Industrial Vagina Complex

I
am standing in an elevator
next to a pregnant Yemini woman

She
dressed in long, flowing, azure robe
and black headscarf

Me
dressed in camouflage cargo pants
and baby blue polo shirt

We
the elevator’s only passengers
ascend
innocently in this soaring glass box
that clings tenuously
to the spine of a phallic skyscraper
overlooking the glittering Dubai night

As we float upwards
the Yemeni’s
pungent perfume
tickles my nasal hairs
And she
stares absently
her neck angular
her face facing downwards
at the elevator’s marble floor

The Muzak version of “Up on the Roof”
only I hear
is suddenly interrupted
by a loud snapping sound
and I look over
and spot steaming liquid seeping out from underneath the Yemeni’s robe

She then drops to the floor
yells out something in Arabic
begins having contractions

I
am no doctor
though I have watched a lot of doctors on TV
and so I kneel towards her
ready for the baby to pop out
as if I were a catcher awaiting a pitch

She
hikes up her robe
isn’t wearing panties
and from the vortex
of her shadowy, cavernous vagina
I see something black emerge

I reach in to yank it out
and am startled to find
that it’s not the baby’s head I’d anticipated
Instead
it’s a sleek laptop computer
that slides out of her vagina smoothly
automatically
ejecting itself

I hold
the warm, wet laptop in my hands
transfixed by it
as it glows angelically illuminated by the crescent moon
shining in softly through our elevator’s clear exterior

Instead
of an umbilical cord
an Ethernet cable
connects the computer
to the Yemeni woman’s uterus

The computer
starts to vibrate
and make sounds
similar to those of old dial-up 58K modems
so I gently open the top
and on its screen I see a Windows Media Player
playing video in looped, reverse motion

The video appears to be
of a smiling newborn baby
beachside
levitating above a burning mosque
that crumbles slowly
into crashing blue waves of the eastern Mediterranean

The baby
painted in placenta and blood
wears only a suicide vest
is spinning counterclockwise
and in his little left hand
holds a platinum Visa credit card
which he swipes spastically
into the ashy air

The laptop’s screen then freezes up
leaving the baby suspended in stasis
against a fiery sky

And so I start pressing CONTROL-ALT-DELETE
feverishly
Again, Again, Again, and Again

But nothing happens
and so I look up
and the Yemeni woman has vanished

And I’m no longer in the elevator either
I’m standing on an escalator
at a mall in Minnesota
holding a shopping bag
that contains

A bottle of perfume and
A brand new laptop computer

- Newamba Flamingo

(featured in the poetry forum 11.30.10)

The Exploding Penis

So I woke up this morning and got out of bed to use the toilet,
when suddenly
MY PENIS EXPLODED!

No, not like a spontaneous ejaculation,
(though that happens to me sometimes)
I mean like my entire penis blew up into tiny smithereens
Subatomic particles of my dick burst out into infinite directions
scattered on the floor, the smoldering ashes…
flashes of vanquished pubic hair singed…
behind what was once an erection…

Miraculously, however, my testicles were unscathed
(but it looked really strange only having a pair of balls with no penis attached)

I cried out in vain,
“What shall I do?”
“How will I urinate?”
“How will I have sexual intercourse?”
“How will I find Mrs. Right?”

I immediately phoned my doctor to inform him of my plight
He said that this thing happens quite often and is
vastly underreported by the media
It could easily be an unwanted side-effect
of all the prescription and non-prescription drugs
that I’ve been abusing
He said I should come to his office at once
so I can be fitted with a brand-new penis

I ran out my door into the humid Florida morning
(wearing only a hot pink bathrobe and hair curlers)
and jumped into my car, peeling out of the parking lot,
CRANKING up that new Lady GaGa song “Just Dance”

During the drive, I do hand dances along to the music
I “Vogue,” I “Pulp Fiction,”
I do that swim dive move that has been out of fashion since
before I was born; but I still do it anyway

The traffic on the Palmetto Expressway was a pain in the ass
I worried that I’d never get to the doctor’s office fast
Time is of the essence when these sorts of things occur
Fortunately I saw a cop decked out in fake fur
I pleaded to him:

“Officer! Help! My penis has exploded! I need to get to the doctor at once!”

