Old Pulp
It comes wrapped up in clear mylar,
like the ones comic people use,
insides faded, creased and yellow,
big red letters boast of the west,
small rips and tears from ancient hands,
and the collectors before me,
does not detract from the image:
Cowboys in bold, pulsing colors,
pistols blazing, horses rearing,
sweet girl taking cover behind.
Inside the paper, yellow-brown,
brittle and has a smell to it,
cheap newsprint, never meant to last,
disposable, all this stuff was,
but inside endless stories roll,
some from greats you still recognize,
others from folks long forgotten,
coaxed to life when you read their words,
their thoughts reborn, blended with yours
as your eyes scan the old pages,
our only immortality.
The images scattered throughout,
like comics before the comics,
black lines build up a lost world,
that only lived within out dreams
Ads for cigarettes and liquor,
columns with words from old cowboys
who actually lived through the age;
marketing for correspondence:
How to build your own radio,
How to write things down in shorthand,
You can look like Charles Atlas!
The TV of its time and then
you finish and feel bad that you
are in the present day again.
Do you think they’ll read our scribblings
a hundred years after the fact?
Copyright © David Welch | Year Posted 2022
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment