,,ggddY"""Ybbgg,, subversive literature ,agd888b,_ "Y8, ___`""Ybga, for subverted people! ,gdP""88888888baa,.""8b "888g, / ,dP" ]888888888P' "Y `888Yb, ,dP" ,88888888P" db, "8P"""" Installment 245 of... ,8" ,888888888b, d8" db. dP b. ,8' d88888888888,88 d$$$s. dP `8, - -- -THE NEO-COMINTERN ,8' 8888888888888" dP$$$$$s. dP 8. d' I8888888888P" dP `T$$$$$$dP `.d$$b. .d$$b. .d$$b..s$s 8 `8"88P""Y8P' dP `T$$$$P d$$$P dP' `$ dP' T$ dP' `TP' `T$ 8 Y 8[ _ " dP `T$P d$$$P dP dP dP dP dP dP 8 "Y8d8b dP dP :$ .$ $b. .dP dP dP dP 8 `"".dP dP `T$$P' `T$$P' dP dP dP Y, ,,odnd88b, ,b `8, ,d8888888baaa ,8' ELECTRONIC MAGAZINE- -- - `8, 888888888888' ,8' `8a "8888888888I a8' Writers: `Yba `Y8888888P' adP' Ei'det-ik "Yba `888888P' adY" Rank Swiney `"Yba, d8888P" ,adP"' Jobe `"Y8baa, ,d888P,ad8P"' ada ``""YYba8888P""'' trilobyte Ahmed Balfouni Spite Melatonin Heckat Gnarly Wayne BMC - - - - -- -------===========================------- -- - - - - June 29, 2003 INSTALLMENT 245 BMC, EDITOR-IN-CHIEF - - - - -- -------===========================------- -- - - - - FEATURED IN THIS INSTALLMENT: manifesto - Rank Swiney you picked the wrong guy to turn left behind - trilobyte Hotel des Clochards - Ahmed Balfouni An Expose on the Drug Trade - BMC Shirley - Jobe what i did yesterday - trilobyte auditory safety and bumble bees - Ei'det-ik Night Mission - Gnarly Wayne cinderella and the swimmer - ada The Pawnshop - Melatonin The River - Spite Poisoning as Art - Heckat Dear Ministry of Training and Redevelopment: - Jobe 3P in Relation to Time - BMC - - - - -- -------===========================------- -- - - - - EDITOR'S NOTE - - - - -- -------===========================------- -- - - - - In our current age, with technology flying around all over the place and tvs with blinking lights and radar blips, there is something that is sapping us of our ability to sit still and read. Many people (e.g. Sven Birkerts) criticize this age for its inability to pay attention to anything that is not short and simple. Well perhaps the answer is not to criticize this new world but to adapt to it. Isn't it possible to say everything you have to say in three paragraphs and then get the hell out of there and leave the readers alone for the rest of their lives? Just give the people what they want, already. People don't need four paragraphs. It is too demanding in terms of time and intellectual strain. Two paragraphs would be far too few - it would sadden those who are fond of the introduction, body, and conclusion format. And yet, the intro, body, and conc are all a reader really needs. So let's cut all of that other crap and just bring tha meaning. Nothing more, nothing less. - - - - -- -------===========================------- -- - - - - manifesto - Rank Swiney - - - - -- -------===========================------- -- - - - - i) hey mr. travelling with a girlfriend, that girl in your lap has lovely brown hair, carelessly pinned up. her bare arms around your neck are brown and lightly scratched, her tanlit skin must leave one dreaming of sun all year round. please don't let her leave the room, don't turn to me mr. travelling with a girlfriend, don't ask what I am writing in my book, no, no, no don't laugh, don't say Halifax is beautiful but Montreal, oh Montreal. oh mr. travelling with a girlfriend, don't tell me your name don't ask for mine, stop seeking my eyes out, in this dim, public kitchen light. stop making perfect sense, tired as we both are. don't say, don't think so much. because I do think that travelling with a girlfriend, the girl in my lap would distort worlds with her laughter, I would never let her leave the room like this. ii) walking home I lecture the young white birches, admiring the dizziness of their brown withered leaves as they fall. I would have forgiven you for taking me up around, back about, across the bloody bridge, river, park, walkway, underworld if by the end of it all you'd have said-I don't love you. but instead you said, I've got to go home and wash my floor. the floor? yes, the floor, the tiled kitchen floor. and a lesser woman or a man may have offered to wash your floor, on their knees humbled you into love. but I understand sometimes nothing comes between a man and his floor. iii) and I always thought temptation would leave wearing a plum dress, with the swing of the hip, pale rose at the breast. but it's still here getting into your car. I speak to the mechanics of an assembly line, a fine balance between seek and hide, beer and plum wine, a line to cross and the uncrossed line. it's a game I understand less, every time, I find. I know this getting into your car, your wife's car. I speak for myself, the truth's grown slender between us, you think nothing of it but I want you to know this is how I get into your car. - - - - -- -------===========================------- -- - - - - you picked the wrong guy to turn left behind - trilobyte - - - - -- -------===========================------- -- - - - - i've got a corpse in my trunk. i've got a corpse in my trunk. i've got a corpse in my trunk. i've got a corpse in my trunk. are my headlights on? yeah, they're on. okay. got a corpse in my trunk. got a corpse in my trunk. you're going to turn left behind me. bad idea. i've got a corpse in