash, Sigerson, Pantifesto, and, most of all, probably the best friend I made throughout the whole thing, Frankie Metro.

Around late 2010, as Myspace and Everypoet started to die, and my hatred of Facebook grew (oh, its sterility and conformity!) I decided to step back from social media and writing and got the fuck out of my gulf-side apartment where I’d been taking too many prescription meds and drinking too much and masturbating and being on the computer too much and decided to go travel the world more before I die, the earth dies, or we all blow up.

I’ve sporadically written since then, posting shit occasionally to the blog “The Meth Lab” I ran for a while with Mr. Metro and every so often sending out a harassing submission to some lit mag or another.

It recently came to my attention that Myspace removed their blog function in favor of shitty music pages no one looks at and that Everypoet also got rid of their blogs, effectively wiping much of my archive off the internet.

While I’m sure this makes some people happy, I feel it’s my duty to still harass, annoy, disappoint and amuse whomever might be goggling subjects like aliens, baboons, and buttsex, so I decided, for the fuck of it, and 7 or 8 years entirely too late, to put together a simple E-Book compilation of all my best (or worst) known pieces, re-edit some, add a few pics, and have it all one place.

In this compilation is stuff from 2008-2017, divided into categories of description, with a few unreleased pieces (that were wisely rejected by editors- the best rejection I got being from Jersey Devil Press, reminding me their submission guidelines outlaw stories involving rape, even that of cats! Touché!). I’ve also included one new and a couple fairly new pieces.

I doubt anybody is going to read or give a shit at this point, but, if you do, please download this, read it and like it, share with friends, your blog, on Torrents or wherever.

And THANK YOU for checking this out, for reading my blogs, publications and for finding my spot on the net. Out of the petabytes of info out there in the abyss of the net, I’m honored you came across mine.

And for those who don’t like it, it’s free, so go fuck yourselves! But thanks for reading anyway. Seriously.

Much love to everyone, my cat, the aliens, and all the hookers. RESPECT!


Friday, January 6, 2017

"African Safari" by Newamba Flamingo

African Safari

We were all a bunch of fuck ups.

Most of our time was spent smoking weed, playing video games, and putting our dicks in any slut who’d let us.

The majority of us didn’t finish high school, but some did or got their GED and went to community college, like a dude I grew up with, my big homie Kevin.

Kevin was a bodybuilder and street entrepreneur. He started off selling small bits of weed to friends and classmates and moved up to moving ounces and keys of coke and became a real life “Dopeman” like his favorite NWA song.

He got himself a used Benz and a townhouse near the local community college, and it became the party house, stoner central.

It started off mostly just longhairs on couches and love-seats in the living room doing bong hits, but as more and more coke came around, the people, like the drugs, got increasingly hardcore.

Like this fat, bushy mustache face cop from Palm Beach that Kevin bought most of his coke and weed from.

The cop’d come by with these Little Haiti street thugs, and sell various contraband, often automatic firearms, out of the kitchen, to other roughneck types.

But the most fucked up person to turn up had to be Ben, who had moved into one of the bedrooms.

Ben had a presence to him that sent a chill over the stoners. Whenever he’d enter the living room during bong hit sessions, everyone would just get quiet and uncomfortable.

Maybe it was his look, his eczema covered face and hands and his long black trench coats, even in the dog days of summer.

Or maybe his work. Ben was a mortician, and if you went into his room, it was like entering death.

He kept the AC in there blasting to frigid levels, and there were satanic, thrash and black metal posters all over the walls. Cannibal Corpse. Cradle of Filth. Anal Cunt.

He’d sit by his TV and computer (which were both always on) watching horror and snuff films, mass killer and serial killer documentaries and raw footage of car accidents, natural disasters, and plane crashes.

Most didn’t go in his room, nor mention their disdain of Ben to Kevin. Probably because they bought their substances from Kevin and Kevin and Ben were tight. Kevin would always call Ben “his boy” and talk about “all the shit he did for me.”

Ben didn’t leave the townhouse much, except for work, so everyone was shocked when he brought home a girl, Stella, who lived with him in the house, from the day she arrived.

