Pulp - Sept 28 2026

 

Pulp

Sept 28 2026



I have distilled my words

down to pure alcohol.

They will intoxicate

merely by proximity;

a whiff, with your eyes closed,

a kiss

with booze on her breath.

And unlike wine

these spirits

aren’t corrupted by age.

No mixers or garnishes.

No spritzers, or umbrella drinks.

Just a shot glass 

of hard liquor

tossed back in one gulp.

Concision, she says,

wielding her red pen

like a scalpel dripping blood.

Embellishment’s for sissies,

while 200 proof

is proof of manliness

  — absinthe

or whisky straight

my editor insists.

And teetotallers?

Ahhh, the abstainers

who claim to be virtuous

and high on life.

Who want to burn the confessions

and self-indulgent memoirs,

long Russian novels

with polysyllabic names.

Torch the sappy romances

with run-on sentences,

sex

too embarrassing to read.

But happily, recite razored poetry

they know by heart

or make up their own.

Then marvel at the trees

instead of turning them to pulp.

I began to write this as an antidote to my usual prolixity. An act of self-discipline. Because I’m my own editor, and apparently not a very good one!

I was determined:  10 lines max. A quickie. Unsurprisingly, I failed.  … On the other hand, I think if every word counts, it passes the test. 

But it came fast. Wrote itself. And — I think — propulsive enough to seem short! Anyway, while distillation is good, who wants 200 proof alcohol? It burns going down, and tastes like disinfectant. 

It’s about concision, yes; cutting the fat. But also — as the last two lines (as well as earlier in high on life) so abruptly clarify — about eliminating the intermediary and interpreter; and instead, living life first hand. Because language is at best a poor metaphor for the real thing.

I always instinctively distrusted poetry that came too easily. But later learned that those are often the best. This one was pure stream of consciousness. A flow state. I began with no idea where it would go: just took dictation, while letting it take me by the hand. ( . . . Actually, most of my poems feel like that!)