Pop Pulp (Spillane)
The bullets from the .45 have patterns
as they scream for their targets, human marks
for smoking guns. This evening busty slatterns
are cracked over the head, and gangsters park
their cars behind abandoned buildings. True,
the clichéd themes abound. But O what fire
is that hard, gritty prose! Prose where the blues
twang softly with background of squealing tires.
Rat-a-tat-tat, typewriting as gunshots
across the page delivers thrills to wives
and schoolboys: Tens of millions copies bought,
a legacy from which Frank Miller thrives.
Divorce from self the falsities, the caught
hardboiled truth has deep power, and does it drive!
If you have any thoughts about this poem, Christopher
Fried would be pleased to hear them