He told me that the same thing happened to him four years ago in the Yucatan Peninsula
and provided me a police escort with blaring sirens through the highway
(he also did funky hand dances along on the way)
(and even did the YMCA)

When I arrived at the office,
my doctor showed me a bunch of new shiny penises to pick
He really had an amazing selection of pricks
I chose the latest model, in neon green, that came with a lifetime warranty
This one will never explode, the doctor guaranteed

My doctor also had an impressive assortment of vaginas,
which he attempted to cajole me on,
just in case I was interested in switching my sexual organ preference
I told him no; I’m satisfied with my current genitalia
And, as much as I love vaginas, they require too much maintenance
While he swore that he knew an innovative vagina mechanic, who does express
gynecological examinations in 15 minutes or less from his bedroom in Hialeah,
I told him no thanks and asked to be fitted with my new penis

After this, I left the office feeling refreshed
and happy

Nothing like a new penis on a sunny day
Nothing at all

- Newamba Flamingo

(featured in the poetry forum 10.20.09)

Paris Hilton's Diarrhea

I was standing butt-naked in the laundromat of my apartment building watching a pot-bellied man in overalls try to make pasta in the jacuzzi outside when a flock of seagulls swarmed in like locusts and picked me up and carried me to a downtown location in some indeterminate city.

Looking around, I saw sidewalks that were conveyor-belt-people-mover type things (such as they have in airports) propelling emotionless, grunting pedestrians past me; these grunting pedestrians were heaving buckets of gasoline at lawyers on crutches who wore coke bottle eyeglasses and were chastising the grunting pedestrians for not using banking services with adequate identity theft protection.

A deranged street juggler whose head was rotating counter clockwise walked by and whispered into my ear that the mafia doesn’t exist and asked if I’d fancy him shining my shoes with his testicles; I don’t approve of people shining shoes with testicles, so I punched him in the face, which raised the ire of a trio of break dancing British traffic cops nearby, and accordingly I did a pirouette and punched the neighborhood Spiderman in his face and stole and put on his Spiderman costume, which enabled me to begin climbing up the side of a large phallic building and escape the police that were now break dancing towards me, waving billy clubs, and insulting me in a belligerent British slang I didn’t entirely comprehend.

Upon reaching the eighth story of the building, I looked into the window and observed a single file line of stockbrokers in contortionist yoga positions making horrible shrieking goat sounds in unison that reminded me a lot of Shakira’s music; it was at this particular moment that a cross-eyed Michael Jackson impersonator walked into the office and pulled down his pants, revealing a large boa constrictor penis, which detached from his body and brutally attacked the contortionist stockbrokers and somehow the Michael Jackson’s impersonator’s body then regenerated another boa constrictor penis, which also sprang from his body, and then another, and soon enough he was shooting boa constrictor penises all over the office like a machine gun, and the snakes were swallowing the goat sounding yoga stockbrokers whole, and even swallowing each other in a shocking display of workplace violence and boa constrictor penis cannibalism.

Going up a couple more stories, nature called, and I smashed in the window with a sledge hammer I didn’t realize I had and jumped into what looked like a normal office, but it wasn’t a normal office, for there were hairless werewolves without ears standing on top of desks yodeling and threatening each other with annoying leg movements and when I tried to ask the earless werewolves where the bathroom was located they just looked at me funny, and I realized they don’t have ears and probably couldn’t hear me, and so I just proceeded to defecate on the floor such as I do on the subway because it seemed like the earless annoying leg werewolves wouldn’t really mind my public defecations as much as the people on the subway often do.

After that I crawled back out the window and continued my ascent and passed by Paris Hilton who was hanging by her tiny buttocks from an ass-shaped opening in the exterior of the building and was laughing and shooting explosive diarrhea like a fire hose at several teenaged emo girls inside a pink-walled office (these particular emo girls had especially atrocious hair styles) and these particular especially atrocious hair style girls kept running at the diarrhea stream only to be pummeled and knocked to the floor repeatedly in what appeared to be a horrific cycle.

And the whole building was now filling with Paris Hilton’s diarrhea, and I worried it would soon collapse because no building can handle that much diarrhea, and so I jumped from the building figuring it’d be better to die than be trapped inside or outside a building filled with Paris Hilton’s excrement, but instead of dying, the seagulls returned and caught me and brought me to a beach somewhere in the Caribbean where a 50 foot tall Asian woman in a loin cloth and spunky green bra was picking up surfers from the sea and hurling them like javelins at tourist bungalows doting the shore.

