Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts

Friday, January 6, 2017

"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

Monday, August 8, 2016

"One Night in Bangkok" by Newamba Flamingo




No more popping pills

Here they’ve traded ulcers and commutes
for tiki temples and tire fire sunsets

Krung Thep
Soi Cowboys with shiny new teeth
HiSo(s) with two right hands of Terminal 21

Here we got all the latest trends in coconut oil colonoscopy

Here we have dreams of soapy massages,
Australian ass crack, and true arhats

Here Bangkok narrow streets
are water buffaloes in Issan

Asoke!
Bangkok BTS, feel the devil, hope it's a She
Phoelchit!
Bangkok BTS, bored to the Go Go
Chitlom!
Bangkok BTS, levitate, levitate thee
Siam!
Bangkok BTS, Here the dialect is a bar fine

Here there is no God
we seek the new Seth Warshavsky
or Marilyn Manson
maybe a recovering Mormon
or some other fallen star

Here there’s no God, but there’s bars
Oh the bars, they got Tequila shots, but no Tila

They got Tilaks and some smoking hot honeys

They got coyotes and horndogs
those crotch sniffers cold canvassing carpets

They got surgical masks and food stalls
spicy smells and papaya salads,
banana roti(s), emojis and part-time palm readers

They got
Laotian club kids
the only ones
who can truly relieve your resting bitch face

"Mmmm, Baht Baht!"


“Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm, Baht Baht...“

Here there are fantasy cockroach leagues
Klong Toey caravans beckoning sunburn,
Saan phra poom purges of
youngsters playing badminton in Donald Trump masks

Here
street corner dildo police publicly piss test the masses

Here there are 35 degrees of heavily veiled women

Here Colonel Vikorn has lookouts on the prowl for handys and Brexits

Here
there are violent gangs of post-midnight ladyboys
plaguing Pattaya,
fucking up Dutch tourists, roughing their shit
Tuk Tuk taxi drivers on about Obamacare pre-ops
Tuk Tuk taxi drivers
planning on planting pipe bombs at Siam Paragon

(Mr. 303 voice) Listen man:
You want a blowjob at the massage parlor, a cunt punt, or a fist full of yaba?
(a twenty year stink in the Bangkok Hilton or twenty thousand farang Franklins, motherfucker!)



Yesterday’s Bangkok Post:
Seventy Two Twitter Users Protest Koh Pee Pee Midnight Screening of new Ghostbusters

这里有
a new Fat Joe, brass knuckles, and a high wai for the Walking ATM
这里有
lotus flower riots, cheap booze, cough syrup coups,
red shirts, re-used condoms and live ammunition shutdown options

(now let’s see what Owen Wilson has to say about that, shall we!)

Saturday Night, Nana Plaza:
Thunderstorm MILF, the short time queen,
silky brown skin
Cambodian butt cheeks encased chocolate thong lo
berserk it, work it, twerk it, bitch
90 Baht, 80 Baht, 70 Baht
Led Zeppelin, buttrock, and Britney Spears


Monday Night Karaoke:
This girl is poison

Tuesday Night:
Thunderstorm MILF in Sukhumvit, street-side
straight up grabbing random tourist man-ass

Make me wanna ask that slap attack monk
He who slap attacked that cracker tourist on a train:
“So why is it okay for a woman to just go up and grab a random dude’s ass? How is he any less violated?”

And the monk might or might not answer:
“Back in the Tsunami of 2004, there was a man peacefully walking down the beach alone as the first big wave was approaching the shore. People started yelling out to him, warning him, imploring him to flee to safety. The man looked over at them, confused, unsure as to why they were so panicked. Then suddenly the massive wave engulfed him.”

Me:
“Did a hooker just grab his ass prior to that?”

The Monk:
“No.”

Me:
“I fail to see the correlation or logic.”

The monk:
“You seek logic. The wave does not.”

