newamba_flamingo's Xanga

Holy Sh*t! Ezra Pound's Ghost is in my Refrigerator!

Mon, 12 Jan 2009 15:22:19 GMT

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!

http://everypoet.net/poetry/blogs/neocon_shakes_fear

A Trip to the Dentist

Mon, 05 Jan 2009 15:32:11 GMT

I just got some dental work done recently. Was having some cavities filled and something went wrong when they gave me the novocain injection. They seemed to hit a nerve in my gum and now my entire mouth and jaw hurt like hell. It's been tough to eat but now, after a few days, it's gotten a bit better. I think I'll go to different dentist next time. I didn't want to go to the dentist at all but I also don't care to look like this...

I wrote a bizarre poem about the experience, too, check it out here...

http://www.everypoet.net/poetry/blogs/neocon_shakes_fear/trip_to_the_dentist

Happy Holidays and New Year

Wed, 24 Dec 2008 16:43:13 GMT

To everyone on Xanga. This place is entertaining. All the best!

Poem for William S. Burroughs

Wed, 10 Dec 2008 16:56:39 GMT

I was on some medication for sleep deprivation and reading "Naked Lunch" and decided to write a poem for William S. Burroughs. Check it out. VIEWER DISCRETION ADVISED!!!!!!!!!

http://www.everypoet.net/poetry/blogs/neocon_shakes_fear/it_drank_urine_it_ate_cake

The Man on Bristol Bridge

Mon, 08 Dec 2008 15:37:49 GMT

Every day when walking to work, I would come upon this rather strange homeless fellow. He lived under Bristol Bridge, which if you didn’t know, is an old bridge that connects the city center’s east and west parts in Bristol, England. The bridge has sidewalks on each side for foot traffic and a road running in between. It ascends over the Avon River, which runs through the gut of the city. I used to walk across this bridge everyday on route to my job at a large financial institution, so I know it very well.

Back to the homeless guy, I don’t know his name. I never asked it because I never talked to him much. In fact, I never talked to him at all. But he talked to me; he talked to everyone crossing the bridge. Well, he didn’t really talk as much as he begged for money. “Can you spare a pound? Can you spare a pound?” he would always ask. But he rarely got me, or anybody, to spare him a pound; I think it was because he scared the crap out of everyone that saw him.

Why’d he scare everyone? Well, his appearance wasn’t too enticing. I guess when you’re homeless you can’t look too GQ, but this guy took it to an extreme. He was a pale as a cadaver, which isn’t too uncommon in Britain, but he had a large, and I mean large, unkempt afro of dirty black greasy curly hair that was accentuated greatly by his ghostly skin. His afro much have been about three feet high and wide. I think he kept things in there. He was about 6 foot 7 inches tall and rail thin. Being homeless doesn’t give you much opportunity to eat, I guess. He was missing several teeth, and the remaining ones were almost a black type color. He always dressed in the same ragged blue jeans that had more holes and tears than I could count. And he wore several faded neon dress shirts from the 1970’s that were ragged and torn, too. He actually wore them layered together because he must not have had a coat. And most disturbing of all was that he always wore only one shoe. Never two! And always on the left foot, the non-shoed foot, was a ragged old gray wool sock with holes in it so his toes popped out. And don’t get me started on his toes; I don’t even know what color they must have been. His finger nails hadn’t been cut in years and were like blades. He had an Osama Bin Laden beard and long nose and ear hair that could be braided. And perhaps most disturbing of all, he had that one eye looking one way, the other eye looking the way thing. I don’t know the medical term for it, but it scares the crap out of me. He would always carry a mangled umbrella and when it rained, it offered very little shelter to him and made his disposition even more unnerving seeing him under it all bent and such.

