Wht 10 by Word Hurl Anti-Slam

WHT WORD HURL TIMES MAGAZINE: POETRY, SHORT STORIES, ART AND ARTICLES

ISSUE TEN: SAWR MAT & BUS

Edited by David Graham Subeditor: Carlin McLellan Graphic Designer: Holly Farrell & Bek Park 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.

CONTENTS 04

EDITORIAL:

DAVID GRAHAM

POETRY:

FOUND POEMS

06 POETRY:

ALEXANDER ELIOT BENTLY

POETRY:

TREVOR BURNDRED

INTERVIEW:

JAMES DRINKWATER

PROSE POEM: SHOK

POETRY:

CARLIN MCLELLAN

POETRY:

LUCI COCRI

SHORT STORY: BRAD EVANS

EDITORIAL David Graham

Ready for another bout of nonsense, poetry and prose? I sure hope so. This edition of the Word Hurl Times, like so many others, is packed full of the latest tid-bits of strangeness from all you dedicated Word Hurlians. Thank you to all those who submitted pieces and shame on all of you who didn’t. We have some new names on the board. Welcome to Alexander Elliot Bentley, Trevor Burndred, SHOK and Luci Cocri. Last month we celebrated International Women’s Day. This WHT is feeling a little marcho. So perhaps next time we should try for an all female identifying edition? I can’t make that happen. The power is yours! In this edition we also say goodbye to our dear designer Holly Farrell, who is moving on to further study in Sydney. Thank you Holly for all your dedication and hard work over the last two years and for never mentioning the free drinks I always promised and never delivered. In this edition we also say hello to our new designer Bek Park who will be taking up the gumboots left by Holly and wading through the quagmire of my attempt at copy. Welcome Bek and good luck!

Until next time, suckers!

(And I am quite serious about more submissions from non-males)

EDITORIAL

Paper Plate Jeff

FOUND POETRY

My Nervous Hands

ALEXANDER ELIOT BENTLEY

my hands constantly shake most nights they tremble as I lay awake Thoughts drift by frequently But one is constant and consumes me there’s a girl there’s always a girl but this girl she has roses in her veins and a way of speaking that makes even the heaviest rain seem calm if she shaved my head and I stood in the mirror and said “i don’t like the way my ears stick out from my head” she would tell me to “cut them off ” she likes my ears though so I’ll swear to never become van Gogh. i wouldn’t look into her crystal blue eyes instead I would quietly reply “without these flesh coloured conch shells. i wouldn’t be able to hear the sweet words that gently fell from your rosy lips i wouldn’t be able to hear your melodic voice. or the way you whisper my name softly followed by the phrase blue boy.”

POETRY: ALEXANDER ELIOT BENTLEY

when she sits candid in an armchair she is so transfixing I can’t help but stare i wish I had thirty more rolls of film black and white but no amount of film would ever seem right because she is a solar flare disrupting a perfect landscape shot she is a bee buzzing around a plastic flower she is clumsy and awkward much like this poem tripping and stumbling over her words her breath the most beautiful minor key her voice soothes the raging sea that is was my anxiety see there’s a girl that happens to have a crush on little old me she is the only one who can make this sceptic suspect in the existence of a deity i thank gods I don’t believe in for her making and the night she told me she loved me my nervous hands, they finally stopped shaking

POETRY: ALEXANDER ELIOT BENTLEY

Picking up the Pieces TREVOR BURNDRED

The smoke was still rising from this latest uprising. As we turned the corner the smell of burning flesh could not be diluted. It intruded: Into our truck Into our nostrils Into our souls. As we drew near we sensed the fear. It was in our faces in the shocked and maimed at twenty paces. A crater blocked our way. This was a checkpoint destined to stay. No longer, it seems. Blood flows in streams. Bits of humanity scattered all around. Now on the ground we move without sound. God this is tough. Some of our boys amongst this stuff. Tears flow when I see a childâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s severed hand attached to a toy, the same kind I had bought for my boy. I hate Globalisation. All toys look the same. This is insane.

POETRY: TREVOR BURNDRED

Vincenzo with fire truck (mother and child) 1800 x 1200 Oil on hardboard 2016

ART: JAMES DRINKWATER

INTERVIEW: JAMES DRINKWATER WITH GENEVIEVE GRAHAM

James Drinkwater is a Newcastlebased artist whose practice traverses painting, sculpture, assemblage and collage. Drinkwaters work examines place, intimacy and memory and he explores these concepts through abstraction, colour and mark making to create a personal visual language. Drinkwater studied at the National Art School, Sydney, before moving to Melbourne and then Germany. His work is held in major public and

private collections both nationally and internationally, including the Macquarie Bank Art Collection, Artbank, Allens law firm, the Newcastle Art Gallery, and private collections in New York, Singapore, Germany and the UK. In 2014 Drinkwater won the Brett Whiteley Travelling Scholarship and was also a Finalist in the 2015 Wynne Prize at the Art Gallery of NSW.

