WHT008

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

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robyn werkhoven

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janette hoppe

issue seven: excess

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barb

Edited by David Graham Subeditors: Carlin McLellan, Kim Bartels & Gem Minter Graphic Designer: Holly Farrell Photography & Art Director: Genevieve Graham 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.

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Editorial: David Graham

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Poetry: Michael collins

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poetry: robyn werkhoven

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Poetry: janette hoppe

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poetry: frank kruse

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poetry: spiggsy

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poetry: eunice c english

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poetry: barb

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fiction: brad evans

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Poetry: Novocastrian Poetry Video Wrap up

editorial David Graham

Excess is a word that rolls easily off the lips of any hedonist.

Excess is the point where the scales tumble, positives become negatives, pleasure becomes pain and enough becomes too much.

This is the tightrope we walk all our lives. Whether it’s drugs, food, art, sex or any of the other petty pleasures that they call sin, all too often our own medicine leads us to our just deserts.

This month the Word Hurl Times struggles with its own addiction to the volumous content that comes to it from the great nether of Newcastle and beyond. Some of the pieces you will read are the excess of yester-months, spewing forward from the past. Others come to us fresh and new like a springtime strawberry.

As a doctor, I recommend you gorge yourself while you still can, test your limits. Break the scales of poetry and cross the boundaries of prose. Look at art that hurts your eyes. Read books barely coherent. Converse with your fellow human with jazz music. Sweep up the refuse and use it again!

This is the most responsible irresponsibility I can think of. Waste not want not, goes the clichĂŠ. So lick the crumbs from plates, overfill the glasses, eat the ice cream from the bowl and love until you can love no more.

Enjoy.

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editorial

Madman Badman

Michael Collins

Madman Badman appearing on forthcoming cd called: On Death Trees Hung.... A cheery little title aimed at the whole family for their complete enjoyment

Madman Badman Leave me alone don’t give a damn!

Bomb makers life takers Tea Party Right Wing God forsakers.

Future trashers spirit smashers Handing out for Allah a thousand lashes.

Species killers pocket fillers Dark profits buy a row of villas.

You in despair crying there Are you only after your fair share?

Crowded streets everyday defeats Homelessness grows as love retreats.

Mothers fret and pray most every day For children who have lost their way.

The work space- a toxic place Possessing neither charm nor grace.

Politicians chatter… what’s the matter?

Tighten your own belt- watch them get fatter.

Big Business blames stakes its claims Not caring who it defames.

What do we know? Where do we go?

Is everything we do for show?

Poetry: michael collins

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poetry: robyn werkhoven

urban living

janette hoppe

it is a crazy dichotomy this world that we live we are happy to get but not willing to give we try to keep up with the Kadashian’s no longer the Jones’ because the Jones’ are no longer enough.

It is no longer enough just to accumulate stuff we need our five minutes of fame and it doesn’t matter how we play the game or who we hurt along the way that’s merely collateral damage the bridges we burn because if I can be famous there’s dollars to earn and I no longer need talent to be held in esteem because there’s face book and you tube and twitter to screen my everyday antics can be posted a.s.a.p and I am no longer accountable to what may come to be after all it’s just the hype that you are told not to believe because we’ve all been warned about stones and sticks and whatever I post it only gets hits, so if you are gullible enough to believe the tweet that you read then you are a twit because you know ‘the media is full of dirty tricks’.

poetry: janette hoppe

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poetry: frank kruse

Life’s Lessons

spiggsy

The canvas of the dawn up above it is so grand My heart begins to sing as I stroll around these lands; To my left I see the ‘scarpment tall and proud against the West Inwardly I marvel at the fortune with which I’m blessed.

This trip away has taught me much, indeed, right now I’m pondering so Seen me change my angle, corrected things I thought I’d known; Some days it evens out like that and I’m shown to change my view When plain and clear it comes to me there’s smarter things to do.

Seen a pretty girl the other night with whom I tried to play some cards After she revealed that hers was a furious maddened heart; I hoped to ease her mood but good showers were not raining For my suggestion was no fun- required too much explaining!

Then I travelled to my Aunt’s and she’s a gem, that’s for sure; To the family she’s a treasure loyal to the core.

Her home it is a castle full of insights to be had; Each and every time I visit I come away so glad.

There learn of Socrates and Cicero had a glimpse of things they wrote And the Dust Bowl of the 30s that saw the US almost broke; Gather garden waste for her compost pick up leaves from Trees-Not-Ferns Am happy to pitch some weight in for I share in these concerns. *** Now the train it hastens on, homewards bound am I On steel tracks ever racing under a cloudy sky; Life sometimes is funny with its lessons and its gains Yet let it speak to you gently for you’ll be forever changed.

poetry: spiggsy

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Pausing Poetry

Eunice C English 29.9.2001

I dont like poetry that...

Pauses It irks me Who lives And talks At full speed Or used to.

Now life is full of... pauses Gasps of breath even Gasps for breath Grasps for rails Staggers on steps Stutters for words Grabbing for memory My life is now A poem...

That pauses Halting Hard of hearing Hints of hearsay Short of step Arthritic of hips And knees Petering and teetering And every day precious.

http://euniceenglish2015.wordpress.com

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poetry: eunice c english

poetry: barb

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Why would I think of Persepolis Brad Evans

“So, how far did you get tonight?”

I saw the whiteness of Trevor’s crooked eye-teeth shining in the faint streetlight as we walked up Rayoola Drive.

He grinned. “Do you remember when we were sitting at the kitchen table?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, she moved her foot beneath the table and pressed it into my crotch!”

“No shit!?”

At that moment, a white, Scottish Terrier spotted us and crossed the road. It approached us hesitantly while continuously sniffing in our direction. Trevor swung one of his steel-capped boots, pretending to kick it, but the terrier ran back across the road before turning to face us once again. It started to bark like crazy. Trevor picked up a rock and threw it at the dog. The terrier ran off and disappeared into some shrubbery.

“Yeah!” he turned back to face me. “She just kept rubbing her foot in my crotch and I started to get a hard-on. I stood up at one point and there was this wet patch showing in my crotch. Embarrassing shit, eh!?”

We both started laughing out loud. The sound of our laughter carried far off in the late night air. I looked up at the moon and then at the dark rooftops where the terracotta tiles, in silhouette, were reflecting its light. Seeing those tiles in the moonlight was atmospheric and for some reason it reminded me of something majestic and ancient, like Persepolis.

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fiction: brad evans

“Did she notice it?”

“Notice what?”

“The lube, man? The lube?”

Trevor smirked. “Yeah! She just smiled and brushed it off.”

“What? She brushed off your lube?”

“No, you dick, she just ignored it.”

I turned around suddenly. “Hey, I wonder what the time is?”

Trevor pressed the button on his watch to light up the face. “It’s ten past one.”

“Were we over there that long? You’ve got to go to work tomorrow.”

“Fuck it. I don’t feel like going to bed. Man, tonight was amazing with Kay. I had an awesome night. I just want to stay up.”

“Are you sure? Haven’t you gotta get up at 4 in the morning to go to work?”

“Yeah, but I’m not tired at all.”

We stood in silence for a while, I looked up at the stars and enjoyed the heaviness of the still, cold, night. I breathed in the faint, wintry wisps of homely woodsmoke that clung to the air.

“Do you have feelings for her?” I asked finally.

“Dunno.”

“How old do you reckon she’d be?”

“She said she was 38.”

“Really. Man that’s nearly twice your age!”

Trevor grinned. “Yeah!”

“She’d probably teach you some good shit, eh?”

Trevor’s grin widened. “Yeah! And I’d teach her some good shit as well!”

Both of us started laughing out loud as our voices carried down the dead, dark road.

fiction: brad evans

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A thought came to me. “Hey, could you imagine if you married Kay and I married Donna. Do you know what that would make you?”

The moment I finished talking, I detected some ghostly movement right behind Trevor while he was considering my question. Within seconds the silence was punctuated with loud, continuous barking. Trevor spun around quickly.

“FUCK THAT MUTT!”

He swung his steel-capped boot out to kick the dog but the terrier was too fast and his boot sailed through airspace.

The dog ran off triumphantly across the road, held its position and then continued barking at us. Trevor picked up another rock and threw it at the dog. The dog disappeared into the shrubbery again.

He turned back to face me. “I dunno. What would that make me then?”

“If you married Kay, you’d be my father-in-law!”

Trevor laughed. “Yeah! That sounds fucking weird, eh.

And you’re older than me.”

“Yeah! And Donna would be your daughter-in-law!”

“Shit, you’re right! And she’s only a few years younger than me.”

“Yeah! Classic, eh!”

“So what do you wanna do now?”

“Let’s go down the street, see what’s going on.”

“It’d be fucking dead, man. There’s nothing going on this time of night!”

“What about the golf club disco?”

“Nah, that’ll be finishing up shortly.”

