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.
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
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
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.
went to see 'once upon a time
innnn holllyyywood'
soft core quentin tarentino
not you're dead yet pulp fiction
a bit too long but a twister
to pull you out of your senses
so hold onto to your popcorn
and let spill your sense of humour
stan sand
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
Kurtistani; aab, cddceec, ffb
Your status says you dumped me and at last
you took your first full breath. You look aghast
at any desk and any desker either.
Alas, it's true. Just like pulp fiction says:
"The crime occurred next to where the body
was dumped". The butler did it. No gaudy
young things like you would fall for people as
lightweight as me. That's what you dream about:
a gravity, an earthy man, a bout
of ordinary girlish happiness.
The breakup, as for me, looks like some kind
of gravitation just in our mind:
the earth, the air, the stratosphere, the ether.
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
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?
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
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.........
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.
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
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!
Sub Categories
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