Mercedes Webb-Pullman: infinity / technology

In Contest, Finalists - 2011, Poetry on November 18, 2011 at 4:19 am


Mercedes  began writing four years ago and can’t stop. She graduated MA from IIML Victoria NZ in May 2011. Work published in Turbine, 4th Floor, Reconfigurations, Electronic Bridge, Danse Macabre and others, currently working on exploring prose/poetry edges with fiction/nonfiction and maps.

Twitter Handle: mercedeswp






Know the Poet:


GSLR: Favorite poet(s)
Rumi, Rilke, Rimbaud

GSLR: The last book of poetry you enjoyed –
Come Swiftly to Your Love – love poems of ancient Egypt, translated by Ezra Pound and Noel Stock

GSLR: Themes you usually write about

GSLR: If you didn’t write poetry you would…
If I didn’t write poetry I’d be making stained glass windows.

GSLR: Two poems you enjoyed reading in GSLR –
Dedicated to the bones by Rita Meacham and Taylor Graham’s Rumi tells me in a dream.




infinity/technology – Mercedes Webb-Pullman


Expensive stuff
this unremitting thrill
we feel when we put down
the filler cap, push the formed metal forward
and pull it out –

silence shrinks to a smaller click,
actually soothes the automatic well;
definitely the new paddocks
grow shorter, confirming the Paleolithe –
since they’ve agreed to use fryer oil
the fields can’t keep their minds
on the burgeoning worker deserts.

White fingers drop loose change
onto the forecourt, a sour old
woman tears off and retains
her original, refuses
to meet our eyes. Numbers
form in fresh green digits
over their heads. Jacqui.
Karla. Ann with no ‘e’. We ought
not scribble their numbers carelessly
over mirrors, on walls
falling from clear collected-liquid skies
onto the sliding roof –
they always were expensive. Empty pocket. $0.

Replacing the filler cap, try not to ignore
how the controlled flow builds up, gas is volatile –
deliberately drab, khaki shades
constantly fading,
Looks like crone-juice
set in time: laughter, liquid, bones, shit
alkali, the purple bucket
of expensive stuff contains none of these.
Minds float in water where new paddocks
hear them underneath and start to shrink –
the rising footpaths of Ramses had no
weeds. We adopted them.
The kind queen danced here without official minders;

We were not hers then.
We let run rampant the harbours of expensive matter
where they arose. In the harbour
at Alexandria they paused to sing –


Mercedes Webb-Pullman’s infinity/technology is a Golden Sparrow Poetry Prize Finalist 2011.


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