Pulp Fiction

Pulp Fiction in a Colourful Grain

In a quiet diner, two men sit for a bite,
One tilts his camera, the other watches light.
The conversation drifts in waves—“What’s the name of your favourite food?”—
The punch of slang, a beat as slick as London bumpy roads.

The next scene, a dance floor, a twist of wrist,
Mia, a electric spark in a room, all lit in the flick of a wrist.
Jules’ line, “This is it. This is where it all happens,”
Echoes through the bar with a rhythm of hushed godless phantasms.

The world is split in sideways grooves;
Jules, Vincent, Martin, his mind finally moves.
They hold a cup of black coffee, a burner that roars,
A punching collie, a fight, and a dead man's war.

The steak and the flimsy gold, a lemon‑lighted haze,
The vending machine, the simple “Royale with Cheese” phrase.
It’s the sameness, like a London bus that loops on time,
An eerie echo, an inner bounce that keeps one rhyme.

The film rings in a punchy, slick beat,
It’s a film made of spice, blood, and heat.
A masterpiece of broken shards in a fiery flail,
British spelling, slanted ending, an old‑world face.

The reel on the screen has its own soundtrack:
The ticking of a watch, a father’s touch.
As always the curtain closes, the story ends in a spin,
Only tomorrow it will finish, and the next story will begin.