Friday, February 20, 2015

PERFECT


to think you lying
on some Brazilian beach
fucking a young man
in the heat,
his dick as engorged
as a donkey's,
while Tanto Tempo
plays in the background
while here,
my tortoise shelled
appendage shrivels further
inside me with every
breeze that blows
the Siberian air
under and through
my armor and plunges
the zero in my bone
down into Hell.

I watch your toes
curl in the sand
to a samba moon
& listen
to all the ways
you say, "Daddy"
to those sons
who struggle
to understand.
I will tell you
that pleasures
will be denied
outside my presence,
but my presence
will be in every absence
you will sense
in every face
not mine,
in every voice
not familiar
and in every corner
turned with
expectation &
disappointment.
Each kiss
a confirmation
of dryness;
each thrust,
a rebuke
of motive.

I'm branded
into your hide
as if you were a cow
who could only give
your milk
to one farmer;
I'm in those secret
places which punishes
language. But
do not despair,
mi amore
for I speak
in many tongues,
too.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2015

Wednesday, February 4, 2015

A HIATUS

For B.L. mainly

I'm going to try and take a little break from posting in order to finish the novel I'm working on. I'm close, but need to take the energy I use for this, and put it into that. And while it's true that the poem and the novel are one, still, I find that working on one can water down the other. I would think that three to six months sounds about right.

I'm going to leave you with a quote by a friend, Jamieson, and her husband, Simon.

"To love is to give what one does not have and to receive that over which one has no power. To love is to freely negate the stubbornness that is the self and to live in loyalty to an affirmation that can dissolve like morning mist with the first experience of betrayal."
--Simon Critchley and Jamieson Webster--
"Stay, Illusion"


Saturday, January 31, 2015

PEEPING


the peeper
who peeps
the peeper
who peeps.

Fear not,
my love.
If I do not love
you, I do not love
at all and when
you stop
for a minute
or stop
at your grave
I will not
be loved
again.

Can you see me
getting dressed?
I'm going out
this midnight.
In this cold
February
of grief.
There is a ball
for exhibitionists.
My fingers
are all
I need
to warm
me--
though
your eyes
are essential
for this dance
to be danced, too.
Observe me
observing you
in your private
hell of dancing
lies, dancing
that delicious
Fascist rag.

Its perversion
is its passion.
Nothing more
than being
scared
shitless--
the beginning
of lust.

And isn't that
beautiful, too?

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2015

Thursday, January 29, 2015

THERE'S NOTHING VERY PRETTY


about my poetry,
or about my love.
I've learned both
through mistakes,
false starts,
& feeling
my way
through thickets
laced with
illusions
great
& small.
It's been
a nightmarish
dream
of opposites.
I've believed in
my hard-headed
notions
of what
this all meant,
& its been proved
wrong in its
soft-headed
naiveté.

My writings
are ugly,
unpolished &,
more often
than not,
gross.
They're messy
& not easily
digestible.

But when
they go
down, if
they go
down,
they are good
to eat
a thousand years.

Bon appetite.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2015

Tuesday, January 27, 2015

LI NA & DENNIS


I saw
Li Na
& Dennis
on TV
the other night;
she's beautiful,
and tough,
and terribly
skilled.
He's heavy,
not very handsome,
but seems wise
beyond his years.
They both
have been
through love's
fires
and have come
out
the other side.

It made
this white Western man
very very
jealous.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2015

Wednesday, January 21, 2015

I WANT


you
to need
me
with such
force
the gods
will feel
hot
with
embarrassment.
They will fear
your greed
& single-
mind-
edness.
They will laugh
nervously
& wonder
how love
can be
this
cruel?
They will
write plays
on how
to love
like this
& still be
gods.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2015

Tuesday, January 20, 2015

WORDS


like youth
will, one day,
wake-up
& run;
they'll
take off
for greener pastures.
You'll chase
after them,
instinctually,
& trip
on a memory
or two.

Watch
your
step.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2015