สวัสดีสวัสดีสวัสดี












Sunday, January 10, 2016

Wasted Lanza

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Friday, October 23, 2015

Glasgow Gidget



"Glasgow Gidget" by Newamba Flamingo

Glasgow Gidget lass she had a piss on the building society front anti automatic door didn't open @nytime that cold night, Glasgow Gidget, her Cradle of Filth, Glasgow Gidget her ghost in the fog, Glasgow Gidget her vomit on the street, Glasgow Gidget her broken fingers and cockroaches in the kitchen, Glasgow Gidget, her Royal Bank of Get to Fuck, Glasgow Gidget, fifty pence fuck all to Paisley, Glasgow Gidget, taking the piss, Glasgow Gidget, Glasgow Gidget, Glasgow Gidget in Shawlands on Segways wearing green hit the pavement pure drive-by boomerang attacks on Celtic supporters, Glasgow Gidget in Ibrox on skateboards wearing blue hit the pavement gyrating axe answer attacks on Rangers supporters, Glasgow Gidget cow knows where Maddy is, aye, Glasgow Gidget on pogosticks pipe bombs in confession booths, Glasgow Gidget the Gordon in Brown, Glasgow Gidget sees ya lochness monster locusts in every lorry cockpit, Glasgow Gidget spontaneous cricket bat outbursts, Glasgow Gidget, tuberculosis in the call centre, Glasgow Gidget, allah youse, Glasgow Gidget in wee hooses, Glasgow Gidget cannae ya cunts, Glasgow Gidget in a gondola on the River Clyde

Tuesday, October 6, 2015

The Rejected Writer


“The Rejected Writer” by Newamba Flamingo

Miles Chester’s stories and poems had been rejected by all the small press magazines he read. And every single response, every single rejection letter was a form letter. Never once did he get a personal response from the masses of editors he'd sent his work.

And why not? His cover letters were personal. He'd praise the magazine, mention specific pieces, writers he enjoyed. He'd address the editors by name and even request feedback. But none ever came. Always it was the same form letters. Over and over again.

Following each rejection, he'd drink vodka to dull the pain. Sometimes he'd snort bath salts and sit alone in his ground floor studio apartment, on the mattress on the floor, watching infomercials all night and listening to his next door neighbors, that young Mexican couple with the crying baby, scream and curse at each other in Spanish.

Rejections and noisy neighbors aside, Miles often had trouble sleeping at night. He'd stay awake, lying in bed, dreading waking up in the morning to go to his job at the call center, where his bosses timed his toilet breaks and he had to repeat the same scripted greetings and responses to the angry voices in his headset.

Miles was happiest when he was writing. And when he was writing, he was writing. He'd slave over his compositions tirelessly, in front of his computer screen, until the small hours, editing and inspecting every last word. Then he'd fire off submissions to as many places as he could and hope that maybe, just maybe, he'd get finally get published and earn his big break.

But the end results were always the same. Form rejection after form rejection. And the more and more he got, the more disillusioned he became. His dreams of being the next John Cheever, Chuck Palahniuk or Raymond Carver dissipated further with each letter.

Little by little, he started to hate all the magazines he previously liked. The cute authors with their sharp wit and incomprehensible allegory! Their stupid little stories nobody other than a pompous critic could enjoy! And those oh-so clever poets and their overly metaphorical poems that no one ever really understood but somehow found so brilliant...

After receiving four form letter rejections in one day, Miles stood naked in front of his mirror that night, tears streaming down his face, and his hatred toward the small press boiled into full blown rage.

His body began to shake as he thought about the dictionary abuse by some of these writers, especially the “clever” poets. Like how many people actually use words like “mellifluous” anyway?

Damn them and damn their narcissistic diatribes! What good was poetry and stories that made no sense!? It suddenly dawned on him that most of the bullshit he had read in small press magazines was merely smug attempts by worthless authors at making themselves look smart.

Damn them! Miles thought, slapping his bathroom mirror lightly. What about his genius? Why shouldn’t he be heard? Why was it that everyone else gets published? Damn them! Damn them all, Miles thought, as he slapped at his bathroom mirror harder and harder...

Damn them all with their academic, look at how great I am writing! Damn their worthless Pushcart nominations! Damn every writer and his or her pithy bio and those annoying lists of places they've been published! What a bunch of phonies! No wonder it’s the “small” press! No wonder nobody reads these magazines! They all suck!

Miles then realized he’d been now punching his bathroom mirror and that his right fist was covered in bloody glass shards.

Miles saw himself hyperventilating in the shattered mirror and decided it was time to exact revenge and concurrently move beyond the incestuous small press world and really get himself noticed.

He’d recently read online about a convention, a gathering of the small press, that'd be happening in a couple weeks, only an hour away from where he lived. There, nearly every editor from every magazine that'd rejected him would be in attendance. What's more, their pictures and names were up on the website.