The 50 FT woman stood over me, pointed in my direction, and her vagina made a loud humming sound and pulled me up inside it with an amazing gravitational pull and shot me into an Internet café somewhere in her uterus where I met Santa’s elves who told me this is where they vacation, and I got online and decided to email my pen pal in Nigeria about the day’s events and to enquire about all that money he’s been promising to transfer me, but then the break dancing British cops burst in and started beating me with their billy clubs, and I wondered how they managed to follow me into this particular vagina, and I wished I had gotten a business card from one of those coke bottle eyeglasses lawyers because I’ll probably require legal representation.

Despite my dire predicament, I figured it’s better getting beaten up by British policeman in the uterus of a 50 FT tall Asian woman than it is to be trapped in or on a building filled with Paris Hilton’s diarrhea, so stuff really wasn’t all that bad in the greater scheme of things.

- Newamba Flamingo

(added 10.20.09)

PUNCH YOU IN THE FACE

The next time I see you
I’m going to punch you in the face

Don’t ask me why
I’m not really sure
It could be that thing you said to me a long time ago
That I forgot and you can’t recall
But, nonetheless, it pissed me off

Maybe it’s because you like that song “My Humps” by the Black Eyed Peas
Maybe it’s because you talk too much during movies
Or possibly it pertains to the peculiar sound you make when you eat

Perhaps it’s the way you look in a hat
Perhaps it’s the things you say to my cat
(I’m glad she always hisses and scratches you)

Whatever it is
I’m going to punch you in the face
And I’ll record it and upload it to the internet, too
So you and everyone
Will know and will see
That you got punched in the face
Punched in the face
By me

- Newamba Flamingo

(added 03.24.09)

Shooting Midgets from a Catapult and Watching Our Teacher Tap Dance Nude

I woke up late today
The alarm clock had grown arms and legs and ran away
Scratching my testicles and stumbling into the kitchen,
I found an alligator eating my Cheerios

There was no time to fight him,
so I took off my nightgown and slipped into some edible panties,
red tights, a green tutu, retro basketball jersey, and funky tennis shoes

I brushed my teeth and put my hair into pig tails
Then I stepped out the door
and mounted the unicycle I ride to school
After giving a stranger the finger, I took off onto the highway
(The” Miami Vice” theme song played in my head)

Upon arrival at school,
I saw Tiger Woods out on the front lawn
with a neck brace on,
shooting midgets from a catapult

A group of mimes were next to him,
involved in a limbo contest

Behind them was a three legged homosexual donkey called “Rufus,”
chasing a rogue peacock in circles like a loon,
whilst singing Lady GaGa’s “Poker Face”
completely out of tune

Inside the school, a roaming pack of football players,
in pads and helmets, tackled random people throughout the hallways,
as two cheerleaders named “Buffy” followed, waving pompoms,
and chanting the school fight song

As I walked into class,
I noticed that our teacher, Mr. Schlomsky, wasn’t there yet
Everyone looked puzzled…
When out of the blue, without warning,
Mr. Schlomsky fell through the ceiling and landed perfectly on his feet
(Totally perpendicular to the podium!)

A balding, obese and hairy Polish man of 5’2,
he was entirely naked except for a large pair of Versace sunglasses,
Polka-dotted bowtie and large red clown shoes

He looked around the room and didn’t say a word for about thirty seconds
And then
Burst into a fiery lecture about Confucius,
which was peppered with Russian curse words,
spastic hand and arm motions,
and brief outbursts of tap dancing

At the conclusion of the lecture,
he juggled pineapples,
and I stood up and applauded

Mr. Schlomsky then shapeshifted into a pterodactyl and flew out the window

After class, I saw Tiger Woods riding away on my unicycle,
giving me the finger and throwing golf balls at pedestrians

I tried to hail a taxi, but they were all full
Fortunately the baboon that lives in my closet, Fred,
was driving an ice cream truck nearby,
so I pole-vaulted onto the roof of the vehicle and surfed it all the way home
I hoped that alligator wasn’t still in my kitchen because I was hungry and needed something to eat.

- Newamba Flamingo

(featured in the poetry forum 03.24.09)

Holy Shit! Ezra Pound's Ghost is in my Refrigerator!

