"Superman in Isaan" by Newamba Flamingo

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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!

DOWNLOAD HERE

"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

"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

Going to Singapore

"Going to Singapore" by Newamba Flamingo

"Singapore... yeah... was there back in 06. Great nightlife."
"Really? Wouldn't have thought that. Says here on the embarkation card something about death for drug traffickers."
"But they don't kill you for drinking."
"I can't drink anymore for a while. I got oral lichen planus."
"Oral what?"
"Don't ask."
"If you can't drink, at least you can go banging hookers. Prostitution is legal there."
"Yeah?"
"Don't litter, or spit on the street, though. They'll cane you for that."
"Cane you?"
"Yeah, it's a common punishment there. They strip you naked, throw you into this thick body suit with a hole in it where your bare ass hangs out, and they string you up and whack your ass with a cane. Whack your ass tomato red, 'til it bleeds..."
"Damn."
"But they don't usually cane you if they sentence you to death."
"I guess that's compassionate."
"But they do do it for stuff like spitting on the street or littering."
"Streets there must be clean."
"Sure are."
"Think they cane you for spitting on a hooker?"
"I don't know."
"They cane you for all sorts of things, even for overstaying your visa..."
"Really?"
"Yup, but only if it's a couple months or more. I mean, if you miss your flight or something, they won't pull you into some room in the airport, and, you know..."
"Sure is an incentive to not miss your flight, however."
"..."
"You know a lot about Singapore."
"I go on Wikipedia sometimes."
"Think they'd cane Westerners? Like, Americans?"
"They would and do. You're probably too young to remember, but they did it to some American kid back in 94 or 95, for throwing eggs at cars, I think. Michael Fay, Ray or Day, the poor bastard's name was. Beat his ass pretty good."
"For real?"
"Sure did, a lot of people in America were up in arms about it too, on CNN and talk shows, crying about it, but I remember my old man was saying how they oughta do that here to these young punks..."
"Think that'd be a deterant? I could see idiots all bragging about it, like they do about going to prison. Like Lil Wayne taking out his naked ass in music videos, pointing at it, showing off his scars, like it's gangsta."
"Who's Little Wayne?"
"You don't know who that is?"
"Nah, I must be getting old. That's a sure sign you're getting old, when you don't know who Little Wayne is."
"Actually it's Lil Wayne."
"Lil?"
"Lil."
"Whatever."

"Just seems sorta demeaning to be known as 'little' something or another."
"Chris Rock calls him a retarded midget."
"I know Chris Rock. I like Chris Rock."
"Is he really retarded, this Little Wayne?"
"I'm not sure. He is quite short."
"Still, if you're a kid and they call you 'little' whatever, I guess it's alright, but if you're fifty, would you still want people calling you that?"
"I wonder that about 'Young Jeezy' too."
"'Young Jeezy?' For Christ's sake..."
"I don't know if Lil Wayne or Young Jeezy will make it to fifty. They'll probably get smoked by some hater. Rappers get shot all the time."
"Smoked by a hater?"
"Never mind."
"..."
"Hey, scope the tail on that flight attendant there, the tallish one, with all the makeup."
"That is a sweet yellow ass right there."
"Asian women are just beautiful."
"You catch that yellow fever if you're out here long enough."
"Oh, I already got it."
"And there's no going back from it either. I can't even get an erection for other ethnicities."
"Walking Viagra, these women."
"Never understood the yellow fever, until I came out here."
"It's something serious. They should pass out pamphlets about it when you apply for visas."
"What I wouldn't give to grab that ass..."
"I hear guys grab flight attendant ass a lot on flights out of Hong Kong."
"But we're in Singaporean airspace now, on a Singaporean airline, so you wouldn't get away with it... I bet they'd cane you."
"An ass like that might be worth it."
"Nah, in all seriousness, I'd never do that, molest a woman against her will. I only molest consensually."
"Can one molest consensually?"
"I can and do. Non-consensual molesters deserve to be caned."
"And getting caned on the ass, for grabbing an ass, talk about the irony."
"Look, that's what being a man is all about, being able to hide and suppress your perversions."
"I guess that's what separates us from the animals on all fours."
"That's right. Much more so than anything else."

Wasted Lanza

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