Best Pulp Fiction Poems
Here, I dwell in no man's land,
On the flip side, there's men unwomanned,
They can be a miserable band,
Desperately seeking a hand,
I read their profiles for online dating,
Is this pulp fiction they're creating?
"Honest, sensuous, sincere men here,
Tactile and reliable...", Great, my dears,
All searching for affection,
BUT, I want your ex's true opinion!
Can I have her phone number, please?
What do you mean she's overseas,
Like forever and permanently?
Oh, really, really, really.....
What does your ex say about you, please?
Why complain about her to me?
Honestly, why are you unwomanned?
While, here I dwell in no man's land.........
Pretty soon, night will fall upon the city,
And lives of crime animate spasmodically
As Gene Pitney croons “A Town Without Pity”
And the clubs and the gin joints open methodically.
Hepcat jazzmen smoke reefers, shoot junk,
The pimps clean their nails with switchblades laconically,
Fedoras pulled low as they mind-jive to funk,
And the neon lights crackle and buzz electronically,
Breast enhanced blondes catch the eyes of their johns,
Pouting and winking, the sale of depravity,
For a price any vice can be practiced upon
The surface of flesh, any crevice or cavity.
Cops pound the beat twirling nightsticks around,
Turning blind eyes for a bribe taken willingly,
Failure to pay brings the world crashing down,
“It just ain’t your day,” the cops whisper chillingly.
Wiseguys hold court in an old pizzeria,
Smoking and drinking and eating the scenery
Their empire of family governed through fear,
The rule of the gun and Sicilian ancestry.
Corporate needles pierce veins of the damned,
Chalk drawings map lines around death’s ideology
Cigarettes sparked and the siren howls slammed
Through the meanest of streets of pulp fiction mythology.
In the world of the scribe, this pulp writer hack
May exaggerate slightly for sake of the narrative,
Yet film noir seems grey when reality’s black,
At the end of the day everything is comparative.
The inhuman toadie, that does not have your voice?
You want me to call you, I have made a choice.
To listen to Mr. Techno Man, for me is a total crucifixion.
Hearing the same inhuman male across the USA, shows
our disrespect for others as pieces of pulp fiction.
Even dogs have different barks, and I do prefer them
or the true silence of a natural park.
So, the phone is a dead issue for me.
It's the Covid of the year, for this member of society.
Texts, too~are a deep sword in my soul.
They seem to rejoice, in telling me where to go!
Technology replaced humans so long ago.
They can even create poetry or didn't you know?
We don't have to fret and weep over elephants dying.
The human race is already killing itself off, and I am one
who, in virtual reality, is most assuredly dying!
I need not fear dying, I am already there.
That obnoxious answering machine is an avoidance lair.
That empty, lonely feeling of being insignificant and worse,
unloved.
Please put your own voice on a real answering machine.
Pressing buttons is a nightmare and for telephons companies,
a huge money making scheme!
10-26-2029
Poem# 1
an in-sight drove me
here where the entry code 'eye'
opened a word lock
so timely fashion
is responsible for words
on 'invisibles'
our subconscious 'scans'
it is just information
our library
and we are the 'eyes'
an only librarian
that seeks references
in experience
of clues we focus upon
and weave stories from
to create movie
science and pulp fiction themes
that rattle the mind
the more we focus
on hollywood plot and script
we are blind to scan
stan
Dreams and Reality
I met her in the Book-Fair, three days the fair lasted
And she was spotted on all days, browsing and buying my books
Eyeing me without talking; I could read her mind in her looks
As the tip of her lip touched my book cover image. The posted
Message on the wall of my heart conveyed her dreams and fixed
Them across my mind. So, I took the first step and blasted her diffidence
With a gentle smile, getting a charming smile with a girlish confidence.
That’s it; with ignited throbs we spent days; she then asked, ”What next?”
“A Long Poem in the pipeline and a pulp fiction in printing,”
She seemed bewildered. And we finished the day without talking more.
The next day, she was more silent, and then asked in haste, “What more?”
“A Mock Epic for my taste and a Romantic fiction to make it trending.”
I talked about books and more books as she talked with her looks; mere looks!
And we parted there, like crooks; realizing- life is more than books and looks!
with red eyes blazing
they race through fog on hot sands
in a dying land . . .
Barsoom’s white apes transplanted
to an earth where hell broke loose.
Note: Barsoom is a fictional representation of the planet Mars created by American pulp fiction author Edgar Rice Burroughs.
Surely, Sherlock was rooted in the home.
But his ruby slippers
Had worn-out souls
So the jaded detective
Followed Fitzgerald and the lost generation.
But somewhere in between chapters
And the thicket of printed syllables,
He took a wrong turn
And found himself in neverland.
The lost generation
Morphed into barbaric
Lost boys
And though the Englishman
Aged like the mulberry wine
Drowning his consciousness,
Literature never grew up.
And so,
The stories remained:
Timeless.
While in the lagoon
Of a dead poet’s society,
The poems still exhale.
Engulfed pages of pulp fiction,
The rind,
Binding the vitamins of knowledge
To the seeds of ruminations,
Still blossom, fruitfully.
And though Holmes’ words now crawl,
Pathetically,
From his tongue--
Their decibels still caress my skin.
Insignificant filaments
Stand erect
Upon my forearm.
As misinterpreted anthologies
Hold their compasses to the North Star,
Their melancholy is lifted,
And literature can be reborn--
Free.
Tonight,
Sherlock lights his briar pipe,
And gives one last request.
To Peter Pan,
The feeble man purses his lips:
Read me a bedtime story.
And with that,
The mystery is dead.
Damned to eternal sleep.
The last page,
Still yet to turn.