my trunk. i've got a corpse in my trunk. i've got a corpse in my trunk. you don't want to drive behind me. i've got a corpse in my trunk. i'm being very distracted by you. got a corpse in my trunk. got a corpse in my trunk. almost hit a parked car. i'm swerving, but i'm not drunk. i've got a corpse in my car. gotta drive straight. don't wanna make you think i'm drunk. got a corpse in my trunk. tripped a latch. opened my trunk. got a corpse on your hood. - - - - -- -------===========================------- -- - - - - Hotel des Clochards - Ahmed Balfouni - - - - -- -------===========================------- -- - - - - Turnips and vegetables on the folding table. Cut flowers, rather. First of May, 1928. A bunch of flowers, two or three with their leaves, in the right hand. A metal handrail extends from the right eye of the vendor through the flowers and the right forearm of the girl to her right hip, passing through the girdle of Venus and the valise and continuing into the white tiles, terminating with a flourish. To the rear, a gentleman advancing along the sidewalk. In front, her back to the camera and about to descend the flight of stairs leading to the underground train, and ignoring the proffered flowers at her right hand while holding by its handle a small valise in her left, and totally surmounted by a black trench coat loosely cinched at the waist, flapper-capped at a jaunty angle and convent-shod with two-inch heels, a young lady. In front of a cafe, by the Metro entrance, seated legless at the scroll of a balustrade hawking his wares before a small folding table with three potted sprigs beside it on the pavement, perhaps a veteran of the Great War. Two large columns painted white above and some dark color below support the roof above the cafe tables. The balustrade descends architecturally speaking in a series of simple orders like a geological cut, dominated by the plain white tile characteristic of the institution. The light is diffuse, and comes from above. - - - - -- -------===========================------- -- - - - - An Expose on the Drug Trade - BMC - - - - -- -------===========================------- -- - - - - Ok, so this is the story of how I tried doing drugs for the first time. It all started off because I was in a gang, and that's where kids get all of their drugs from so I don't know how else I can begin this story. Umm, there was this gang leader and he wanted me to sell some drugs for him and make a big sale of marijuana, but he called it "grass," because that is the street name for it. He gave me a gun to carry with me and the gun was really big and scary because it was silver and I think I could have killed lots of people with it if I wanted to. I went out in my Cadillac and drove to the drug deal place at the dock by the shipping yard. These guys pulled up and I sold them the drugs but they wanted to smoke some with me so that they could know that it was really drugs and not just fake blades of grass like the kind on the lawn of my house. So I pulled a marijuana cigarette out of the bag and we smoked it. It made me cough because it was really making me high and then I started having hallucinations because this disco ball appeared in the sky and I started feeling like I was walking in the dream. I really liked it and it made me hungry and my eyes got red just like my brother that time he said he had the flu but I saw him smoking drugs. I finished the drug deal and then I went back to the hideout where the gang leader made me an honourary gang hero. It was really weird, and the weirdest thing about it all is that the story is completely true! - - - - -- -------===========================------- -- - - - - Shirley - Jobe - - - - -- -------===========================------- -- - - - - Shirley had set the table nearly half an hour ago. A polished set of silver utensils rested on the cloth napkins, knives bowing inward towards each plate. The chairs that rested in front of the two place settings faced each other, yet their legs resisted contact beneath the table. A dog's leash drooped over the edge of one chair, its buckle brushing the kitchen tiles. The vertical blinds hung from their bridle at a 20-degree angle, forcing wisps of the high, late afternoon sun into the corner of the room in a variegated pattern, tantalizing the lily that lay there. A watering can sat empty beside the plant, which had flowered briefly weeks earlier. But the lack of attention lately had reduced it to its current state, shrinking in isolation like a wounded animal awaiting death. Shirley was sitting in front of the television, restlessly flipping through the channels when the doorbell rang. She gingerly pushed herself out of her seat and turned off the television. She propped herself up against the wall and guided herself into the hallway, where she picked up an envelope that was lying flat on the hall table. The doorbell rang again, twice this time, as Shirley staggered ahead towards the front entrance. She unlocked the door and swung it open to reveal her son standing on the doorstep, tapping his foot energetically on the concrete and wrestling with the knot in his tie. Shirley handed him the envelope and said in a spirited voice, "Happy Birthday, Michael." Michael