Stella was petite, with a small head and boyish bowl haircut. She’d an assortment of facial piercings, big blue bug eyes and bad teeth, but, surprisingly enough, she had a decent body.

She’d walk around the house wearing only a long t-shirt and most everyone caught a glimpse of her juicy thighs and hairy pussy at some point or another.

And, as Ben got worse with the coke and hardly ever left his room, even for work, Stella started to fuck everyone, all the stoners, the cop, the roughneck street thugs, and Kevin too, though he tried to pass it off, saying how he was drunk and she’d “left her shirt on the whole time” and it “just was a couple minutes.”

She was certainly a unique person, that Stella. No one knew how she met Ben or why exactly she was with him. Maybe it was because she was also into death. Really into death. That’s all she talked about. Death. What happens when you die, ghosts, murders, psychic mediums, reincarnation, all that shit.

She only listened to hip hop, but only to rappers who were dead.

Biggie, Big L, Big Pun, Tupac, Eazy E. Nothing new, like Kanye, Pitbull or something, saying how she’d wait until he died, because then “you could truly understand him.”

Things around the house took a turn for the worse when Kevin got some PCP from this short stocky Cuban with shifty eyes and a speech impediment (who, of course, also fucked Stella).

That PCP had a really bad effect on everyone, but most of all Ben and Stella, who’d both taken quite a liking to it.

Now chain-smoking cigarettes, and having lost a lot of weight, Ben began to emerge from his room and had somehow come into possession of a baby pig. The pig would shit all over the house and he and Stella would walk around, cradling it like a baby, singing lullabies to it.

The whole house stank a musty combination of pig shit and cigarette smoke.

Worse yet, Ben would frequently interrupt bong circles, in hysterics, brandishing his Nazi paratrooper knife, threatening to cut off one of his fingers for one reason or another, although he was talked down fairly easily by fake sympathy and bong hits.

Kevin and the stoners who lived on his living room couches tired of Ben and a council convened and decreed he be kicked out of the house.

Ben left the house balling his eyes out, taking the baby pig with him, but Stella stayed.

A couple weeks later, vice cops and a SWAT team raided. Stella broke down crying and turned state.

Kevin took the heat for everything and spent $20,000 in cash on a lawyer who helped him avoid jail time with house arrest, probation, fines, and community service.

The lawyer was able to get some evidence thrown out on a technicality but had told Kevin his case was tough and that he could have gotten him off easier if he’d just raped a 10 year old girl or something like that.

Kevin was convinced Ben snitched him out and drunkenly talked of hiring someone to shoot him. Then he talked of hiring someone to beat him up with a baseball bat in the parking lot outside his job at the funeral home.

Later he claimed he’d pay an ex-hooker with HIV (who he’d met at an NA meeting) to fuck Ben without a condom.

Kevin’s troubles didn’t end. He had a botched dental operation that resulted in his jaw having chronic, debilitating pain. He tried unsuccessfully to sue the dentist.

He called me one night at 3 am from a pay phone in Key West and said he planned on buying a bulletproof vest and body armor and storming into the dentist’s office with an AK, or at least picketing out front with a big sign, telling everyone what the dentist did to him, but, ultimately, didn’t do either.

He’d moved back in with his folks, but they kicked him out as he kept accusing his sister for the diabetes he’d developed and of poisoning his food.

He then got an online TEFL degree and found a job teaching English in Madagascar.

I received a Facebook message from him a year ago saying he was in Kenya, mostly staying inside his compound, though occasionally going out on safaris.

"Bald Head Fred" by Newamba Flamingo

Bald Head Fred in camo cargos
Bald Head Fred, his Hillary for Prison 2016 tee
Bald Head Fred, El Chapo of the Viagra Cartel
Bald Head Fred, hairy man-tits, hotel balcony fits
Bald Head Fred, throwing beer bottles at feral cats
Bald Head Fred, proselytizing and cursing into humidity
Bald Head Fred, Gospels of Al Bundy Butt Sex Terrorism
Bald Head Fred, the Jesus of sodomy