Long Pulp fiction Poems
Long Pulp fiction Poems. Below are the most popular long Pulp fiction by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Pulp fiction poems by poem length and keyword.
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
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!
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.........
Say
You know what they call a burger
in the future
What
I can't believe it's not a burger
Because it ain't got no meat or
cheese in it
It's a bun but that ain't bread as we
used to know it either
With some or other kind of meat
substitute as the burger
And the side's have gone as well
And don't even get me started on the fries
Just maybe that was what was actually
in the briefcase after all
Tarantino just didn't want to spoil the
surprise until his big reveal when he
gets to say , i told you so
And Vincent the hitman would Kill Bill
or even Jules for just 1 more
bite of a juicy burger as bloody in the
middle as Mr Pink himself
Because at that point nostalgia has
become the newest kind of pulp fiction
that takes us back to the future
I am looking for a book I left
on a train back in 88.
A book concerning explorations made
on the Metropolitan line
between Harrow-On-The-Hill and Croxley.
An odyssey
only reaching its destination today
as I now circle low
over the Jovian moon Calisto.
Close to her sad old face
I can see that she was
a good mother and an unfaithful wife.
Diana, Zeus clad in the form of Artemis
all three orbiting a scandalous history
disguised as pulp fiction.
Her womb is full of dead stars now
but she shines by the light of Jupiter himself.
As predicted in an overlong story
they still circle round the same
orbit of West London,
where a book I had almost finished
must always lay completely unread
as a tale planted by the very God's
that stirred my younger mind
to be a train reading rider
in the first place.
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
When death comes, that life-story
we have been retelling
will become sets of imaginary histories,
threads of false moments, woven on
an unravelling, threadbare tapestry.
None of my own stories will matter,
they will wash away like sandcastles
on an unknown shore,
all but the look in my father's eyes
as the lights went out -
that was an indelible moment.
Of course, there are other tales to tell
rehearse, edit and recycle,
they all could be set to paper
as a word-web of pulp fiction,
nothing more.
Life happened, we allowed the past
to become an elaborate explanation
of what we think we became
and are.
When our time comes,
behind a dying sight,
a book will close on blank pages.
Only the imprint
of a love given and received
will remain.
All else will be the dust of delusion,
and that will be both mine
and your story.
Dutiful discipline drives devoted diligence...
Quotidian dedication describes
das deft dude,
his promising passion
with English language
within recent past dim sum
might notice he brewed
poems about common
trials and tribulations food
for thought self sadist factorially
reasonably rhyming oft times
incorporating analogy, metaphor, simile
more so to stave
writer's block fortitude attitude
versus less to impress any
first time unknown reader,
or anonymous regular
guy/gal follower disproportionately
emphasizing burgeoning agonizing
travails analogously Druid
cursed his existence fearsome
oaf got me matt chewed
rendered into pulp fiction
subsequently spit viewed
within circle comprising
cannibalistic primate creatures
roam'n around within
makeshift amphitheater crude,
yet sophisticated as
simplistically configured, construed
convoluted edifice witnessed
snaking snarky conga line
weaving and bobbing amidst
totemic pillars where well
kneaded, muscled, oiled...
flesh glimmering while nude
on green acres, whereat
arbitrary petticoat junction etude
aired by linkedin foo fighting
beastie boys in the hood
paying homage to their
benevolent patron - Saint Jude
honoring self serving
cisco, duck, eagle - feather nesting
arrogant, bombastic, conceited...,
egos trumpeting barren airs
exuberantly keyed how
village people got royally screwed
taken to cleaners riverside,
whereby sudden deluge didst flood
courtesy of... mad
don (huh) feeling stewed,
who sought world dominance
raged at populace he should
receive nobel peace prize
and voted, nee crowned emperor
demanded cachet else...
he promised to force unglued
freedoms of life, liberty
and pursuit of happiness!
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
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