WHT006: WHT II

WHT Word Hurl Times Magazine: Poetry, Short Stories, Art and Articles

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Mark Liston

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JAde Honda

issue six: whtII

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alex morris

Edited by David Graham Subeditors: Carlin McLellan, Kim Bartels, Elise Jarvis & Gem Minter Graphic Designer: Holly Farrell Photography & Art Director: Genevieve Carr WHT acknowledge the Awabakal people, the traditional custodians of the land this publication was created on. We pay respect to elders past, present and future.

Thank you to everyone who has contributed to this magazine.

This publication may be reproduced and distributed freely in its entirety.

Individual pieces remain the copyright of their author.

CONTENTS 04

EDITORIAL: DAVID GRAHAM

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POETRY: Robyn Werkhoven

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POETRY: Mark liston

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POETRY: SPIGGSY

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POETRY: michael collins

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POETRY: jade honda

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POETRY: charlie wilson

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IMAGE: DAVID GRAHAM & GENEVIEVE CARR

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POETRY: pete Cuppaidge

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POETRY: Genevieve carr

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FOUND POEM: ALEX MORRIS

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POETRY: Randall stephens

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IMAGE: CARLIN MCLELLAN

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FICTION: JOE MONTROSE

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FOUND POEM

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SUPPORTERS

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SUBMISSIONS

editorial David Graham

It’s often said that sequels never live up to the original. Indeed, the only sequel movies that ever stand alone usually move very far from their predecessor.

I’m talking Empire Strikes Back, Mad Max II and the Dark Knight sort of thing (I know what you’re thinking: NERD).

But, I digress. Here we are standing at the second revamped Word Hurl Times.

Issue six, in truth, but let’s not get technical. Anyway, let’s hope that the sequel to WHT: Rises, WHT II shits all over the first one, good as it was.

What can I say about what lies beneath these pages this bi-month? Well for starters, there’s pretty much nothing but poetry! The art is certainly alive and well, at least in the Word Hurl circle.

I guess the focus of this publication is on that medium, but gosh, does no one write prose anymore? I don’t know whether to blame the anti-slams, twitter, Malcolm Turnball(s) or climate change. Regardless, I hope you enjoy the smorgasbord of verse that follows.

We have another fantastic drawing and poem from Robyn Werkhoven who is also the editor of another Novocastrian Arts Journal ‘Studio La Primitive: Arts Zine.’ You can read it

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online at http://www.studiolaprimitive. net/. Then there’s a brutal poem by Newcastle ex-pat Mark Liston, a pretty idyll from Spiggsy and then a good dose of melancholy from Michael Collins and Jade Honda. Newcomer, Charlie Wilson navigates the gap between words, feelings and thoughts while Word Hurl Anti-Slam Gets Squared champion Pete Cuppaidge marvels at the miracles of nature and how humanity is destroying it. Genevieve Carr, also a champion of the anti-slam gives us her piece ‘The Six Times Table’.

If that’s not enough, Alex Morris continues her saga of online confession in ‘DC GChat Early 2010 – Facing the Music’ and Melbournite and spoken word demon Randall Stephens shares his piece ‘and because analytical types just aren’t sexy’.

See I told you there was a lot of poetry. We also have some photography from Genevieve Carr & yours truly, as well as, Carlin McLellan, a letter from Joe Montrose to Henry Miller and another ‘found poem’. Woo. Enough to make your head rush right. If not, you better stop reading…

editorial: David Graham

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everything as much Robyn Werkhoven

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Poetry: robyn werkhoven

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Feral Philosophy Mark liston

The cat killed a rabbit today, mottled grey on tawny brown. She chased it into the spare room behind the bed no-one sleeps in but for rare summer visitors: now scared bunny you are inside the periscope of a killer.

The jungle’s law in a law abiding homestead. Feral on feral. The swift baby had no chance- evolution makes you plentiful when you are prey. But alone, one on one, with an evolutionary winner your life flashes from one hopeless hop to another before hops collapse into crawls.

And the finalities of death are perfected by your predator- she learns the skills at your expense while playing with you: the fluff and fur of fear, pitch of hapless squeals, the strange softness of a broken bone, taste of blood steeped with sweat, and how the eyes of prey glaze in deep submission.

You are a toy at the wrong end of life’s food chain. * I tried to grab you from her grasp but she stared back at me, her blameless cruelty moved you further under cover. My job of nature documentary maker, philosopher on the nature of nature had begun; just as you, baby bunny, ended yours as the subject. * Day’s end finds the carcass; odour your beacon, a jealous dog your posse. The cat left no clues dropped as a trophy trail – fallen fur, blood spots or drag marks in carpet pile.

No burial was called beyond basic removal (your head could not be accounted for- presumed chewed- most likely under the shade of a camellia banquet site).

I bagged your remains with a sigh and cleaned up the consequence of quintessential feral philosophy acted out in our household.

I could read a book on the survival of the fittest or flick through a rabbit cookbook (for future reference only) or muse on futility of life beyond the present, or the fight of flight response to stress, but the feral on feral feud made me hope that the blue wren sunning on the fence has sharper reflexes than the baby bunny.

