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ISSUE 23 MARCH 2011
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C O O N M O U H
I S S U E 23 M A R C H 2 0 1 1
editor S C O P A R I C K M I C H E L L
layout A M B E R F R E S H
C O O N M O U H is a monthly performance night which is produced in conjunction with a podcast and
publication. please direct all submissions or requests to [email protected] and be sure to check regular updates
online by visiting www.cottonmouth.org.au (.)
2011
No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any other means electronic, mechanical,
photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior permission in writing by the publishers. Any work sent to
Cottonmouth is considered to be an agreement of use within Cottonmouth publications. Te opinions expressed in this
publication do not necessarily represent the views of the editor, publisher or Cottonmouth Committee.
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CONENS
im Wright6UVSFM DRIVING 4
Graham NunnREQUIEM 6
Marisa Allen
SRANGE CREAURES 7
Rachael MeadHE SORM 8
Cherish MarringtonUNILED 2 9
Corey WakelingVIEW FROM HE DIRECOR 10
Joseph Powers BowmanCASLE IN FORES 12
Jill JonesUNILED 13
Liam FerneyGO MORDECAI 14
Andrei ButersWHY NO VISI SERPENINE 15
Marisa AllenHE BES CAR BUMPER SICKER I EVER SAW 16
Nicole NorelliERRAMOO 17
Benjamin HartA BORROWED FAIH 18
Joseph Powers BowmanLARGE BUILDING WIH REES 19
Liam FerneyRYANAIR FROM ROME 20
Graham Nunn
WHA HE HERON KNOWS 21
Cherish MarringtonUNILED 1 22
Faustina Delaney3:59AM 23
Narelle GouldenCHILDS PLAY 24
Clayton LinJAMES DEANS COA 25
CONRIBUORS 28
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COONMOUH4
6UVSFM DRIVING
im Wright
back from
Perth Airport
in a arago in 1998
Agoraphobic Nosebleed
(on the radio)
Isuzu in front
the letters V
and
Z Japanese comics shellacked to a suitcase
white Peter Stuyvesants
speed in a wallet
at the
iridologist
after 3:05pm
Before the internet...
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Before
the opshops close
the long grass is growing
thick and fast
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COONMOUH6
REQUIEM
Graham Nunn
Te National Museum of dreams
is closed on Mondays. Ad Infinitum.
In the petting zoo, a lamb rehearses
Bachs requiem. You cant sleep.
You imagine youre a butcher;
your mother awakens on the table
& in front of all the other men
grabs your cleaver & wags it at you
shouting, dont you dare mention my
appendectomy. Your written exam asked
Heart? & you answered B, the empty
chamber of a gun. Even the shooting
range is closed on Mondays. Rehearse
in your glass house, a requiem
for the final dream beneath your ribs
that catatonic feeling. You are adding
an appendix to the list of Mondays closures:
the melodies of caged animals, it begins,
jars of morning air, the instrumental
ache of hunger.
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SRANGE CREAURES
Marisa Allen
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COONMOUH8
HE SORM
Rachael Mead
clouds held afternoon sun underall day isobars tumbling together
drew the sinew from our limbs
the first wave blew us into bed
the wind, lost in the steep maze of valleys, panicked
thrashing around the house as if caught in a net
forcing its fingers under the gutters, trying to peer in
as if we held the secret to escape
gum nuts hailed tin in staccato
snare drum counterpoint to woodwind howl
all night we waited for the birds
to peal the all clear
at dawn we emerged to a shuffled worldthe blue spruce parasol missing a rib
and the road under the stringybarks now soft forest path
strewn with wild prunings of the storm gardener
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UNILED 2
Cherish Marrington
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COONMOUH10
VIEW FROM HE DIRECOR
Corey Wakeling
Tere are plans for a director. She will be
an old blossoming tree with bluebells in hertrunk. A statuary. A chandelier. Within her
cavities a hundred-thousand infant possums
will abide. Does this have anything
to do with that blue lagoon at her feet? Further,
has it been all her doing? As director, she
will first declare a boardroom table, then
a township under its guidance. Im not sure we
can predict her curatorial style. I am not sure of a
chandelier at all. In Clepsydra, the helicopter is
silent like a suburban rat, asking the best questions
from above. In Te Anaglyph, the questions
are drafted in a cinema, the show is of course
something asinine in 3-D, but all of its adult
jokes are collected studiously by this draughtsman.
