| InterBoard Poetry Competition | |
| Second Place Winner, January 2007 | |
|
BRRMM AnnMarie Eldon (MiPo) He drove his engine into me. The fuel was humus, jasmine juice and lapis pigment. My aorta the combustion chamber. His piston upstroke was practised not in the street outside because each time I made him up in a dress and rouge with Rage Red lipstick around his nipples. He therefore had taken it apart and put it together again and again behind closed curtains but with due regard for oil and grease stains. In the confined space his exhaust spin gases were risen in the massed morning when rooks should have been. He prises something jelly-like between thumb and forefinger. Switches on. Leaves one open kiss to balm my bitten bloodying auricular helix. Burns fuel-air iron. One closed kiss to damn revolutions amongst tics who knew vibrations when they fouled the thudderless earth. And hackles trumpet bell-shaped valves. And camshaft a poison promise creeping its oval protrusions. Cam rotors careless as a strumpet’s petticoats. Labia red ramsails in a rotational sunset. Talked me up crankshaft cranky. Valve springs snapped into the open position. All position. All pushrod hierarchy. And intermittent male logic which paled the toothed gear phenomena. Afterwards there would be empty rocker arms, the oscillating parts a’fire and a too obvious cylinder head. My ghostpenis on my timing belt his intake legacy. The colliding masses a droolseep upon carpet become road. The internal a sprainblue bruise. Would display mileage despondency. Would walk away. He drove his engine into me. It is still. Still here today. Judge Pascale Petit’s comments: “‘Brrmm’ reminds me of Marcel Duchamp’s ‘The Bride Stripped Bare by Her Bachelors, Even.’ In this experimental prose poem a partner is encountered as an engine. The couple become a human/machine hybrid. The language used to describe this metamorphosis is so dense and baroque that the paragraph resembles an assemblage sculpture, all mechanical parts, jasmine juice and lapis pigment. This piece, with its playful agglomeration of textures, like Duchamp’s ‘Large Glass,’ is both a love machine and a machine of suffering. Despite the surreal construct I believe that I’m reading about real people and real experience. It is indeed ‘the unexpected meeting, on a dissection table, of a sewing machine and an umbrella,’ the tender, brutal meeting of one human with another.”
|
|
|
About the InterBoard Poetry Competition |
|

