Pulp Poem of the Week

With my luck,
I’d be the one
to eat the hearty meal
while the warden’s private line
stayed as quiet
as the grave.

          Don Tracy
          Last Year’s Snow
          1937

Pulp Poem of the Week

some women can sing
and
some can paint
and
some can dance
and
some can be faithful

          Don Tracy
          Last Year’s Snow
          1937

Pulp Poem of the Week

Married people
always kill
one another.
Sometimes
it takes them
fifty years.

          Lawrence Block
          A Stab in the Dark
          1981

Pulp Poem of the Week

When a man
has his head
cut off,
he’s never
bothered again
with sinus trouble.

          Don Tracy
          Last Year’s Snow
          1937

Pulp Poem of the Week

I was a machine, and
my arm was the arm of the machine, and
the gun was a part of the machine. And
when the machine’s finger contracted
the machine’s gun exploded, and
that was what the machine was for.

          Donald E. Westlake
          The Mercenaries
          1960

Pulp Poem of the Week

He got hold of a gun.
His first killing followed
automatically.

          James Hadley Chase
          No Orchids for Miss Blandish
          1962

Pulp Poem of the Week

I’ll remember
what you said
when I’m half
way to heaven
on a roller coaster.

          Don Tracy
          Last Year’s Snow
          1937

Pulp Poem of the Week

Marvelous.
I’ve just committed
my first venal sin
and it feels
marvelous.

          P. J. Wolfson
          Is My Flesh of Brass?
          1934

Pulp Poem of the Week

A man named Barney Manton.
A man who believed in hitting and
hitting hard,
because if you hit hard enough,
you always got something,
if only a corpse.

          Harry Whittington
          Call Me Killer
          1951

Pulp Poem of the Week

no man
has ever been trapped
except through
his emotions

          Donald E. Westlake
          The Mercenaries
          1960

Pulp Poem of the Week

Who wants to go to heaven
in the rain
on an empty stomach,
soaking newspapers thrown over you
without a dime in your pocket?

          Cornell Woolrich
          Hotel Room
          1958

Pulp Poem of the Week

The past
was filling the room
like a tide
of whispers.

          Ross Macdonald
          The Instant Enemy
          1968

Pulp Poem of the Week

A favor’s no good
unless
you pay for it.

          Lawrence Block
          A Stab in the Dark
          1981

Pulp Poem of the Week

for too many years
the only exercise
I had got was
bending my elbow

          Lawrence Block
          Time to Murder and Create
          1976

Pulp Poem of the Week

There was nothing
of the cheap moll
in this set-up.
She was not
just paint and powder.
You could scratch this dame
and still find her
good underneath.

          James Hadley Chase
          No Orchids for Miss Blandish
          1939

Pulp Poem of the Week

You have
a couple
of hours
of fun.
And then
you have
a lot
of hell.

          Don Tracy
          Last Year’s Snow
          1937

Pulp Poem of the Week

spread-eagled
on the bed
like a steamrollered
Arthur Dimmesdale

          Donald E. Westlake
          What’s So Funny?
          2007

Pulp Poem of the Week

Don’t ever get a girl
that’s gotta get in
by ten o’clock.
Eleven, yes,
but not ten.

          P. J. Wolfson
          Is My Flesh of Brass?
          1934

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