“Did you want to head back to mine?”

“Yeah, sure!”

We both continued along Rayoola, walking the slight incline towards Gapulbundi Crescent. As we cleared the bend I looked over at Carunparinga Ridge where, just above,Venus

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fiction: brad evans

could be seen making her slow descent in the dark, western sky.

“What’s it like with Donna?” He asked me.

“Good. She can get pretty horny. Do you remember when we crashed out in the lounge room this evening after Kay went to bed?”

“Yeah.”

“Well she was pretending to sleep and after you went to sleep she then came over and sucked me off.”

“No shit?!”

Before I continued, I looked over my shoulder and caught the glimpse of pale movement somewhere near the dark trunks of some trees.

Trevor slipped his silver neck chain into his mouth and made a chewing motion with his jaw as he pulled a coin out of his pocket before he turned around and threw it hard across the road. We both heard the ring as it struck the tar and rolled across before it hit the gutter and fell silent.”

“How much was that?”

He spat the chain back out. “Just twenty cents.”

“Fuck, man, twenty cents! And you’re just throwing it away?!”

“Yeah, so what?!” Grinning, he pulled another coin out from his pocketful of change. “And here’s a dollar!”

He flashed it right before my eyes before throwing the coin hard across the road. We watched it ricochet off the gutter and fly into some bush nearby. A noise erupted from within the bush as if something had been disturbed by the coin.

We turned back around and followed the straight length of dark road that led to my parents’ place tucked away in its shadowy corner. I could hear a bird calling out in the distance, its mournful inquiry carried easily to us along the still, night air.

“That’s fucking weird!”

“What’s that?”

“Well, you don’t normally hear stormbirds this time of

fiction: brad evans

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year! Usually it’s in the summer.”

We walked on in silence until we reached mine and remained at the top of the gravel driveway. Trevor started kicking some loose stones by the side of the road with one of his boots while deep in thought. “Do you remember that discussion when you popped in to visit me at work today?”

“That one about how life started on Earth?”

“Yeah!”

“What about it?”

“Do you remember that dude who delivered the meat and couldn’t get away because he was so interested in what we were talking about?”

“Yeah, that was fascinating shit, eh!”

“That conversation you started must’ve lasted about half an hour after you left, I reckon.”

“No shit?!”

“Yeah, but the deliverer came back a little later, eh!”

“Why?”

“Well, when he left his van in the loading bay...”

At that moment, I detected movement just behind Trevor. “Man, it’s back!”

Trevor stopped talking. “What’s back?”

“That little dog, man. I’ve never known a dog to do this, it’s gotta be fucking possessed!”

“You’re shitting me?!” Trevor stood still. “Let me know when it’s less than half a metre away.” He informed me in a soft voice, without turning around.

I looked at the terrier’s present position. “It’s bearing about two metres right behind you and closing in slowly!”

“Yeah...” he coughed before continuing in a louder voice. “...that meat courier came back into the shop after making that delivery...”

“It’s just over a metre from you now!”

“...he came back in waving this parking fine in his hand and laughing, saying that he got a fifty buck fine because

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fiction: brad evans

he’d left his van too long in the loading bay...”

I nodded.

Trevor spun around like a maniac. The dog tried to scuttle backwards but he’d already launched his steel-capped boot, driving it hard right up the terrier’s arse. The impact lifted the dog right off the ground. We both heard a grunt as if it was winded but it recovered quickly and streaked back across the road, turning once more to bark at us.

I started laughing loudly. “Man, that dog’s not gonna shit for a week after that one!”

Trevor followed through by hurling another rock at it until it ran off once more and disappeared into some shrubbery.

“So the courier got fined!?” I laughed. “That’s a classic!”

He peered into the distant shrubbery.

“It’s gone now.” I said reassuringly.

Trevor turned around, suddenly laughing as he reconnected his thoughts. “Yeah, the courier got so caught up in our discussion that he didn’t realise how long he’d been in the loading bay and found a fine waiting for him underneath his wiper.”

“R-e-a-l-l-y!?” I said in a deliberately slow, mocking fashion. Now tired of the story. “Y-o-u d-o-n’t f-u-c-k-i-n-g s-a-y!”

Grinning, I watched with anticipation as Trevor swung his boot out towards me, but I stepped out of the way.

We talked a while longer before he decided to walk back home, to rest and listen to some music before heading off to work once more.

I left the road in silence as I walked down the moonlit driveway and slipped beneath the roller door that led into the garage before entering my bedroom. I lay down on my single

fiction: brad evans

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bed before reaching for my old Sanyo pocket radio with half its aerial missing from years ago.

