
                 ,,ggddY"""Ybbgg,,             subversive literature
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     ,dP"      ,88888888P"  db,       "8P""""     Installment 228 of...
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  `8,                     ,d8888888baaa       ,8' ELECTRONIC MAGAZINE- -- -
   `8,                    888888888888'      ,8'
    `8a                   "8888888888I      a8'   Writers:
     `Yba                  `Y8888888P'    adP'    Ei'det-ik
       "Yba                 `888888P'   adY"      trilobyte
         `"Yba,             d8888P" ,adP"'        BMC
            `"Y8baa,      ,d888P,ad8P"'    
 -    -   -  - -``""YYba8888P""''===================------- -- -  -   -    -
   MARCH 2, 2003                INSTALLMENT 228        BMC, EDITOR-IN-CHIEF
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                         FEATURED IN THIS INSTALLMENT:

                          A drink with the ex - BMC
               agony in slightly distorted e minor - trilobyte
                            variables - Ei'det-ik


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                                EDITOR'S NOTE

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  Here's something to iron out your heartbeat.

  Send me the cleaning bill.

                                                                             
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                           A drink with the ex - BMC                                      

 -    -   -  - -- -------===========================------- -- -  -   -    -

  The pub seemed so quiet.  I swirled the ice cubes around in the glass
  again and looked back up.

  "So," I said, "do you really think it's a good idea for us to get back
  together?"

  "Fuckin yeah it is, you little prick.  Don't you think I know what's best,
  or do you think I'm a FUCKIN idiot?"

  "No, no," I said, "You're not an idiot."  I swirled the ice cubes in my
  glass again, hoping that if I stalled enough she'd give up and leave.

  "Hey, you know what?" she said.  "We had some good times, you know.  When
  you weren't being such a fuckin retard all the time things were kinda
  fun."  I agreed.

  I said, "Hey, remember how when we broke up you slept with half of my
  friends?  That was kind of funny how you did that."

  She smiled and said, "You know, I slept with the other half before we
  broke up."  This was kind of strange.   She slept with 50% of my friends
  after we broke up, that was clear enough.  But did she sleep with the
  other 50% while we were going out or before we went out?  Or was it 25%
  before we went out, 25% while we were going out, and the other 50% after
  we went out?

  "So are we gettin back together or what?" she said.  Still, I swirled my
  ice cubes and said nary a word.  Eventually she went away.

  She came back a few minutes later.  "So answer me you fuckin asshole!  Are
  we gettin back together or no?"  Swirl swirl swirl.

  The swirling of the ice cubes represents two things.  First, in this
  little pub there was nothing to distract me from her line of questioning,
  so I sought escape in the swirling of the ice cubes.  This is pretty
  pathetic, really, since it's impossible to escape into the bottom of a
  glass (unless that glass happens to be filled with alcohol, which this one
  wasn't).

  Second, the swirling ice is a metaphor for my own inner turmoil.  I was
  tossed inside, but an invisible wall like glass kept me contained.  But
  what if the glass were to shatter?  The ice would fly everywhere, spread
  out all over the room.  People would slip on it, and it would eventually
  melt into water, and then that water would evaporate.  People might
  breathe it in, somebody would drink that water someday.  Somebody like my
  ex-girlfriend.

  I swirled the glass faster and faster, shaking it until the effort was
  visible on my face.  My elbow on the table jerked harder and harder until
  it was banging loudly over and over.  One of the ice cubes came up over
  the rim and hit me in the face.

  I stopped, held the glass still, and then smashed it down on the table.
  Shards of glass sliced deep into my hand and wrist.

  "Sure, let's get back together!" I said.  And I lived happily ever after.