His plan began to materialize. He would visit the convention, with an M16, and shoot as many people as possible and then himself. But beforehand, he'd send a compilation of his writings to news agencies, big magazines, publishing houses, and popular blogs. Finally, after completing his mission, he'd be heard!

It wasn't the first time he'd plotted a killing spree. He'd done so in high school, inspired by Columbine. He’d thought up a similar attack against the jocks who'd terrorized him and his friends, but his friend who'd planned it with him chickened out, so they didn't go through with it...

Miles always had a fixation on spree killers. Sometimes he didn't agree with their motives, but he respected their courage and how they were able to make themselves heard. When he wasn’t writing, he’d usually be spending hours online researching mass killings.

He particularly admired those who’d been able to kill more than 20. Anything under 20 kills he often wasn’t too impressed by, except for Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold, due to their teamwork, charisma and meticulous planning. (He’d even signed an online petition demanding “the basement tapes” immediate public release…)

Though he didn’t care much for racists or politically motivated rampage killers like Baruch Goldstein, Dylann Roof, or Nidal Malik Hasan, probably his all-time favorite spree killer was Anders Breivik, due to his 77 kills, and use of both guns and explosives.

At number two was Seung Hui Cho for his high kill count and how badass it was that he’d chain-locked the exit doors to prevent “those spoiled brats'” escape, and that he’d sent an awesome video manifesto to the media, which Miles had watched over 100 times on YouTube.

He also quite liked Adam Lanza and felt Lanza didn’t get the respect he deserved among mass killers. Lanza was a writer and a student of mass killings, even editing Wikipedia pages and keeping a massive mass killer spreadsheet. Miles admired that and admired Lanza’s choice of targeting an elementary school, knowing it’d generate more press.

Rounding out his top ten were Martin Bryant, the perpetrator of the Port Arthur massacre; George Hennard of the Luby’s Cafeteria massacre; James Huberty of the McDonald’s massacre (enjoy your Happy Meal, motherfuckers! he’d always think while watching news footage of that one); the “DC Snipers” John Allen Muhamad and Lee Boyd Malvo; Woo Bum-kon, the kooky South Korean policeman; and Charles Whitman of the University of Texas shootings.

He also kinda liked T.J. Lane for his antics in the courtroom, especially the riff to his victims’ families about jerking off with the hand that killed their sons. What a laugh riot! And he loved Jiverly Wong's confession letter: "I am Jiverly Wong shooting the people..." That always cracked him up. He gave Robert Hawkins style points, too, even though he'd only killed 8 people...

Miles decided their way of making history would be his way. So he went to the gun store and bought a fully automatic assault rifle and plenty of ammo. Then he went to the army surplus store and bought some combat boots and fatigues.

When he got home, he found the movie "Taxi Driver" playing on cable. After watching it, he took a piss and stared into his reflection in the bends of his bloodied, shattered bathroom mirror and decided to shave his head into a mohawk, like the movie's protagonist, Travis Bickle.

Then he listened to Pantera's "Vulgar Display of Power" on his phone and tried to sleep, but couldn't, so he read "Catcher in the Rye" and thought about Mark David Chapman and wrote a quick poem about how Chapman should have shot Yoko, too, and sent the poem off as a submission to "Poetry Magazine", "The New York Quarterly", the "New Yorker" and even Yoko's publicist just for shits and giggles.

The next day Miles quit his job and spent the couple weeks before the convention preparing, putting together manuscripts of his writing, doing push-ups in his apartment and target practice at a local shooting range.

He repeated his routine of watching "Taxi Driver", listening to Pantera, and reading "Catcher in the Rye" every night. Every night he'd also write a poem about a different spree killer.

Finally the big day came. He was so amped up the night before that he only slept for an hour or so and when he woke up, he had a touch of vertigo, but, while taking his morning shower, he felt a tranquility and sense of calm he’d never had before.

After dressing up in his army fatigues, he grabbed his supplies, and headed out the door. Before getting into his car, he put on a pair of aviator sunglasses and dropped several packages of manuscripts into a mailbox.

He peeled out of his building's parking lot and drove to the convention. On the way there, he maintained the speed limit, listened to Pantera, and thought excitedly about how a movie might be made about him and his writings and wondered which directors and actors would be involved.

The convention was to be held at a hotel downtown. But when he arrived to the hotel lobby, carrying a duffel bag, the young lady at the reception desk eyed him curiously.