Genevieve: You had an exhibition with Gallery 9 in Darlinghurst early in the year. The title of the show is In the arms of Moreton Figs, as well as your paintings there is a poem included in the exhibition with the same name. Do you find poetry to be a source of inspiration for your work? James: I couldn’t concentrate in school on anything except drawing and painting. I adore language but never really learnt how to construct an essay. In my teens and early 20’s I wrote songs and played in bands and writing lyrics was an incredible vehicle for me. I could express things that were happening to me in abstract terms. When asked to write early artist statements it felt natural to continue in this way and I have carried that on to now. I write poetry at the end of a series to consolidate the themes and concerns explored. Genevieve: I’m intrigued by your interest in Moreton Figs. At first I thought being a Novacastrian it may have been a reference to the Laman Street figs. Now, however, I think there is more to it. Can you explain why you chose In the arms of Moreton Figs to be the title of your exhibition?

INTERVIEW: JAMES DRINKWATER

Deeper Water 600 x 500 Oil, enamel and charcoal on hardboard 2016

Sunbathers, St Tropez 1800 x 1200 Oil on hardboard 2016 ART: JAMES DRINKWATER

James: Lottie, myself and Vincenzo took a house in Stradbroke Island for a period late 2014. The coast, trees and foliage has had a lasting effect on me the pandama palms, the frangipani but in particular the Moreton Bay Figs. They have a maternal quality about them and they dredged up things from my childhood climbing the figs near my parents’ home in Hamilton South. Whilst on the Island I unraveled to enter a wonderful state of relaxation and poetics. In WHT the following has been turned into a new paragraph. It doesn’t need to be. I had this idea of laying in the neck folds of a Moreton Bay Fig and it closing and folding its arms around me like the classic mother and child image we know so well. And that this act could transport me into the halls of my youth. Genevieve: With titles for your works like Help me set the table and Stoic boy by the bathers pool you are clearly influenced by the place and people you share your life with.Your works appear strangely content and makes me wonder what fuels each painting. I’m interested to know if your work ever explores darker sides to your life and memory. James: My main concerns are memory and beauty. In these times of great pain and sadness many artists are responding with sadness and pain. I know this is relevant but I’m trying to provide a brief distraction from this pain. I’d like to clear the viewers mind and reduce their focus to form, colour and place. What I like about memory is that it’s incredibly inaccurate, we romanticise and sensationalise the event. This provides content for me of cinematic grandeur.

If you would like to know more about James you can visit his website: https://jamesfrancisdrinkwater.wordpress.com/ He also has upcoming shows at:

Nanda Hobbs Contemporary Showing from March 31st 2016 Level 1/66 King Street, Sydney NSW

NKN Gallery Shows open late August 2016 208 Lennox Street, Richmond VIC

INTERVIEW: JAMES DRINKWATER

I WAS ABOUT TO GO TO BED, AT 4.44AM, ON 10.1.16. AS I WAS WALKING UP THE STAIRS I NOTICED OUT THE WINDOW A TINY STAR BESIDE BRIGHT VENUS. I HAD NEVER SEEN SUCH A BRIGHT TINY STAR SO CLOSE TO VENUS. I WALKED OUTSIDE TO TAKE A PHOTO FROM THE BACKYARD OF MY NEW TOWN HOUSE LOCATED AT THE JUNCTION, NEWCASTLE, NEW SOUTH MARLIN WALES, AUSTRALIA. I HAD JUST DOWNLOADED ALL THE WINGED PLANET X PHOTOS OF NIBIRU. I TOOK PHOTOS AT 4.47AM & TOOK FILM. FILM SHOWS VENUS, STILLS DO NOT. AT 5.24AM FILM & STILLS SHOW VENUS EXTRA SMALL STAR DOES NOT SHOW IN ALL! OTHER APPEARING AND FLASHIN SMALL STARS DO NOT APPEAR. ARE THEY STARS? NIBIRU IS ABOUT IN NOAHS TIME NIBIRU CAUSED THE FLOOD AND THE PLANETS ATMOSPHERE CHANGED. THE SOLAR YEAR AT THE TIME LASTED 292 DAYS. YOU WONT FIND THAT ANYWHERE ON THE COPMUTER. I HAVE LOOKED LONG & HARD 4 IT. I FOUND IT IN A RARE BOOK CONCERNING DISCOERY OF NOAHS REED ARK ON A MOUNTAIN. JUBA NEAR MT ARARAT. THE WHOLE AREA WAS REFERRED TO AS ARARAT IN ANCIENT TIMES AND INDEED MT ARARAT WAS NOT CALLED ARARAT. THE AHORA GULCH IS THE MOUTH OF A DEEP HOLE BETWEEN LITTLE ARARAT & BIGH ARARATT. NEITHER OF WHICH ARE THE LOCATED POSITION OF THE ARK. THE BOOK IS CALLED THE TRUE FINDING OF NOAHS ARK. IT IS A BOAT MADE OF REEDS NOT TIMBER AS OTHER RECORDED FINDINGS STATE. NOAHS FLOOD CAUSED BY PLANT X NIBIRU COMING CLOSE TO EARTH 7,333 YEARS AGO & AFFECTING THE EARTHS ORBIT & ATMOSPHERE. THAT EXPLAINS THE HEAVENS OPENING FOR 40 DAYS & 40 NIGHTS. WHAT WE DO PROSE POEM: SHOK