The other day I read a poem by a British human named Debs
about an entity that attacked her in the middle of the night
and tried to steal her Calvin Klein underwear

It was a good poem;
after having a chuckle about it, I ate some shrimp, drank a bit of whiskey,
and went about my business
everything was fine
UNTIL
Something strange happened later that night…

As I slept the sleep of a newborn-tit-sucking-shit-machine,
I felt my Scooby Doo blanket being pulled off me
Slowly I awoke, looked up into the darkness at the foot of my bed and
saw what looked like the ghostly figure of someone I recognized
It was the long dead poet, Ezra Pound!
I said, “Holy shit, are you Ezra Pound?”
He said:
“AHHHHH! Motherfucker! I’m Ezra Pound’s ghost, bitch! AHHHH! BOOO! SCARY! AHHHH!!!!”

Doing what anyone would, I sprung out of bed, grabbed my vacuum cleaner
and chased him around “Ghostbusters” style
but he was fast!
Ghosts of dead poets are really swift!
He jumped into my refrigerator
(I keep the refrigerator door open at night because I like to use a lot of electricity)
I slammed the door shut and trapped him inside
He was like “AHHHH! Let me out! Let me out! AHHHHH!”
However, I decided to keep him in there and went back to sleep like nothing happened

Next morning I opened up the refrigerator and Ezra was still in it
He said he actually likes living in the fridge and handed me a couple eggs and a cuppa coffee
and gave me some awesome recipes for pasta he knew from his time in Italy
He asked if he could stay; I said OK,
because I like having a dead poet in my refrigerator

I really don’t know why people are against having evil spirits in their house
I think it’s fun having demons and stuff, I use my Ouija board all the time to contact them
and ask them to drop by and play Scrabble
What does this “Debs” person think is so wrong with nocturnal entities?
Fighting off malicious spirits in the middle of the night is a gas and such great exercise
Much better than going to the gym!

You know, it all reminds me of this hippy girl I used to have sexual intercourse with in Tennessee
As soon as we moved into a house, she put on a Harry Potter costume, burned incense,
and started some sort of séance to rid the place of evil spirits
I told her “NO! Stop doing that!”
I like having wicked spirits in my domicile!

So what if they’re a poltergeist or something!
They have a right to be there, too, and were here before WE moved in,
so it would be like totally rude to kick them out
What am I, an asshole?
Poltergeists and demons are people, too, with hopes, dreams, aspirations and families
Leave them alone you fucking bastards always harassing them!
(Needless to say, that relationship was short-lived!)
(Besides, she always hated it when I’d shave off my eyebrows, paint a turtle on my chest, and go do aerobics in the graveyard.)

After that I moved into a 1920’s bright pink art deco Miami Beach hotel that was possessed by something or other
(probably an old pissed off Jewish lady from Manhattan)

Stuff would disappear all the time and things would fall off the refrigerator a lot
(this was before I had a dead poet living in my fridge)

At first, I didn’t believe it was haunted and accused my girlfriend at the time, who was from Switzerland, of hiding things,
like my neon green goggles that went missing for a week
and then turned up in the bathtub when I was having a shower and eating cereal
(I eat cereal in the shower sometimes)

I pointed at her and said forcefully that I don’t know what types of weird shit you do over there in Switzerland,
but here in America we don’t steal people’s goggles when they want to go swimming in the Atlantic!
If I were attacked by a shark and mangled to death like an Australian surfer it would all be her fault!

So anyways, even after I chased her away at 3am with a hot frying pan full of bacon,
stuff still went missing, so I’m pretty sure the place was possessed by a spirit of some sort

The whole incident with Debs and Ezra Pound reminds me of that place

Upon reflection, I think I’ll move back there now, buy a purple-assed baboon to keep as a pet,
and bring the refrigerator with Ezra in it, too, and maybe invite Debs over so we can read poetry about ghosts,
and I’ll also invite that Swiss girl, if she wants to come back

Listen, Magda (the Swiss girl’s name), I’m really sorry about chasing you with that frying pan.
Can we be friends?
I’ve got this really cool new ghost in my refrigerator I want you to meet!
Now if you’ll please excuse me,
Ezra and I are going outside to do aerobics in the graveyard
Talk to ya later!

Bye Bye!

- Newamba Flamingo

(added 03.24.09)