Yes, these very notes, anticipated by her and her team,are mostly illustrations. Of modern life? Hardly.
Hardening. Closer to woodblock printing, and yet
this open diary is really just self-explanatory:
the apartment above a convenience store,
the cold of a mining town, a misplaced
New York sensibility, squares on a
monumental grid. Our director agrees modern life
is illustrating in a drawing-as-catharsis
workshop, the helicopter is landing
at the hospital as is its daily wont and
the draughtsman, however colour-blind,
saw enough and heard enough to
engage the architect in soliloquy. Before
answering the lagoon question since as
it stands the possums repose in its revitalisingwaters an appurtenance must be better
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interrogated. We can leave the individual
initiatives up to the contingencies of this new
town (that is, let them spar with their
creators as they wish, these young sports),
or we can fence the chandelier off in itshistorical vestibule, make a protective corner
within this old arts facility. What sphere
would adjudge the actual time of the blossoms fall?
Does it matter? I think it matters. It matters to her,
the director of this conference. Only time
will expose whether we should still be
sitting beneath her, whether her blossoms
are alive or dead, whether the edifices
surrounding her are homes or viewing
platforms. Bluebells from a trees thicket.
Or, are they like the possums, growing in the
hollows of her bough, of her belly? So
much is impossible. Nevertheless, we are
given the call to approach her, to do our
work. She doesnt tell us, but there is nowhere but the lagoon to rest, and so we
drop in. What kind of curatorship is this?
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COONMOUH12
CASLE IN FORES
Joseph Powers Bowman
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A SECOND IS only a sample of how
a roof becomes rain.
Ive been careless with corsets.
When the sex machines on the blink
turn up yr radio, is it the sound
of silver pumping?
Teres too much ash and
not enough syntax
to make me watch with my baby tonight.
If prime ministers could shelve their selves we
could all be walking to boot.
A mosquito yaps into
the shimmering yard, if the darks
dark thats perception for you, boom tish
but wait, its the milky waystaggering up there.
Ladies and gentlemen, heres to the aliens
yes to al l those yeses.
Te rose isnt as ancient as its seed
but it opens, dung is juice
and the zipper is broken.
But you cant recall your species anymore
they wont listen.
Succumbing isnt an answer
nor is it a question
and you could be right
or frustrated by imagination.
Lets fall without sleeping this once.
UNILED
Jill Jones
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COONMOUH14
GO MORDECAI
Liam Ferney
Like Muril lo fallen from a ladder,
I have tumbled from my dream.
Pierced as surely as Sebastian,
eyes weary as 3AM 7/11.
Ten after the catastrophe,
dawn, a waiter
at a restaurant you can't afford,
brings its cheque.
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WHY NO VISI SERPENINE
Andrei Buters
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emptiness fills the emptiness
i like to run my eyes over surfaces
i count the surfaces with my eyes
At Hanger,
i fall asleep
i fall asleep at parties too
some places just deserve a portal
HE BES CAR BUMPER SICKER I EVER SAW
Marisa Allen
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Current mood: forgotten
everything is distances
next to you.
dissolving,
earth-ridden, dense and holy.
triassic.anima.
intuit.
matter.
matter of fact
dirt moves
a desire quakes
matters of the heart concerning.
ERRAMOO
Nicole Norelli
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COONMOUH18
If you want to get by you have to learn the rules.
You can borrow this but I want it back,
she said and passed a tattered book,
its symbol marked with crossing lines.
With open hands I smiled broad
and kissed her gloss enamel lips.
I burnt the book inside her church
and made a pact with god aloft
to always break the fucking rules.