NOT KNOW IS HOW MANY HOURS A DAY IT LASTED 4,7333 YEARS AGO. OTHERS SAY NIBIRU PLANT X WITH ELLIPTICAL ORBIT THAT GOES OUTSIDE PLUTO COMES CLOSE TO EARTH EVERY 3,666 YEARS AND IS A DWARF DEAD RED STAR BINARY TO OUR SOL, SUN. THAT MAKES SENSE IF YOU LOOK AT OTHER STAR SYSTEMS. NOW A 290 DAY YEAR WITH AN UNKNOWN LENGTH OF DAY ACCOUNTS FOR METHUSULA LIVING FOR 969 YEARS, I CHECKED OUT ALL THE NUMBERS AND LENGTH OF LIVES IN THE BIBLE & IT’S A CODE VERY SIMPLE. NOAH WAS IN HIS SIX HUNDRETH YEAR & SECOND MONTH BY SEVENTEEN DAYS. ADD FORY DAYS OF WET WEATHER AND ITS VERY CLOSE TO 600 YEARS AND 66 DAYS. VENUS’S ATMOSPOHERE IS SO THICK THAT LIFE EXISTS ON THE PLANET EVEN THOUGH IT IS MUCH CLOSER TO SOL THAN US. EARTH’S ATMOSPHERE CHANGED ABRUPTLY AT NOAH’S ARK TIME. THAT EXPLAINS WHY THEY LIVED FOR SUCH A GREAT AGE BEFORE THE FLOOD AND SUCH A REDUCED AGE IN COMPARISON AFTER. THE IMPORTANT POINT I AM MAKING HERE IS THAT THE CLIMATE CHANGE THAT OCCURRED AT THIS TIME IS THE GOVERNING FACTOR IN AGE LONGEVITY NOT THE NUMBER OF DAYS IN THE YEAR BEFORE & AFTER NIBIRU VISITED. I DON’T EVEN KNOW IF AN HOUR OR A SECOND WAS A RECOGNISED TIME REFERENCE BACK IN THIS TIME. SO 60 SECONDS A MINUTE 60 MINUTES AN HOUR SOUNDS LIKE MAN MADE NUMBERS, THROW IN 6 DAYS OF CREATION & ONE OF REST WHICH IS TODAY & AT LAST AFTER TWENTY YEARS OF WRITING THIS C6MP6T6R COMPUTER CRAP I AM NOW COM.PETER. NEED ANYMORE PROOF 360 DEGREES IN A CIRCLE, SIXTY MINUTES IN A DEGREE OF ARK-ANGEL & SIXTY SECONDS IN A MINUTE, 14

