Pulp Poem of the Week

Doom.

You recognize

Doom

easily.

It's a feeling,

and a taste,

and it's black,

and it's very heavy.

It comes down

over your head,

and wraps tentacles

around you,

and sinks long dirty fingernails

into your heart.

It has a stink

like burning garbage.

Doom.

Gil Brewer

The Vengeful Virgin

1958