THE ENGINE 1

This is a new journal, THE ENGINE . People have come forward and dared to call themselves poets and writers. They have sent their message in a bottle
out into the world, and it is here, today, for your purview. These writers are
from different countries and time zones but they all write in English, even
though many of them are not English, but members of the former Colonies. There
are no submissions in Kwazulu or Aboriginal languages, but if there were they
would be welcome, and so too are submissions in any language or dialect,
including Ulster Scots, Lallans, and any other Scottish or Sub-Scottish
dialect, the Irish language, or dialects, in fact any strange, foreign or
familiar tongue, including Old Catalan and Ancient Greek. This journal
celebrates linguistic diversity, and work from everywhere, however strange or
apparently inaccessible. The title of the journal is a direct reference to the work of the Italian Futurists, and
their celebration of the new, the machine-like, the creation of systems, as
opposed to wandering and solipsistic renditions of lapwings, cow shite and Aran
sweaters. But this journal will welcome any subject matter except the
sentimental and turgid, the inauthentic and hackneyed. The title is purely a
practical joke, and this journal has no political, philosophical or religious
Hobby Horses. In fact it is opposed to any flag waving politico and his or her
favorite rant. The politics of this journal are the aesthetic pleasure taken in
eating a plate of delicious prawns as opposed to disposing of a crappy burger,
of the statement which is utterly erroneous, tangential and bizarre, and which
is not allowed in polite society, of the inarticulate moment that was
disallowed, and the dream sequence. Nothing real is allowed or allowable, and
so long as the poem is read as belonging to the world of dreams and nightmares,
and certainly as music, formal constructs are considered too, free verse, the
prose poem, pictures, and any mechanically grooved symbols of the cosmos. Look
into the mud, the horror of polite society, blood, mire, or whatever, poetry is
the aesthetic of considering desolation and ultimately the shit that
encapsulates existence, binds us, and from which we consider art as a release,
but to some an escape. This journal is therefore opposed to all politics, but
endorses the truth behind the experiences that bind us to the world, the
misconceived and misunderstood, the rejected, sometimes the daft, not as an
aesthetic pose, but as a constant struggle with the incoherence and the rubbish
that assails us and binds us to life. Literature is finished, and the written word is dead. In the 19th Century the great assault on religion began, it is now necessary to dispose of literature too. It is not a fake religion. Religious feeling is a substitute for the actual reality of love, and literature now is another substitute for the same. Literature is peripheral and entertaining, and this journal is dedicated to pleasure and enjoyment. At present the journal enjoys an open door status, there is little or no editorial effort beyond the presentation of new writers. Now a readership must debate the rest. Any new submissions of work should be sent to: Quinqureme@Hotmail.com

MYTH OF THE HOLLYWOOD LOVEDOLLS

Though the diary of Lt. Seblon would certainly have recorded something different, the uberneuby had written thus: On Friday I stumbled into early primordial matter coalescing into a new star system. The laws of physics were all different. For example, location isn’t physical (we met at the intersection of four phone numbers); younger = smarter; and pipefitters can be respected members of the economy! (even if the economy is rarely a respected member of pipefitters), etc but some things were the same, like talk: people accumulate slowly, and talk is expensive (when it's cheaper, then I’ll say more, thought the uberneubie). Also, just as the laws of physics say everywhere, pipefitters meet on Friday after close of trades. And it was like I expected, there was
scant for squares there. They must mostly have been still working in their
datafactories & knowledge-management mills. Also many of these pipefitters
were more young than to be caught in the grid of the grind (not yet at least).
And its good to associate when you're nue to fitting pipes like I is [it was
true that she was new to the craft of fitting pipes together, but thought the
uberneubie, I ain't new to craft... Sometimes confidence can be premature. Even
as they met in guildhall mall, (unbeknownst to any of them) a very sinister
bulge was quietly building deep in the darkness of the data pipes...]

Welcome to Planet Mongoose, home of the 70 ft tall red haired
eating mongoose, esp don't of R (by the way, don't patronise me again by using
those %%%%% symbols, I know they mean the encoded Satanic message .....). Ya
Lord of the Underworld and Great Satan of San Francisco. Ya, Lulu stripqween of
Barcelona (AKA Frau S). Ya D, with all your whippets and libelboys. In fact YA,
YA, YA, YA fucking YA.... (the rest is silence)...Greetings to Lord Satan, Lord
of the Hollywood lovedolls...yes" Your work is very boorish, right your in, send your tenner to PO Box 22323433254353534, Hollywood Boulevard, C/O Mad Jack at the Chinese Laundry and you’ll also enjoy utility in my dynamite factory as a white slave.

EAST RECTUM

Gnaga is great in the Empirium this night, but the langorous limbs of the dogstar enfold you in the yonder twilit region of Peripatea. Attica is fallen, entwined beneath the head and neck of Neiron Keiser, Lord of the Unlit Toilet, the Great Hunter of the Black Sea and beyond.
I am writing a sci-fi novel. The first part is about a supercomputer that is able to duplicate reality, the second Alexander’s last dream at Persepolis, the 3rd rehearsals for Mozart’s opera ‘Mithradite re de Pontus’.

Where are the Hollywood lovedolls and libelboys now? Where are the oldtimes? The singing in the rustic wood with the Hobbit of Love.... Mephisto