She asked him if she could help him and he asked her where the convention was. She warily pointed him to a conference room down the hall. Without responding to her, he turned and began to walk in its direction.

As he neared the room, he noticed there were only middle aged men hanging around outside the conference room's doors. They all had on three piece suits and a lot of them had slicked back hair. None of them looked like writers or the pictures of editors he saw on the website.

As he drew closer, a couple of the middle aged men went inside and, from behind where they'd been standing, he saw a sign that read: “Rich Dad, Poor Dad.”

Dejected, he thought for a second of carrying out his plan, going in there and opening fire, but he decided against it. Instead, he went back to his car and drove home.

When he got home, he logged onto the Internet and tried to check the convention page, but when he typed the address, all it brought up was a blank window, containing an Error 404 “Page Not Found” message.

Monday, November 15, 2010

Streets of the Pan-Americano Nightmare I. II. & III. OF VIII.




for: Marko X

I. THE PAN-AMERICAN HIGHWAY TO SUCCESS AND PERSONAL GROWTH

There are one million
salmon-colored skulls
that live in the folds
of silver hands-

golden brain matter
where gold matters in the darkest reaches...

New age tragedies
are playing out in my nightmares
& my insecurity
is making a mule ofambition-
smuggling the "goods"
through a traffic tunnel from
immediate family
to ancestral pre-conception.

"HICE CHINGAL!"
such breeding is a question mark that has bent itself
into an obtuse angle
standing next to a sign
that says:
REST STOP

The theories on virtue & free death
are being smuggled in
from a cartel of Nihilistic
endeavors.

The words:
"Beware wronging the hermit
&
if you wrong him, kill him."
are being melted
in a silver spoon.

A sense of overpowering lust
is being loaded into
a hypodermic
& slowly
inserted into the varicose
veins of a distant future.

I wake up w/
the overwhelming sensation
of the frosty shade of a sky blue.
I am aware
& have never had to shit
so bad in my life.

A costume once belonging to an action figure
packaged in plastic
& calling itself the OVERMAN
-is found in the back of the toilet floating
just above the plug,
before losing itself in the current between brown water
& brain matter
between truth
& wishes
between dreams
& livelihood.

An innate obsession w/cannabanoids & caged
street violence is reviewing the itinerary for me-
that spans the next 20 years or so.

A dark baby boy has been born
too early in the farthest depths
of information-
where long forgotten salmon-colored skulls
are slowly shaped into marzipan &
sold in the costumed streetsof
DIA DE LOS MUERTOS,
while I attempt to pull apart
silver clenched hands.


II.FROM BORDERTOWN TO THE LOWER EAST SIDE

Brute force & lethargic posture
are patrolling
'la burros de la bordertown'.
The real borde
rthat's receding too fas
tin order to construct a proper wall
to keep them in-
el freaks
y' la
tools
(spit).

Something of a mystery
has latched onto a vile of wisdom.
An iota of home
has purchased a small room somewhere
very...very...
close
& while it stares into the darkest reaches,
it dreams of cat turds in rose beds & green diarrhea hanging from
an open window sill
on the freak's side of town.

Shrewd silence is tickling
my funny bone
when someone on the fence speaks up
about corporate downsizing
&
Proposition 19.

III. EAST TO WASTE-AND ON TO 102ND

A meeting somewhere
in the bowels of the Lower East Side-
there's a room of self-absorbed tools,
playing circa jerk
1980 HIGH
& reminiscing when it was just
good wholesome fun
& not
a burden.

They're calling each other addicts
& when THEY disperse-
some gather small armies outside
some become soldiers themselves
in a gang of unmitigated circumstance..

some are falling by the waste side
some are circumvent
some are cum receptacles
some don't even know THEY'RE alive anymore..

An electric snow bunny
has just boosted for the last time
& never bothered to roll over
even during the pivotal moment of survival.

She is no longer plugged-in,
and the batteries die slowly
as the Freaks continue to count the votes:
"And the totals are in!"
54% to 46% majority
have passed the new law
banning further introspection
based on loosely based-faith
and schematics of an influenced brain wave
that is sweeping the fair nation.

This means that 1 out of every 3
cabrons will contract the new-age
illness & attempt to seize control over themselves
through means of sating an intense sadistic fetish
&
immaculate cognitive design.