took the envelope, and she added, "I made you dinner, pork chops." "Aw, thanks Ma, but I have plans," he said, motioning towards his car, which was idling in the driveway, an elegantly dressed woman gazing impassively out the passenger side window. "I heard about what happened to Rex... Maybe I'll come by on Monday," Michael added as he edged backwards towards the car and climbed into the driver's seat. Shirley leaned against the front door and made no expression as she watched him shut the car door, mumbling, "Looks like it was a nice day again today." - - - - -- -------===========================------- -- - - - - what i did yesterday - trilobyte - - - - -- -------===========================------- -- - - - - i'm going to tell you about what i did yesterday. yeah it's not a whole lot, but i thought it would be a good starter for some discourse. it's pretty basic, actually, and probably stuff that you've heard before. oh well. *shrug*. maybe after i'm done telling you about what i did yesterday, you'll tell me about what _you_ did yesterday. & i can offer some witty retorts and show you that it's not so bad to talk about one did in a day. but maybe you don't want to talk about what you did yesterday. *shrug*. what i did yesterday is not all i can talk about... i just thought if i brought it up maybe it would lead to other things, but it hasn't. you don't even want to talk about what _you_ did yesterday, which just makes this whole thing a dead end. - - - - -- -------===========================------- -- - - - - auditory safety and bumble bees - Ei'det-ik - - - - -- -------===========================------- -- - - - - on 21 street there is a woman whose voice is as specific as eggs cooking on an asparagus stove. --excuse me excuse me - a rusting gate crackling on every letter s --excuss..e..me doyou ssmoke-- she sways her arm toward her face, making quick kisses to the inverted belly of her fingers: her mouth appliance. she is impatient for white lines to meet her thumb- flattened face, her himalayan glare. consumed lines curl around the lace gore at her skirts, pocked and wrinkled, transplanted downtown to kiss the white lines of so much shared addiction. during 'music-time' on hardwood floors there was a mortified child in the tenth row behind sixty four crossed-legs. he would not sing to the squishing of a bumble bee. not since saturday traffic made his mother crack jokes over the popping treble on the radio, in harmony with cars honking, metal girths weaving, door hinges crackling, and tight legs dangling to the floor. the child concentrated on the yellow lights on 21 street, squeezing closed his eyes when they popped red. he had never felt more alive with the arguing static of a bumble bee trapped in his shirt pocket. one hand gripped the wrist of its complement and started to unscrew. they both fell onto the floor, chattering something about governing bonds. she pulled back, dragging out the wires that eddied in their rows. electrician's tape skin and she: measured out. she let the fibers shuffle against her leg to hear the sound of scraping edges. no limbs like agriculture, of warm things revealed, her sounds were more like scraping sidewalks on building's ankles. better taped and extendable, she would chatter to herself each morning on a downtown bench, listening to the sound of dissembling her own limbs. - - - - -- -------===========================------- -- - - - - Night Mission - Gnarly Wayne - - - - -- -------===========================------- -- - - - - All that could be heard was the sound of crickets and other night critters gently chirping. The calm, glassy lake reflected back the twilight that hung in the black sky. Everything was tranquil and placid. A slight disturbance in the mirror-like surface of the water slowly gained more and more tenacity until finally a figure emerged from the briny depths. It slowly looked around, trying to confirm if it had been unobserved. Satisfied, the figure made its way to shore. Upon arrival at the shore, the figure began to carefully remove the oxygen tank and diving suit with finesse and style. Underneath, dressed in a dashing black tuxedo, was super agent man Carlton Ridenhour. He glanced up to the mansion that rested on top of a nearby hill. Infiltrating the mansion might be difficult, but Carlton was well- prepared. His years of intensive training and expensive spy gadgets would assure a flawless mission. Hopefully. What? I only get three paragraphs to write a story? How the hell am I suppose to do that? I was just getting started. You know, these theme issues are really starting to yank my chain, whatever that means. Dammit, and I just realized now that I used my third paragraph to whine and complain. Alright, that's it. I'm going home. - - - - -- -------===========================------- -- - - - - cinderella and the swimmer - ada - - - - -- -------===========================------- -- - - - - there's a girl who swam lake ontario straight across overnight, you've probably heard of her, something bell, I think her name was doris, or dorothy maybe. I don't know how she did it, I know her coach gave her iodine to keep her arms and legs warm at night in the darkness. tonight it's so hot I barely need a sheet