One day as I walked to work, I wasn’t in a very good mood. It was raining as usual, and I’d just had a terrible date the night before. I hadn’t slept much, and I’d stubbed my toe that morning, too. It seemed the homeless guy wasn’t in a great mood that day, either. Usually as I passed him, he extended his Tesco coffee cup to me and politely asked for a pound, but today he was indignant. He stepped right in front of me and screamed in his Bristolian accent, which sounds like a Disney pirate, “Give me a pound!” I told to him please politely move away and that I’m late for work, but I didn’t use such polite language. He then started screaming and accosting me, yelling that I was a bloody yank and that I should give him a pound because I killed his great-great uncles wife’s cousin’s brother’s neighbor’s tax collector’s chimney sweep’s father’s pub tender’s friend who stole somebody’s cat in the War of 1812, and he was perturbed about it. I was impressed by his knowledge of history and felt for his loss, but I was in no mood for this. I asked again for him to step away, but he did not. He then started mentioning all the tea we’d wasted in Boston and how that was to blame for his current state. He reckoned he’d be tea salesman if not for us and that was in essence his tea thrown into the water.

This was too much for me now; I agree the loss of tea was tragic, but I’m becoming late to work now. So I pushed him out of my way. It wasn’t a hard shove, just a light shove, but being so skinny, it knocked him straight into the road and into oncoming traffic.

He only stumbled into the road for a minute before a large truck hit him straight on. It hit him so hard that he flew into the air and when he came down, another large truck came and hit him again, which made him fly into the air and when he came down, another truck hit him again, and on and on this cycle went for nearly five minutes. Miraculously, he didn’t die, and yelled an ever increasing amount of obscenities throughout the whole thing! This went on until a very large truck came and hit him so hard, he flew off the bridge and into the river. He flailed for a minute or so in the water and then drowned. A group of onlookers screamed and pointed and some even took pictures and video on their cell phones, but nobody dared to jump in the river and save him. The water was freezing cold; and besides, he was homeless.

The police showed up and some buck toothed cockney sounding lady with a bowl haircut started to point at me and told the cops I’d killed him. The cops came over to me, and I tried to explain my story, but it was to no avail. The buck tooth lady showed the cops video of the whole thing on her cell phone and yelled, “I ga it a me mobile! E weren doin nutin wron, ya seee, at bluu-ey wanka pusht im, e di!”

The cops arrested me, and I went to jail for involuntary manslaughter. I spent four years in jail, lost my job, and lost all my money paying off the civil case brought by the homeless guy’s wife and ten kids. Who would ever think that a homeless guy would have ten kids and a wife?

After I got out of jail, no one would hire me because I had a criminal record. I couldn’t pay for a place to live, so now I’m homeless. And I just moved under a bridge.

THE END

DaDa Art

Fri, 05 Dec 2008 17:42:15 GMT

I'm now reading a book about the DaDa art movement of the early 20th century. These were wild and crazy folks. I love the poetry and art work they did. It's been influencing me to try some different and even more bizarre stuff in my writing. Check it out.

http://en.wikipedi a.org/wiki/Dada

http://www.everypoet.net/poetry/blogs/neocon_shakes_fear

Naked Lunch

Sun, 23 Nov 2008 16:54:33 GMT

I've just started reading the book "Naked Lunch" by William S. Burroughs. Man, that is some wild and crazy stuff. It doesn't even have chapters; it's so non-linear and wild. I'm really enjoying reading it. Anyone that hasn't read it needs to.That is all for now.

http://www.everypoet.net/poetry/blogs/neocon_shakes_fear

Mr. T

Thu, 20 Nov 2008 20:49:05 GMT

I've been thinking about Mr. T a lot recently, so I wrote a poem about him.

http://www.everypoet.net/poetry/blogs/neocon_shakes_fear/mr_t_the_ouija_board_and_the_conga_line_of_transexual_ninjas

My tooth hurts

Wed, 19 Nov 2008 16:29:40 GMT

I need to see the dentist sometime soon and haven't been for a while. Since I've had bad experiences with dentists before, I'm not looking forward to it. But unless I want to look like a toothless hillbilly, I must go. Hopefully they'll give me some good painkillers if necessary. NEWAMBA

http://www.everypoet.net/poetry/blogs/neocon_shakes_fear

Mike Tyson Fighting a 12 Year Old Girl

Sun, 16 Nov 2008 22:37:34 GMT

I keep on having this recurring dream that Mike Tyson is in a boxing match with a scrawny 12 year old girl that has braces and headgear. And the craziest thing about it all is that the girl is kicking his ass all over the ring! I'm not sure what this means. That is all for now.

http://www.everypoet.net/poetry/blogs/neocon_shakes_fear