PROSE POEM: SHOK

DEGREE’S MINUTES & SECONDS – DO THE MULTIPLY IT OUT 360x60x60= BYE 21,600 MINUTES IN A CIRCLE – GOOD BYE 129,000 SECONDS IN A CIRCLE – ALIEN TATTOO ART 129 MAITLAND RD. MAYFIELD. TAKE 1 OUT OF MAYFIELD AND ITS ALL OVER THIEVES OF WALRES (sic) & CARVED IN GUTTERS IN COULD-GEE AND ALL OVER NEWTOWN & KINGS CROSS AND OXFORD ST SYDNEY & ADELAIDE & MELBOURNE & BRISBANE & PERTH & DARWIN & MORE THAN 66 TOWNS & BEARLIN & HAMBURG & KOBENHAGEN & ROME & INNSBRUCK & VIENA & ZURICK & VENICE & FLORENCE & BALONYA & MUNCHIN & 600 OTHER TOWNS I’VE LIVED IN EUROPE WHILE THERE FOR 656 DAYS AND NAPOLI & PALERMO & MALMO & POSSTOCK SS & LIEPZITCH & FRANKFURT & 666666 SICK PLANET. I EVEN TOLD ROBERT PLANT MY NAME IS PETER PLANET ONE WORLD GOVERNOR IN 95 RISKILDAY 8 FURLONGS FROM CHRIS, TOE-AINYA. FAMON MUND. ZONNING MARGARITA. ROYALITY IS NOT MY GOAL OR OBJECTIVE IT IS MY DESTINY, GIVIN TO ME AS A KURSE OR A GIFT FROM WHO WHORE FUCKIN KNOWS WHERE. I KNOW WHAT COUNTRY I AM KING OF, BUT I AINT GONNA TELL YOU OR ANYONE. NOW ALEX OUR AMERICAN FRIEND IS NOT WITH US, SHE IS IN SOUTH AMERICA. IT IS MY PLEASURE TO SHARE WITH OTHERS MY PREDICTIONS FOR OUR FUTURES. WHEN SHE GETS BACK I’LL TELL YOU WHAT COUNTRY. TILL THEN DON’T FLY SYDNEY TO SANTIARGO OVER THE SOUTH POLES. TOO MANY PLANES DISSAPEAR GOING THAT WAY. FLAT EARTH, ROUGE PLANET – X KAPUTTA SERIAL PEST P.M HORE CONSPIRACY DEBUNCER/OVER -SHOK PROSE POEM: SHOK

Untitled

CARLIN MCLELLAN

Good things are happening Got to absolutely accept hope waking up after a dream melting walls forgetting to remember tiny tomatoes strong bones the togetherness of friends now you can breathe into your gut now you can breathe in like you did before you got carried away

POETRY: CARLIN MCLELLAN

Messages

LUCI COCRI

MESSAGES How does the moon write? It sends an sms on the tide. Once messages rode on foaming breakers telling stories of heroes and shipwrecks of mermaids in madrepore caves of colours of sea anemones and branching coral. Now radiation steals under poles and tropic lagoons oil suffocates sea creatures snared in discarded plastic change inundates marshes warms oceans and plankton dies. Humans read coarse graffiti in patterns of seaweed and shell sentences and prayers to cosmic gods punctuated by seeds from distant shores illustrated in driftwood. Still for a while giant turtle and dragon lizards lounge on the sands of Galapagos. The episodes are long each sms washed away and we must train ourselves to speed read.

POETRY: LUCI COCRI

SHORT STORY: INCIDENT AT SEAGROVE CARAVAN PARK PART 1.

Brad Evans

Mick was in his late thirties and had been living there for 10 years. He told me that the city had been too expensive for him and, like me, he had a healthy dislike for the workplace. Any workplace. So I packed my single sports-bag and caught the city rail to Linkholm, a station in the outer western suburbs where Mick said he’d pick me up in his combi. ‘She charges reasonable rates,’ he told me as we left the station in a cloud of blue exhaust. ‘Reasonable rates is all I can afford right now.’ I noticed in the rearview mirror that the traffic could not be seen. ‘Your engine’s burning oil!’ Mick glanced into his side mirror and shrugged, ‘I only make short trips with her now.’ The traffic, the houses, and businesses; all the city life began to thin with help from the sputtering engine as the combi hugged the left lane of the Pacific Highway. After forty minutes, Mick turned off and followed a small coastal road until he made a final turn onto a small dirt track. ‘I’ve already told her you’re moving in, mate, so don’t worry about anything.’ ‘What did she say?’ ‘Nothing. She just checks the list of available vans, gives a price she thinks a cheap bastard like you can afford, and quotes the deposit.’ Mick drove the combi van through the entrance to the trailer park and stalled it neatly alongside the largest mobile, which appeared to function as the reception. ‘Wait here!’ Mick threw upon the door of his van and shuffled over to the mobile. He returned a short while. ‘Here?!’ He threw me the keys and restarted the engine before crunching into reverse. ‘I’ll take you down to yours.Vera said that once you’ve settled 18