My past a mixed brew grilled by time
scarred by an ardor with an expiry date
curdling bone liver heart
dry as refrigerated omellete
a breakfast for one, and later
tea stale in stab of youtube replays
because we are bleeding, leaving
mocked by reality which once glued
our hours together, and now a story
absolutely pulp fiction, hard boiled
to a numb indifference, although
I miss those rugged jeans
scratching gym- stroked thighs
as we fight again again about
the difference between and time and love
while our room screams of
my heartbreaking chains released...at last
2/11/2017
Nicola Bryne’s You Broke My Heart Contest
THE browning Version
ET> Unstrung heros Premonition
Enemy of the State
Good will hunting
Mystery, Alaska The family man
Galaxy Quest Hook ghost busters
CARNAL KNOWLEDGE
5 easy pieces Last American Hero
WITNESS
High fidelity
PULP FICTION
HEIST
Waterworld The Big Lebowski
GO TO WHITE CASTLE---DEAD PRESIDENTS
the scarlet letter
Nixon
3,000 miles to Graceland
Luke 11:9
Pulp fiction had nothing on him. He was a man’s man. A protagonist
of his own making, self-reliant, and self-assured. Marlow kept his wisecracks
to the bare minimum when meeting a new client. Dames were not as compliant as they used to be, and they carried their own derringers now.
More dangerous than ten years ago. He leaned back in his chair, enjoying a swallow of nicotine from his favorite cigarette. He had heard this woman was stacked. Mrs. What? He reached for his paper. Mrs. Stanton. She sounded stacked, a real femme fatale. A harsh knock came on his outside door.
not a woman’s knock, and yet, there she was.
“she’s a murderess
This mattered not to him now
Private eye smitten”
Written 4-29-2019
Contest: Pick a title, volume 4 – Haibun
Prompt #2: The private eye and the femme fatale
Sponsor: Edward Ibeh
El Presidente don’t Tennessee
nothing bad coming,
tho’ the global orbitals
saw viral things very differently
Happy talk tongue taters
do eerily
Idaho ear mash liquor please
Delaware drunk on denial,
so Iowa unaware
that the body litmus test
is gonna crimson cost higher
The Ivory home
(with the igloo dome)
in un-Wash D.C.
got the Nevada neon soundbytes
Alaska gaslighting
Montana malaria nonsense
New Jersey devil-speak
is a spit-splash of
Flo-rida jingo-jingle noise:
Colorado pulp fiction vig juice
of New York grifter con-fidence
West Virginia coal pipes rattling
delusional hiss tales untruth
Murmuring Utah pseudo-soothsayer hoax salt
message mixed in
utter Louisiana swamp cackle placating broth
Kentucky bourbon breath
be mirage-aged facts
in a California Death Valley cask
Pennsylvania Ave. perps pledging a pathogen allegiance
to Indiana vaping jones —
Ill moan shills of Illinois cremating bones
South of North Dakota
are so many fear reservations
of minimal test quotas
North of South Carolina
are very few swine swill flu taste hesitation
But *CDC’s beaker manic motion
botched the pestilent cure potion
Now, from the Oval top
to the Pentagon bottom,
there’s a United State of denial
Flooding the closed border with
Rio Grande pandemonium,
Texas-sized tears
break down the New Mexico wall
of pandemic jeers
As Georgia’s scientific swells
placebo smile
at the syringe sound
of the Maine coast death knells
While El Presidente
only coin care to
Mississippi make-believe see
Missouri monetary glad tidings
Toot the little horn of confusion, please ...
‘cause Toto knows
we’re not in Kansas anymore, Dorothy
*CDC is an acronym for Center for Disease Control.
A federal agency whose headquarter
is located in Atlanta, Georgia.
— Romantic Warrior
Doesn't everyone at some point
deal with addiction?
While for some symptoms are mild,
others are like pulp fiction.
It's deemed a disease and this I truly believe.
A disease that can make an honest man thieve.
It can turn happiness into sorrow.
Even take away any chance for
tomorrow.
Truth tellers lie and the once mighty now meek
The once grounded qrow lost and the
once strong grow weak.
Tricky it is to find its trigger and to
learn to step back if the addiction is
bigger.
When you trigger an addiction that is
bigger than you, kindly bow out is
what you should do.
Because to beat it is
something that cannot be done.
Never look at addiction thinking
you've won.
Because it's always there waiting for us
for all of our life
Best to learn to control
it so too not live in strife.
To tempt fate with an addiction on
any level, is like grabbing on to the
horns of a devil.
To have an addiction know it always
will taunt , but to invite it in, know
your life it will haunt.
JD Berryhill 2013
Something in this autumn air
I like to call oblivion chill
beats my heart
into pulp fiction,
clasped inside my diction,
who can hear the heart
crying for its lost will
inside that unreal New York Square?
A termite’s a guy who just loves the woods
It gnaws him because he’s just not understood
His nightmares, a version of Sentricon hell
You love oak and cherry, why can’t he as well?
A villain who’s bred by your dereliction
Spy him out early, ‘cuz he’s no pulp fiction
He wants you to upgrade, pack up and move on
He’s Jaws and he’s Spectre ‘gainst your Termite Bond
—————
Chewing on No Sympathy For Termites by Milt Hankins
Quote: I don't want a perfect life I want a happy life
Children tumbling out of bed
coffee dripping from my old faded percolator
Stockings hanging from the shower curtain
mother's laughter from across the miles
Husband's wet kisses and the shuffle of feet
scraped toast, slamming front doors
The smell of mulched leaves
the way the sun slants over my kitchen window
I don't want a perfect life, just a happy one
Empty cafes and smokescreen writes
pulp fiction and doggie smiles and treats
eggs over easy and difficult puzzles to solve
hugs and kisses and fun between the sheets
tea for two, I love Lucy, and more dreams
then I can ever dream of, ...just a happy life,
nothing more