4 Poems by David Cranmer @BEATtoaPULP

Punk Noir Magazine

Wherein, Demons

What’s not said

IS always ‘spoken’ 

within, submerged,

close to the bone.

Here, fueled by 

10-million-degree spite,

words stab, 

blood flows, and

demons are allowed 

to breathe.

Topside, my tell gives

with a glassy stare

or look away—beware 

what contempt breeds.

Dead Burying the Dead


What’s the fuss?

You swallowing me

Kick me down the hill

Drag you through the streets 

Forgive us not our trespasses

John Wayne, yesterday’s Duke,

was average on the draw

Like you, like me

Did we lend a helping hand?

Walk with Kings? Or forked memes, 

with self-aggrandizing schemes

Ariana Grande has grown up

Since licking donuts for free

Likes her (4M), like me (—)

What goes around comes around

Mom used to say—it’s just twisting 

and daggering faster these days

Me swallowing you

What’s the fuss?


Lost in Space

They sit, 


Vacant eyes, 

not yet dead, 

far from alive. 

Miserable, lost


glued in spot, 

like flies stuck 

to a sticky trap,

but without

the buzzing,

there’s not

the slightest

glimpse of life 


Alone (after Kyle J. Knapp)




Every night

Muddled speech


And other graceless vexations.

Myself, trying to sleep

    One day

        I will.

David Cranmer is the editor of the BEAT to a PULP webzine and whose own body of work has appeared in such diverse publications as The Five-Two: Crime Poetry WeeklyNeedle: A Magazine of NoirLitReactor, Macmillan’sCriminal Element, and Chicken Soup for the Soul. He’s a dedicated Whovian who enjoys jazz and backgammon. He can be found physically in scenic upstate New York where he lives with his wife and daughter, and he can be found virtually on Twitter @BEATtoaPULP.