over me, I'm half naked and this bed feels bigger than the ocean, I almost wish I could just search for my pants and leave. make up some excuse and make my way back to my own bed, I can't even swim through my own thoughts much less a lake. these thoughts were hard pressed against my brain it's been a long day, do you understand, do you understand that everything that happened that long night ago happened for a reason, that since then it's just been one long string of nights, every one the same as the one you left me with. it isn't that I want to leave or that I want you to go, it's that underneath the fact that I've hardly slept for weeks now, we're all living in bubbles blown by some cinderella in the dirtiest of castles. mine is so clear I keep forgetting my eyesight isn't as good as it use to be. if I left, it's only because the cat came and dug her paws in the freshly swept floor. - - - - -- -------===========================------- -- - - - - The Pawnshop - Melatonin - - - - -- -------===========================------- -- - - - - "Oh, that?" he says, spectacles dangling from his fingers. "Why that's a junkie's trumpet -- but it's not for sale, so don't even ask." "Why isn't it for sale?" I ask. "Oh, did I say NOT for sale? I'm sorry, what I meant was it IS for sale." The End - - - - -- -------===========================------- -- - - - - The River - Spite - - - - -- -------===========================------- -- - - - - They met in the park on a beautiful summer afternoon, sitting by the river. The boy and girl wove their dreams together like a secret blanket, planning an escape from sad, familiar worlds. She loved him fiercely, holding onto his words as though they were rope, a way down from the lonely isolation of a room at the top of a castle tower. She would always wait for him at the river and they would spend the sunny afternoons dreaming. There came an afternoon when the boy didn't come to the river. She waited all day for him there, while the river whispered consolingly. She did this for days and still the boy never came to the park. She spent these brokenhearted afternoons planning her own escape, dreaming separate dreams from the ones they had shared. She left a note upon his window, the silvery moon the only witness to her invitation. Patiently she waited for him there by the river. When he arrived full of apologies and empty excuses, no tears would betray the broken heart she held. He sipped at the silky sweet tea that she offered. When he became sleepy, he rested his head in her soft lap. She smiled in the dark and stroked his hair while she waited. And when the time came, she laid him in the river. The cool water wrapped gently around him like a blanket. A single tear escaped as she watched the river quietly carry away her dreams and her broken heart. - - - - -- -------===========================------- -- - - - - Poisoning as Art - Heckat - - - - -- -------===========================------- -- - - - - It's a gamble, really. Even Mary Queen of Scots recognized the predictability of using a draught to commit "you know what." But evil geniuses all over the world have been using poison quite effectively for centuries to do away with antagonists, rivals, unfaithful lovers, and even themselves. It seems some people are born with toxic gifts. To avoid implicating ourselves as we glance cross-ways at history (for who wants to believe themselves capable of such maladjustment) we might call the art of poisoning a genetic stowaway, an anomaly, the exception to the rule. Not everyone turns out a Claudius; even the most power-hungry usually stop long before resorting to the poison-in-the-ear-while-victim- naps-in-the-orchard trick. But, honestly, one younger brother knowledgeable in the art of liquid death does not overshadow the thousands of more sloppy and common poison-jobs we learned about in Mr. Yorick's grade 10 chemistry class. Let's face it, most Apothecaries aren't sitting around in hovels waiting to be given money for "mortal drugs" that may, or may not, help young lovers to an early grave. No, if we look at ourselves head-on in the mirror without flinching we have to admit our own culpability. The state and its citizens (you and me) are responsible for countless deaths, among them Napolean (arsenic), Edward III (wine), Buddha (mushrooms), and of course Socrates (hemlock). The art of poisoning isn't tagging a ride on some mutated x chromosome; contamination is a threat we must all vehemently guard ourselves against. It's best to cleave to paranoia and ritually remind ourselves: one bad apple (didn't Snow White find out the hard way) or a couple of bad seeds (Medea and Deianira, for example) can ruin the entire batch (voila, Titus's cannibalistic dinner for two). - - - - -- -------===========================------- -- - - - - Dear Ministry of Training and Redevelopment: - Jobe - - - - -- -------===========================------- -- - - - - June 25, 2003 Dear Ministry of Training and Redevelopment: I am applying for the position of Employee #3178 at The Hamster Wheel Incorporated. I have recently completed my degree in English and Microeconomics at one of the top 10 universities in the Maritime provinces and, consequently, I am virtually unemployable