 -    -   -  - -- -------===========================------- -- -  -   -    -

               agony in slightly distorted e minor - trilobyte

 -    -   -  - -- -------===========================------- -- -  -   -    -

  she served me once, on a platter, the most delicious salad dressing i'd
  ever had.  it had chunks of white in it, if you looked at it in a
  transparent plastic container.  it had little chunks of red shards and
  little pieces of brown flavor-substance.  it had everything, all in a
  deliciously brownish-clear oil called "dressing".

  i knew that i wanted this dressing rather than the french that many places
  traditionally offer because this was the "house" dresing; and if some
  place is willing to name an oil-with-pieces-of-vegetable-in-it their
  "house dressing", it must be good.

  no, that's not entirely true.  i was out to this retaurant with an
  entirely different chick and she told me how good the "house dressing"
  was.

  that chick is now dead.


  part I:  present tense and afterthought

  i notice that there has been no garlic bread brought with our meal;  i
  fault the business of the restaurant and not the server in particular.
  i see the cuteness of 'her sweetness' and i beckon her attention.

  she steps to the table.

  "uhh, madam?" i ask.

  "uhh," she smiles, "yes, sir?"

  "ma'am, may we possibly have more of the garlic-bread?"

  "yes, certainly!" she replies, with a satisfied look on her face.  she
  seems to notice that we didn't ask her for something more important than 
  just garlic bread.

  i could have...  

  i certainly could have ...

  but i didn't.  it was enough joy to look into her gleaming brown eyes.

  did i mention that i was on a date?   yeah ...

  i was on a date with a girl with curly [colored] hair.  

  she was not as beautiful as our waitress.

  it was a challenging time but eventually i attributed any goodness to the
  conversation;  the conversation was intense enough that the date was
  worthwhile.  otherwise i'd be dating the girl who gave me salad dressing.


  part II:   dating the girl with the salad dressing

  hello, all she wanted to do was just roll around in oil on a hardwood
  floor.  all she wanted to do was dress up in jeans and a t-shirt and roll
  around on a hardwood floor in olive oil.  all she wanted to do was talk
  about the time i asked for the salad dressing, the house dressing.  all
  she wanted to do was acknowledge that i asked for the house dressing even
  though she hadn't seen me in there before.  amazing.  all she wanted to do
  was look beautiful and

  talk intrepidly

    talk pointlessly

                but she looked beautiful

        she looked

                gor-ge-ous

                        with a blue hair tie in her hair


        sweetness perspired.


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                            variables - Ei'det-ik

 -    -   -  - -- -------===========================------- -- -  -   -    -

          __shiatsu1__

  i had this friend who assigned variables 
  to a little white shiatsu yapping 
  at us from behind a foot-high fence.  

  "hello cute little dog1."  

  i'd hope that  he would not
  assign those variables to me, 
  but rather, that he would recognize 
  my global constant. 

  Constant and constant, (visual)basically speaking, of course.  



          __darts2__

  someday i'll be lecturing the meaning behind
  those numerating conversations.
  i'd be at the podium and everyday in my glory 
  explicating the vastness behind 
  these conversations on variables 
  and their metaphoric association to life. 
  the profundus of youthful tangents 
  between boy and girl.  

  but everyday i'd have to bring a box of darts 
  to throw at a crazy man who sits in the back, 
  yelling at my fallacies, my pontification, 
  and i'd throw these darts at the     

  "i know what that really means!!"   

  throwing darts at the one who knows me best.   



          __bopple3__

  still walking down the alley, 
  we talk about girls we know
  that look like bopples.  

  you remember bopples 

  the marsupials that live 
  within their own pouch, 
  trollish hair and bulbous eyes?  

  megan looked like a bopple.  

  my arch-rival karma comes,
  gets comfortable in his mind 
  as revenge for my cruel visualizations,
  then nudges his ribs, 

  "heya boy, how about you leave that girl?" 



          __constant4__

  and so predestines the crazy old man 
  in the back of my lectures
  and my darts
  and fervent times 
  with global constants. 

  We will always be two variables 
  assigned to each other.  

  now that's a love story.
  of sorts.


 -    -   -  - -- -------===========================------- -- -  -   -    -

  The Neo-Comintern Magazine / Online Magazine is seeking submissions.
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 -    -   -  - -- -------===========================------- -- -  -   -    -
  copyright 2003 by                                            #228-03/02/03
  the neo-comintern

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