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

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

Pulp Poem of the Week

An ounce of caution
is worth
a pound of plasma.

          Donald E. Westlake
          The Mercenaries
          1960

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