A BORROWED FAIH
Benjamin Hart
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LARGE BUILDING WIH REES
Joseph Powers Bowman
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COONMOUH20
RYANAIR FROM ROME
Liam Ferney
you promised to read dante with four eyes.
could it really be
jbt?
the colours fade but the spillage
of a holiday reminds me:
a poster for fronte del porto
postcards from tuscany gum for the plane.
there were mornings after nights
that i smoked far too many cigarettes
watched a hot air balloon rise over surrey.
that freshly peeled kaleidoscopic mandarin,
its basket bright with dragon breath
above a frost covered field.
still a child
like the high schooler at graduation,
it segued over the horizon
in search of strawberries and champagne.
mud on my cuffs when i wonder
could we really have been contenders?
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WHA HE HERON KNOWS
Graham Nunn
is it takes effort
to stand still,
silence is an elegy
for the dying light
and each breath
is a prayer
for those who move
along the stuttering
whiteness of flood-lit asphalt,
away from the savannahs
of our origin,
those smooth, descending
pastures to the sea.
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COONMOUH22
UNILED 1
Cherish Marrington
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3:59AM
Faustina Delaney
And here are all your dreams, packed like innocent bystanders before a train
crash.
Packed in cardboard boxes that once contained fruit from interstate and
overseas. Stolen from the markets an hour before tomorrow. Scavenged from
supermarkets. Retrieved from last years move. You find yourself sleepless inthis now not home.
How strange to see life packed, as though it could be packed.
And in the morning all this will be cleaned up. Te walls sugar-washed. Te
floors swept up. Te window closed. And locked. And all the things we said
in this room or unsaid in this room will have gone. Washed. Sugar washed.
Blanked but for the key left on the kitchen bench.
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My son was rescuing soldiers
with his new helicopter equipped
with stretcher and cables retractable.
Maybe its because theyre plastic
and cheap; still I couldnt help
noticing how quickly the soldiers
became amputees.
Im sure the manufacturers produce them
purely to ensure durability
is short lived; just a ploy to guarantee
well replace them
once damaged or broken. Easily disposable
once theyve outworn their use.
Te cunning satirical bastards.
CHILDS PLAY
Narelle Goulden
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JAMES DEANS COA
Clayton Lin
I borrowed James Deans coat
and I never gave it back,and now I cant,
because he came and went.
So I hold onto it,
a cushion, a tourniquet,
a memento mori
And its strangling me
Im size XL, but this coat is size M,
the buttons latch to me,
pinching and scarring,
contorting the body,
abrasions and rashes
break out on my skin
so I tried handing it
to the Salvos,
the Vinnies
and for once they both say nah.
Its not winter sale time,
the old women would reason.
So I tried selling it on eBay -
a customer would scream
how could he sell
such a valuable thing?!
And out of respect
no one would take it.
When it got dirty, I took it to thelaundromat. Te proprietor
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gazed at me evilly.
Aaaahhh!!! I scream. o my horror
when I pick it from the dryer,
Im size XL, but this coat is S.
Why did I borrow
James Deans coat?
It was just for one sweet night.
He happily obliged,
and like boys,
we leaped,
for a joy ride, in
his souped-up racing
speedster,
with milk bottles
in the air at 65 miles per hour,
dashed headlong like boys
into a crash course.
o this day,
James Deans coat
still wears me.
In the sun,
Ill hunch
and roast.
In the rain,
Ill curl
and get damp.
In the snow,
Ill hypothermia
in this bone
crushing straitjacket.
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Itll follow me
every footstep I take.
In this funeral suit,
making my last march
to the planetarium ofheaven vs. hell, wearing
James Deans coat.
It wears me well.
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CONRIBUORS
Tim Wright lives at the moment in Melbourne, where he is working on a thesis at
Monash University. He is involved with the online journal When Pressedand has a blogat http://swimswam.wordpress.net.
Graham Nunnis a founding member of Brisbanes longest running poetry event,
SpeedPoets. He blogs fiercely at Another Lost Shark:www.anotherlostshark.com and
has published five collections of poetry, his most recent, Ocean Hearted, published by
Another Lost Shark Publications in July 2010. His debut CD, recorded in collaboration
with Sheish Money, Te Stillest Hourwas recently shortlisted for the Overload Poetry
Festivals Aural ext Award
Marisa Allenis poet, songwriter, vocalist and violinist and front woman for the band
Bremen own Musician. She has performed at the 2009 Queensland Poetry Festival
performing from the chapbook Fire In the Head edited by David Ghostboy Stavanger.