SHORT STORY: BRAD EVANS

in she’ll come down and introduce herself. She’s busy at the moment.’ The combi slowly turned away from the reception building and sputtered its way towards one of the more dilapidated areas of the trailer park. I looked at the well-tended, semi-permanent dwellings that we passed nearest the reception. ‘Who lives in those?’ Mick grinned, ‘retired bachelors.’ ‘Widowers?’ I asked, trying to catch a half-hearted glimpse of the residents. ‘No’, Mick grinned, ‘just lots and lots of single old men’. ‘M-i-i-i-i-i-c-k?’ ‘What?’ ‘What is this place?’ He gave me a quick glance, ‘It’s not what you think, dude, honest!’ ‘This had better not be a set-down joint for down-and-out, elderly faggots or I’ll fucking kill you!!’ ‘It’s not what you think, man. In this place, people leave you alone, they just let you get on with your own business.’ I glanced at him. ‘It’s true!’ he said. ‘If this were Faggot Central, I’d have cleared out years ago. It’s not like that! It’s just that Vera likes to run things her way. She admits blokes as residents.’ I looked at Mick waiting for a stupid grin as he pulled up next to a van with paint peeling off the side and moss on the roof. The frustration began to sink in. ‘How can you fucking stand it, man? Don’t you ever go crazy not seeing any chicks! At least in the city there’s chicks to fucking look at!’ ‘Dude, I have been here for years and have hardly seen anybody. People just leave you alone. There’s a club just down the road I can take you to, cheap beer, and on Friday nights it’s full of surfee chicks. Real hot wimmen! So THAT is NOT an ISSUE, ok!’ Mick took the keys out of my hand and stepped out of the idling combi. He unlocked the van while I grabbed my sportsbag. ‘Here’s your keys! Come over for a cuppa when you’re settled in. I’ve got lots to talk about.’ SHORT STORY: BRAD EVANS

Before I could ask him what he wanted to discuss, the combi had already driven away slowly down the narrow road. I unzipped my sports-bag and threw my clothes over the bunk. I placed my notebook and pen neatly on the small, narrow, laminated table. A gentle breeze made a welcome entrance into the enclosed, damp, musty van... Mick sat a cup of coffee for me down on his plastic table after I arrived at his van. He noticed a distance in my eyes. ‘So, you’ve met Vera then?’ he smiled. At first, I didn’t say anything. I took a deep breath, gripped the coffee mug that he’d set down for me and recalled in my mind the more vivid details of her appearance - pale skin, wonky green eyes, facial scar, shortly-cropped rust-coloured hair, gaps between her front teeth. What that all added up to was somebody nicely banged up and edgy. ‘What a doll! Reminds me of a girlfriend I once had. A woman who used to give the most wicked head.’ Mick nodded. ‘I asked you up to this place for a reason.’ ‘What reason?’ ‘I know you like to do a little research before you write those disgusting bloody stories and there’s something about Vera you should know.’ ‘Since when do you read my stories?’ ‘I’ve read a couple of ‘em, and after knowing what they’re like I knew I had to get you up to this place.’ ‘Where have my stories appeared?’ Mick ignored my question and swallowed some coffee. ‘I’ve been here for years now and I’ve never seen Vera around a living soul, male or female.’ ‘Maybe she’s a recluse.’ Mick’s eyes shone. He spoke softly. ‘Nah mate,Vera used to work in a hospital in Victoria... ‘ ‘And?’ ‘And... she very quietly got dismissed after working there for close to ten years.’ ‘What was the reason?’ ‘Well, her service record was close to impeccable. She did all the 20

SHORT STORY: BRAD EVANS

late night shifts, you know, the ones that nobody else can stand... ‘ ‘Yes? And?’ ‘... and then a hospital attendant thought he caught her doing something that she wasn’t supposed to be doing... ‘ ‘Thought?’ ‘Yes, thought. They kept her on at first, and it was hushed up, but she was given a dire warning not to do anything like that again... ‘ Mick peered out of his front van window before he continued ‘... things went quiet again for a while... a long while... which lasted another few years I think... before they caught her out again... but this was more serious.’ ‘What was she caught doing?’ ‘She was caught fucking a dead guy.’

SHORT STORY: BRAD EVANS

SUBMISSIONS – “STUDIO LA PRIMITIVE ARTS ZINE!”

Submissions artists’ essays and short stories online Arts & Literary PRIMITIVE ARTS ZINE.

i n t e r v i e w s , p o e t r y, are welcomed for our magazine - STUDIO LA

We are establishing a nationally and

growing audience, 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. Please contact us if you booking in artists and

are interested, as we are writers over this month.

Submissions welcomed, we would love to have your words in future editions. email: werkhovenr@bigpond.com The ARTS ZINE is available at our new web site www.studiolaprimitive.net And direct link to latest March issue -

https://issuu.com/robynwerkhoven/docs/arts_zine_march_2016 We look forward to hearing from you.

DEADLINE is April 15TH for next May issue. Robyn & Eric Werkhoven (Editors)