in today's society. While I have few meaningful job skills to speak of, I do have the ability to hoodwink unwitting managerial personnel into overestimating my intelligence and professionalism due to my exceptional vocabulary and suave demeanour. I have had several years of experience producing and pushing widgets for Company A, simultaneously maintaining a shameless level of subordination in a faceless corporation with a rigid hierarchy. Although I have a tendency to embellish my capabilities in the workforce, I am more experienced in this regard than my fellow candidates for the position and most of the current working stiffs in your organization. I have always shown a great willingness to sacrifice my individuality and self-esteem to obtain employment from firms in order to stave off idleness and inevitable poverty, while effectively suppressing numerous personal talents that organizations generally deem superfluous. I am confident that I can be a valuable yet expendable cog/commodity in The Hamster Wheel organization based on my past performance, which includes my honour as co-winner of the 2001 Excellence in Rationalization Award with 720 fellow assembly line workers at Clonetech Industries. I exhibit great dedication to my work and can be counted on to work at maximum productivity without challenging the status quo or inciting labour strife. Furthermore, I am certain that my lack of stimulus or inspiration as an employee of your company will not drive me to acts of deviance in my private life, such as publishing or distributing subversive or pornographic materials, abduction or molestation of minors, canvassing for Greenpeace, supporting public broadcasters, and reading the Scriptures. I hope to hear from you in the near future. Yours truly, Jobe - - - - -- -------===========================------- -- - - - - 3P in Relation to Time - BMC - - - - -- -------===========================------- -- - - - - I can tell that writers of the world will be shocked at the uniquity and, undoubtedly, the indisputable superiority of the 3p model. But should this give me cause to retaliate? I think not. Imagine that one comes from a world where there is no time. Upon entry to our world, they would have no concept of this measurement. Many of them would assume that time was based on the cent-model and subsequently believe that there were 100 seconds in a minute, 100 minutes in an hour, 100 hours in a month, etc. They would always be late for appointments until someone bought them a clock or watch. Now let's compare this to non-3p writers. Lost in paragraphs, they are not sure how much is too little or too much, so while they occasionally reach the 3p model by a stroke of luck, most often they go drastically over, and sometimes they even fall short of the mark. Compare me, the creator of the 3p philosophy, to the person who gives a clock to a citizen of the timeless world. They may feel anger toward me, refusing to admit that time exists. On the other hand, admitting and accepting the true state of the world as it is, they may accept this gracious gift, responding with all of the praise and respect due to the genius mind that discovered this perfect unit of measurement. The End. - - - - -- -------===========================------- -- - - - - The Neo-Comintern Magazine / Online Magazine is seeking submissions. Unpublished stories and articles of an unusual, experimental, or anti-capitalist nature are wanted. Contributors are encouraged to submit works incorporating any or all of the following: Musings, Delvings into Philosophy, Flights of Fancy, Freefall Selections, and Tales of General Mirth. The more creative and astray from the norm, the better. For examples of typical Neo-Comintern writing, see our website at . Submissions of 25-4000 words are wanted; the average article length is approximately 200-1000 words. Send submissions via email attachment to , or through ICQ to #29981964. Contributors will receive copies of the most recent print issue of The Neo-Comintern; works of any length and type will be considered for publication in The Neo-Comintern Online Magazine and/or The Neo-Comintern Magazine. - - - - -- -------===========================------- -- - - - - ___________________________________________________ | THE COMINTERN IS AVAILABLE ON THE FOLLOWING BBSES | |~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~| | TWILIGHT ZONE (905) 432-7667 | | BRING ON THE NIGHT (306) 373-4218 | | CLUB PARADISE (306) 978-2542 | | THE GATEWAY THROUGH TIME (306) 373-9778 | |___________________________________________________| | Website at: http://www.neo-comintern.com | | Questions? Comments? Submissions? | | Email BMC at bmc@neo-comintern.com | |___________________________________________________| | The Current Text Scene : http://www.textscene.com | |___________________________________________________| - - - - -- -------===========================------- -- - - - - copyright 2003 by #245-06/29/03 the neo-comintern All content is property of The Neo-Comintern. You may redistribute this document, although no fee can be charged and the content must not be altered or modified in any way. Unauthorized use of any part of this document is prohibited. All rights reserved. Made in Canada.