Her work has been published in Going Down Swinging, Cottonmouth, Speedpoets Zine,
Outsiders Zineand various local street press.
Rachael Meadwas born in Perth and is currently undertaking a Ph.D in creative writingat the University of Adelaide. Last year she was published in Going Down Swinging,
Poetrixand Verandahand was awarded the Dorothy Hewett Flagship Fellowship at
Varuna.
Cherish Marrington lives in Perth. Her deliciously dark zine Te Funnyroomis out now.
Corey Wakeling is a poet living in Melbourne. His work has appeared or is forthcoming
in journals such as Cordite, Overland, Willows Wept Review, Art Monthly, foam:e, Steamer,
Etchings,theNZEPC, and theABR, newspapers Te Ageand Te Sydney Morning
Herald, and anthologies Some Sonnets,Nth Degree, and Te Reader.
Joseph Bowman (1752-1779)was an officer in the American Revolutionary War who
served in the Illinois campaign. Maj. Bowman participated in the 1778 capture of Fort
de Chartres, and remained there for some time as the commander of the newly renamed
Fort Bowman. While attending a victory celebration, Maj. Bowman was injured by
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an accidental gunpowder explosion and later succumbed to his injuries, becoming the
only American officer to die in the Illinois campaign. He now lives and works in Los
Angeles.
Jill Jones has published six full-length poetry books, including Dark Bright Doors,
published by Wakefield Press in 2010. She edited, with Michael Farrell, Out of the
Box: Contemporary Australian Gay and Lesbian Poets, in 2009. She has been a film
reviewer, journalist, book editor and arts administrator. She currently teaches at the
University of Adelaide.
Liam Ferneyis a Brisbane poet. His second collection Career will be published byVagabond Press in 2011.
Andrei Buters is a reporter by day and a secret comic artist at night. He has a giant
graphic novel that he wrote all the words for and drew all the pictures in. But he never
shows anyone. He grew up in Serpentine-Jarrahdale and he highly recommends the
place.
Nicole Norelli. Dabbler. Dribbler. Writer. Photographer. Editor. eacher. Performer.Involved in all things arts and culture since 1998. Eclectic. Eccentric. Deeply affected
and often shy out loud.
Benjamin Hartis just a lower working class resident of Gosnells, Perth, WA who has
devoted the greater part of his life, including five years of tertiary study, to the art and
craft of writing. His veins are filled with ink and the pages on his desk are soaked in
blood.
Faustina Minna Delanywas born in Osaka, Japan in the 80s, immigrated to Sydney
on Irish passports where they gave her and her mum mini party pies and a eucalyptus
tree. It perished a few months later. Now in Melbourne, writing and pasting pictures
on walls. Published by Ondru http://www.ondru.org/voice/2011/02/foreign-births-
and-deaths-registryBlogSpot, y tu.
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Narelle Goulden is 27, a high school teacher of English and History, with a Masters of
Creative Writing. She has a pet lizard called Liz.
Clayton Linis currently studying film and creative writing at Curtin University. He is
unemployed and dirt poor, but can write on the fly, and is developing his modest talent.And a bit cynical and self-deprecating, but also animated and open-minded. Also has a
barely-updated poetry site (but will try): http://spoken-breath.tumblr.com/
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Tanks to the Cottonmouth committee. Tey are Patrick Pittman, Scott-Patrick Mitchell, Simon Cox, Amber Fresh, oms
Ford, ristan Fidler, Glen Adams, Anna Dunnill, Sam Knee and Jeremy Balius. Our everlasting gratitude goes to former
committee members and BFFs Rebecca Giggs, Jessyca Hutchens, Matt Giles, Sean Wilson and Simon Mongey. Poster art by
tonne grammeSubscribe at cottonmouth.org.au for announcements and podcasts.
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