I flicked the little, black power switch and began to turn the broad tuning dial around & around, the tuner sliding up & down the range of frequency while glancing across at my dusty bookcase.

My folders from high school were still there, slumped and neglected on the bottom shelf. Their subject labels that I’d hurriedly scrawled onto their spines, from 3 years ago, were now beginning to fade. My eyes settled on the folder marked ‘Ancient History’, I walked over and pulled the thick folder out, threw it onto the bed & started leafing through it. I closed the folder & lay back on the bed absently tuning the radio.

That night was a clear night I can still remember.

That night, I picked up a radio station in Darwin.

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fiction: brad evans

novocastrian poetry video wrap up In September, Word Hurl Anti-Slam and Newcastle Region Library called for poems about poetry from local poets. We received heaps, all of which we shared on Word Hurl Anti-Slam’s Facbook page, if you wanna go through and read them all. Then I went through all the poems and made one big collaborative poem with everyone’s individual poem. I felt a bit evil just taking certain bits from each person’s masterpiece to make a collaborative poem for everyone, but a poetry curator’s gotta do what a poetry curator’s gotta do.

Then Josh Bruce filmed and edited a video with six local writers/performers and poets reciting a collaborated poem. The performers were Jemima Webber, Meg Dunn, Alex Martin, Elena Terol, Benjamin James Matthews and Clark Gormley.

To view the video (featuring legendary locations around Newcastle) type Newcastle Region Library Collaborative Poetry Video into Google.

Here it is in word-form below! Also, the poetry slam it was promoting was a great success. Huge turn out with lovely people. Yay for poetry, libraries and good people! I can’t say thank you enough to everyone who helped out.

Here is ZE pome!

Because poetry must indulge my imaginings.

- Alex Martin

My words need to go out To as many people as possible.

To anyone with ears to hear; - Michael Collins

your words flood out, engulfing feet, ankles, shins once youve let your thoughts flow out, you cant shove them back in!

- Ben Mitchell

novocastrian poetry Video wrap up

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you start with letters, just print on a page Yet poems are the heartbeat of every human age.

- Peter Oliver

And the cockatoos with raucous cries Fill the chilling pale blue sky.

- David M Gunson

of words that climb dangerous spires toward the thin mountains and weave with her, the wisp of cloud, to adumbrate the light.

- Benjamin James Matthews

The wind sighs and susurruses through grass and leaves.

Branches tattoo together, and stems scrape along the tin roof exactly like the tiny claws of a new born poem.

- Lu Quade

I know the predefined line the minds constructed perception dictates direction but for a second it won't.

- Nathaniel James

when the ink dries the page scared with stanzas words echo down passages back to the deep - David Graham

I like paper. It pulps, it burns, it fades, Crumbles in your hands, Recording human thoughts like these.

- Peter J Brown

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novocastrian poetry Video wrap up

I wanted to take it all in the prose, the rhyme, the synonym, my muse, my crush, my stalkers curse he had me hooked with just one verse - Janette Hoppe

Be prolific, be prolific!

Cram your life’s baggage into concise lines.

- Jade Honda

You came into my life so quietly and took my heart - Eunice C English

a stone fruit, summer-ripe, juicy and extravagant, - Kelly Blaney-Murphy

seduce the punters every time with breathtaking word-play and pulsing, tidal mouth-music.

- John Carey

I read the poems again, underlining, seeking definitions: ancient civilisations, gods and words.

- Malcolm St Hill

When we press our thoughts Daily to the page There is understanding There is life There is the purpose of our days.

- Charlie Wilson

novocastrian poetry Video wrap up

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SUBMISSIONS – “STUDIO LA PRIMITIVE ARTS ZINE!”

Our online ARTS ZINE is two years old in October, with a growing audience, nationally and internationally.

The Zine is free, with no advertising from sponsors. It is just something we want to do for the Arts, which has been our lifelong passion.

Already we are having a splendid response with many artists, writers and philosophers happy to contribute articles and exhibition news. Hopefully we will have your art works and words to print in future editions.

Please get back to us if you are interested, fairly soon as we are booking in artists and writers over the next months.

Our email: werkhovenr@bigpond.com The ARTS ZINE is available at our new web site, www.studiolaprimitive.net Or direct link: http://issuu.com/robynwerkhoven/docs/slp_arts_zine_july2015 Looking forward to hearing from you Cheers Eric & Robyn Werkhoven Editors

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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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