Monday, July 21, 2008

Pulp Poem of the Week

Her hair was falling over
her shoulders in snaky
curls. Her eye was all black,
and her breasts weren't drawn
up and pointing at me,
but soft, and spread out
in two big pink splotches.
She looked like the great
grandmother of every
whore in the world.
The devil got his
money's worth that night.
James M. Cain
The Postman Always Rings Twice

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