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Pulp Poem of the Week
Unvarnished Language, Unvarnished Truth
Monday, July 28, 2008
Morning sun stripes cell.
Five fingers feel my hard heart.
It hurts, hurts, like hell.
Charles Willeford
Miami Blues
1984
Monday, July 21, 2008
Her hair was falling over
her shoulders in snaky
curls. Her eye was all black,
and her breasts weren't drawn
up and pointing at me,
but soft, and spread out
in two big pink splotches.
She looked like the great
grandmother of every
whore in the world.
The devil got his
money's worth that night.
James M. Cain
The Postman Always Rings Twice
1934
Monday, July 14, 2008
Her voice faded off
into a sort of sad whisper,
like a mortician asking
for a down payment.
Raymond Chandler
The Little Sister
1949
Monday, July 7, 2008
He recognized the picture.
It was a snapshot,
blown up. A picture of
Patricia that summer in Maine
when she had worn the Bikini
for the first and last time,
wearing it that once
out there on the rocks,
while they swam. She had
large breasts. She had been
unable to control them.
Gil Brewer
77 Rue Paradis
1954
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Morning sun stripes cell. Five fingers feel my ha...
Her hair was falling over her shoulders in snaky
Her voice faded off into a sort of sad whisper, l...
He recognized the picture. It was a snapshot, blo...
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About Me
David Rachels
David is editor of the first-ever collection of Gil Brewer's short fiction,
Redheads Die Quickly and Other Stories
.
View my complete profile