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Poetry: Mark Liston

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The Sounds of Birds spiggsy

I awake to the sounds of birds Serenading the earth; Hear at once their happy chorus Which sings out oh-so joyous.

At an hour you’d think ungodly Seems they’re wide awake, mostly: Welcoming in the new day And the sun’s first shining rays.

Meanwhile down upon the ground Begin Mankind’s racing sounds; Likely heading off to work Intending cash to earn.

Last night I got dumped So my spirit’s kind of slumped; And last week got the sack For punching my old mate Jack.

Wait…a kookaburra I hear How at this the heart it cheers!; Such confident little fellows Whose laughter’s far from mellow.

Need I say much more?

For suddenly I feel sure; That if these chaps can grace the sky So can I too face Life!

So I’ll arise and make my bed (After being sure I’m properly fed); And head out to wage daily war Facing whatever is in store!

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poetry: spiggsy

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8AM michael collins

8am the sun was blazing Full summer heat: I looked at you… all I could see: Shame and defeat.

And I fool myself constantly Give in way too much: You steal for drugs that steal your soulA toxic crutch.

The new toy in the garage wreckedYou drove it mad; The fear and intimidationYou are just mad.

I cannot bear to be with you My only son: ‘Hard love’ is harder for a motherIt must be done.

Give me the strength to fight these tearsOr cry them out: I cannot come home to this house To scream and shout!

Just look into the mirror, please Stop your abuse: Behaviour you reserve for me Is just a ruse.

Blame him, blame her, and blame meBut ‘no’… not ‘you’…

There is no sense of right or wrongWhat can I do?

No more a child yet not a man…

Again you rage: Some wild beast that has just escaped From out his cage.

Forgive me God! Though all I ask May never be: Alone in these shadows… I am…

As lost as he.

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poetry: michael collins

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Too Long jade honda

It felt like a long time, we stood on the too bright, too early street with maybe not a crack in the footpath between us.

I tried to squeeze the months from you.

I tried to stockpile them write poems about them and get sad drunk with them.

I didn’t want to make a long time too long.

Afterward, I could smell you on my shirt, until it was replaced by nervous cigarettes again, and I remembered what too long felt like.  

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poetry: jade honda

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Careful charlie wilson

Now we are more careful With our words Than we ever were before Traversing, immersing Knowing with fantastic intelligence When to talk And when to turn aside Our suspicions of the other And of ourselves Change by the day, I suppose Or am I supposing wrong?

Is it only I Buried in mind and thought That supposes Or imposes Any restriction on thought We breathe in the sight of one another In my tiny London bedroom We smile readily, without greed I feel the need to wrap her up In my arms Be rid at last Of ambiguity Of all grey things But our words remain Careful, insistent, purposeful

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poetry: charlie wilson

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Wet Dream

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image: david graham and genevieve carr

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Kissing Wire Wings pete Cuppaidge

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wire wings kiss after copulation first he performs a fantastic fan dance for her which has the effect of driving her completely to distraction then he walks around her a few times as if on some kind of inspection and once everything seems to be in place he covers her she can’t see his face the act is short the act is swift but this is pigeon time and if you think he’s in a hurry while he’s in this state of bliss he’s not in a hurry he’s just waiting for that kiss

poetry: Pete cuppaidge

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My Slaves Pete Cuppaidge It has been estimated that the average energy consumption of a modern Western person is the equivalent of owning 8000 slaves.

The amount of coal burnt annually took 1,000,000 years to produce.

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I have 8000 slaves but I might not have enough some of them just don’t seem to give a stuff when I ask them to run faster they rebuke their master “we’re all out of puff ” all their efforts go up in smoke more than you can poke a stick at while all the while I just get fatter and diabetes flatters me Clouds of Co2 consume them they find it hard to breath one sneeze and we’ll reach the tipping point one million years of trees is what it takes to feed them and they need that every year I know that greed is good but this is ridiculous as I said to them just the other day let’s rip now where in God’s creation is my whip?

poetry: pete cuppaidge

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The Six Times Tables Song Genevieve carr

One six is six Two sixes are twelve Three sixes are eighteen Four sixes are twenty-four Five Sixes are thirty Six sixes are thirty-six Seven sixes are forty-two and eight sixes are forty-eight Nine sixes are fifty-four And ten sixes are sixty Eleven sixes are sixty-six And twelve sixes are seventy-two  

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poetry: genevieve carr

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DC GChats Early 2010 Volume 2 Facing Music ALEX MORRIS

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FOUND POEM: ALEX MORRIS

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FOUND POEM: ALEX MORRIS

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FOUND POEM: ALEX MORRIS

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and because analytical types just aren’t sexy Randall stephens randallstephenspoetry.com randallstephens.bandcamp.com/

because I came here on my own and stayed that way

because expectation is bad but anticipation is good

because it was late and a very long way from where I want to be

because warmth because touch and smell and taste and skin and hands eyes and smiles because hungry because it was getting even later the hour was full where the whole day before it had been empty because with nowhere else to go when we talked closer and closer for a few moments there

because I was curious if you were curious if nothing else because there is never a singular reason for anything to happen or not to happen because of the wine because why not live looking for reasons to say yes, not no

it didn’t feel so bad.

because I just drift through this life when not holding on too tight I wanted to be held because I thought you needed it because I thought I needed it

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poetry:randall stephens

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Sunshine at midnight carlin mclellan

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image: carlin mclellan

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Dear Henry joe montrose

Dear Henry, I’m writing to you because I was walking through the park near the University of Sydney and thought about starving underneath a Parisian statue of Venus and then of you. But maybe it was Baudelaire who wrote about that? Regardless, I came to realise, I don’t know you very well, although I once loved your book and drank your pages like a goon sack.

