Monday, February 23, 2015

Pulp Poem of the Week



You take a guy who writes a book.
Can you say why he can write a book
while you can’t?
Or another Joe can paint your picture
so it looks just like you,
while if you did it,
it would look like a dog maybe,
or a camel maybe.
Some guys can do one thing—
well, this job is the only one I can do.
But I can do it, baby.
And I’ll be right—
no matter how many people
try to lie me out of it,
you included,
I’ll get the truth.
Because I won’t stop until I do.
And don’t you forget it.

          Harry Whittington
          Call Me Killer
          1951

Monday, February 16, 2015

Pulp Poem of the Week


she thinks you’re a grown man;
either go down and do it,
or go up and tell her that she’s wrong


          Charles Williams
          Aground

          1960

Monday, February 9, 2015

Pulp Poem of the Week



An ounce of caution
is worth
a pound of plasma.

          Donald E. Westlake
          The Mercenaries
         
1960

Monday, February 2, 2015

Pulp Poem of the Week



That was the moment
his mouth opened,
his throat closed,
his eyes bulged,
his heart contracted,
and his hands began to shake
like fringe on a cowgirl.

          Donald E. Westlake
          The Road to Ruin
          2004