Someone once told me they saw you in a movie. I actually didn’t know her that well – we came so close to fucking our way into a dirty hole though but in the end, it was just pissing together in a friend’s bathroom and nude swimming in a lagoon – In the movie, you were an old man and you were sitting on a john in a room plastered with old pornography giving a monologue on your sexual gratification. I’ve never seen a picture of you, so I just imagined William Burroughs in his last years, skin flabby like an old vagina and big bug smack eyes staring out from under a huge fedora. I’m not sorry.You are one of the ones who either saved my life or ruined it and in the end, your writing has little to do with my intentions, good as it is, your writing that is.

A guy called Nick told me that you had a dream. In that dream, I was standing in the middle of an open road with my hands raised up to the sky and my mouth covered in foam. I was a shadowy Jesus, flitting from tree to tree. It was Autumn and thickly the leaves fell. Then a pimp in a seersucker suit sucked a toothpick dry.You opened your eyes and the night had been a giant, dribbling and pacing the boards with all my letters and cards stacked up against the door.The morning light came slowly tumbling through the crack and you thought of me and I felt like you were lugging a body on your back.Then where did I go? On that endless senseless, demented drift? Into the woods, into the trees, where I could move and shift, all dressed up in that same ridiculous seersucker suit with a strew of wreckage forever at the heel of my boot? Or so he says, but I don’t really know that guy.

I’m in Sydney. A modern shithouse, who’s people regularly plunge themselves into the urine infested ocean, especially on a weekend. The place is full of straight poofters getting around with their plain t-shirts and shorts, little dogs trailing at their ankles. They exchange pleasantries over their minute beer-bellies as the sun brings out the grey in their hair. I can imagine the sad apathy they must feel as they wash the shaving foam from their faces. Their wives have left them for other women and their children masturbate over Barbie dolls and coke bottles.

I just had lunch with a friend who’s getting into movies. The project is getting an arts grant and as a director it’s all very serious for him. I’m glad, but I can see him slowly killing himself. He was wearing thongs because in a sleepy stupor he kicked a door frame and broke his smallest toe. It was bent out of shape and bruised at the joint. I don’t know him that well but, often in the very early morning he’s working the stock receiving of a major restaurant chain, then straight to his studio as the sun comes up, missing entire nights of sleep and barely living. His eyes have become deep-set sacs and often have that

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fiction: joe montrose

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vacant gleam of an insomniac. The things we do for mortgages. If I were you, I’d call him a fool to his face and plot to steal his girlfriend, so I can scam her for money. I say that, but you know how bad I am when it comes to women.

Not always though. In another time, I was living in a room barely two meters wide and twelve feet long. I had to stack my furniture on top of each other to make it fit. My bed was on a bunk. I had been locked in a three day drink and drug binge with a woman, a real genius woman too, and we’d finally fell to fucking. The bed swung on its hinges, shaking the chest of drawers and the cabinet resting against it, thumping against the wall, rattling the windows. It could be no harder. Empty beer bottles tumbled, the sun came through the undrawn blinds and that was it. She went to another country, I didn’t really know her. Never really known anyone since.

So, what’s it like to have so much of your life represented in an endless torrent of words? As you wrote those things, did it make them more real or even less? I think your unscrupulousness was a lie, a sweet lie that was true in that modern sense. There’s nothing like that now. Not even contempt for all the mush and history we’ve been born into. How can there be? The lights are so dazzling; it’s an anesthetic, reductive and homogenising. Often I watch people recoil from the leaves and branches of plants as though one touch would leave a deadly rash, so convinced that nature is unclean. But dirt sits in the stomach better than plastic! Always with the filth and the bacteria that doesn’t exist! When will Borris realise he’s lousy or Tania stop getting the clap? Those are your names, but I’m talking about people I know, a little.

What do you think Dostoevsky would think if he saw all this? But then, you never met him, did you?

Sincerely, Joe

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fiction: joe montrose

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Untitled author unknown

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found poetry

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submit to word hurl

A bi-monthly magazine / zine / journal / spam email of poetry, art, flavour enhancers, or anything else you send us. All text types, formats & mediums accepted. Surprise us and anyone who reads it!

For enquiries and submissions email: wordhurl.antislam@hotmail.com To check out the publication in a previous incarnation go to: wordhurlantislam.com

Image: Thomas Pollack Anshutz Boy Reading: Ned Anshutz (detail and altered) ca. 1900.

Oil on canvas, (96.7 x 68.8 cm).

Brooklyn Museum, Dick S. Ramsay Fund, 67.135

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