Thursday, April 30, 2009

ON MY BIRTHDAY; THIS YEAR

Whew!
I don't remember
how I got here!
so fast!
with fiction
behind me
I speed
toward the slowest
of conditions.

I'm the only one
that holds the pen.
so much power!, that
on Jane Street I ripped-up a dream
and neatly disposed it
in a trash can where it still
lies, smeared
yet legible.
it surprises even me
this want
for a strange warm pool
where water has the consistency
of evaporation.

in this myarid of highways
there is really only one
that gets traveled
and so many rules
are translated into one--
survival,
for as long as necessary
or possible.

Norman Savage
Coney Island, 1971

FORTY-DEUCE

Striptease night,
laughing
at the days blatency,
curls
inside dampness
as cosmetic whores
frown
upsidedown
in neon
madness.

Norman Savage
New York City, 1973

POEM

sizzling sun
fever at noon
as the outlaw rides
into the spoon.

his escape spilled
from the spiders lips
and he, only able to kiss
the ghost of a spirit, choose
to be, Hamlet,
once again.

Norman Savage
New York City, 1973

Wednesday, April 29, 2009

COSTS

This book
of empty white pages
cost me
two bucks and change
to purchase new,
and also cost me
X number of days
to fill up.
It will cost you
about the same,
minus the X,
of course.

Norman Savage
Coney Island, 1971

POEM

Ah, go on,
fuck yer brains out;
you been layin
in that position
too long anyway.
nauseating commercials
on the radio sayin
how glorious to be in love--
are they kiddin?
at the end
ya love yerself,
maybe,
if yer
lucky.

Norman Savage
Coney Island, 1971

Tuesday, April 28, 2009

EXTENSION

you'd be amazed
how fucked-up
things can get:
like finding
a dead
love.

Norman Savage
Coney Island, 1970

ANYWHERE

I want to be
somewhere
where I'm not,
and not know
I'm somewhere
when I get there.

Norman Savage
Coney Island, 1971

Monday, April 27, 2009

SOME WOMEN

Watch out
for the woman
who says
she never lies
to men
about love
which makes it
all the more amazing
and impossible
to comprehend
that she's alone
and constantly
being lied to---
something's
up.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 1978

Sunday, April 26, 2009

1 PM--4:30 PM

the movement
of the Italian telephone company
moves
as fast as shit
through a flypapered tube.

Norman Savage
LaSpezia, Italy 1970

SHUTTER

I go,
like a mad photographer
with my pen
& little blank book
trying to put
a seed
into a flowerpot;
but a buttonhole
is not desired,
and the coat
seldom worn.

Norman Savage
Sitges, Spain, 1970

ROLES

pretentious motherfucker
writing in front of people
trying to make real
something, anything
assertive;
being a poet,
or cocksucker,
is really
no big thing
unless
the poet is good,
or the cock alive.

Norman Savage
Madrid, Spain 1970

FEAR

forget the night
it is too dark
to go into

Norman Savage
Paris, 1970

GET AWAY POEM

Letsgetthefuckouttahere.

Norman Savage
Paris, 1970

Saturday, April 25, 2009

THE TERROR

Alone
in my postage stamp,
coffin-shaped crib;
step-up piss-stained crapper;
blue salami kitchen--tonight,
11:47 p.m.,
on the border
of disorder...east/west village,
double-bolted,
fox-locked,
Monk filled,
and not in the best of shape times,
have the feeling
of being
discovered.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 1979

SIMPLE SHIT


she said things to me
I knew she didn't mean,
but I hadn't heard them
in such a long time,
I figured,
hell,
whatthehell, sounds
pretty good; besides,
more things than my dick
needs watering; yeah,
make it grow; yeah,
that feels good,
too.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 1975

Friday, April 24, 2009

CIRCUMSTANCES

we were both drunk
and springtime horney.
I can remember kissing
the sweat offa her belly
and then the sun said,
time.
after
she told me her brain
was full of spaghetti,
(her best friend told her
she liked me, and she was fucking
a 65 year old owner of famous restaurant)---
(I could get around her best friend,
but what are you going to do with money
and food?) And so, I went home,
showered clean,
went to work
late,
fucked-up,
and very
tired.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 1975

Thursday, April 23, 2009

THE KID

for Stevie Cauthon

She wanted it
first thing
this morning not knowing
that my dick
hardly ever rose
with the sun, (last night liquored up & bent
outa shape was easy enough...her being fresh pussy
didn’t hurt either.) But now, Christ....

She did know;
her legs knew;
her ankles locked knew;
her hands were O
so gentle
as we turned
into the stretch.
I felt the rise
that pushes God aside.
No whip,
no spurs,
no cheap muscle.

I probably paid
11, 12 dollars & change.


Norman Savage
Greenwich Village
Spring, 1977

I WAS TIRED OF WHORES

There’s only one way to be sure:
I stand outside seminaries
and wait
til the little girls
are ready
to take their vows
and I whisper
to them,
you sure, you sure
you know what you’re doin?

Sometimes I go home
with two
or three
of em.


Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 1976

Wednesday, April 22, 2009

TWENTY-FOUR YEARS REVISTED BY MYSELF

for me & Dylan Thomas


as my dog
lifted his leg
to pee
I coughed
bringing up
smoker's sputum
which i quickly discharged
to the black street. i turned
away
from the obvious
habit, but not before
an icy ripple in my toe
forced me to kick-out
and shiver.

were you scared?
i'm here now
where you were then
and i'm scared.
your last line
you knew,
of course,
still left you
and me
with no choice except
a life time
of indecision.

before that "meat eating sun"
struts alongside me,
i'd like my name
to appear
in print,
as yours did.

Norman Savage
Coney Island, 1971

Tuesday, April 21, 2009

LUCK HAS NO DEFINITION


There's a black Labrador
that runs
across the street
when there are no cars
coming. He's a very smart
dog. I've seen him
almost everyday
for the last 3 years
up and down my block
dodging dogs, humans,
other obstacles.
He knows the area
better than I do.
He never shits
on his block; he knows
where home is and when
to go there; much better
than me.
Then on a day,
just like last spring,
his nose full
of heat smells, a step
will be lost. His brain
slowed from use
will be there
to deceive him. He'll look
both ways,
as he always had,
and seem to see
nothing.

The driver
will get out
dumbfounded
and angry.
Passers-by
will walk
a little faster.
Dogs on leashes
will sniff and tug
towards their own,
only to be guided
away by a force
more fearful
and powerful
than the dead
black Labrador
lying like a penny
pitched
against the curb's edge
never sensing
how lucky
he got.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 1977

A DIFFERENT KIND OF BREAKFAST

AND HOW WAS YOUR MORNING?

Gypsies in the mayonnaise jar;
women hinting
at surgical procedures;
wish bones
& jellied bromides.
The fizz.
Root canal
8 a.m.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 1976

Monday, April 20, 2009

WELL, IT MAKES CENTS

Fyodor,
you old Russian motherfucker,
how the fuck are ya?
Hey,-----
I finally figured it out:
you couldabeentakinashit
when the idea hit ya.

Norman Savage
Coney Island, 1971

Saturday, April 18, 2009

THE NUREMBERG EGG is a 26 page poem that I worked on from 1967 to the spring of 1970. It got me my BA degree from The New School for Social Research.

"BA" could also mean, "Bullshit Artist." Either one applies. Anyway, that's how I met Allen Ginsberg who mentored me for two years and edited parts of this poem. I've always been, as so many others have, indebted to him. For some reason that I haven't figured out, I'm not able to transcribe the form of the poem and so words, fragments, phrases, and lines, that were supposed to look different on the page can only now be viewed one way. There is nothing else to say about it.





THE NUREMBERG EGG

I
"You cannot get away.--Let me follow the roads here again, burdened with my vice, the vice that sank its roots of suffering at my side as early as the age of reason--and that rises to the sky, batters me, knocks me down, drags me after it."
--Rimbaud

now that i think about it
it reminds me of an
eviction notice
served by a rubber glove.
i can still feel being caught
and pulled
by my wet head out smoothly
as i locked
my feet inside her thighs
and hung in there
sweating.
i saw him grin,
“the little sonofabitch is tough,
but don’t worry,
we’ll get him.”
and he did
and again
i was speechless.

crystal halls
(cat calls)
in a carpeted house
conceal the bare basement
of half digested experiences:
electric heat
air-conditioning
two-car garage
& a little white
poodle.

II

sitting in a stuffy room
thoughts longing to breath---
you taking it all in
staying behind
---a memory drug
numbing nerves
that wish to run
to a lyons house
that stinks from sheet soaked piss
dead wine bottles
insane innkeepers
presents a mysterious aura
for the intruder.

---can’t escape
from a warm carpet
under cold sheets

played in the summer snow
winter warmth
as the days/months/years eluded us
crept away
unnoticed
while we thought of all the time we had
all the instants
contained in beginnings/ends
thrill seeking of warm thighs
and sighs
wide grins and hand shaking
until the 12 o’clock bell
summoned
& we ran
afraid to be late.

---can’t escape
from invisible chains
anchored
to a nonexistent dock.

in bed we stayed
fucking ourselves to death
(from an inverted hard-on)
---swarms of dollars in my head
islands with brown-chested dancing girls
tickling my cock
with wet tongues
(i loved every minute)
until sleep
brought tomorrow

i cringed
under a banner of laughter
from a funny line
they never knew
how deep it went
longing
for some sort of veracity.

i could say
with surety
on a hot moonlit evening
while flickering candles lick wine glasses
some girl
leaning backwards
would say,
“confusion is the cause
that sets the course.”
i’d become an aristotelian
at the wrong time;
this would only hesitate
her departure
& my celibacy for another evening---
I DIDN’T SHOWER TO HEAR THAT!
FUCKING IS WHAT I WANT TO DO!
(No Bullshit)
RIP OFF PLENTY OF ASS!
(am I getting crazy?---
commit me.

time is slipping
(already it takes longer to get hard)
sliding
off
my
back
to a book
not yet read
to a legacy
not yet written

III

ma,
stop screeEEching like chalk,
talk low.
two fathers
father/father
living a lie---
man (i dig this shit)
it started like this
in a six floor walk down
so don’t leave
you can’t
pretty paradoxical
& for once
i ain’t jiven.

IV

(chicken fat in a clenched fist

(a little ball of fat at twelve
johnny-on-the-pony pillow
then the hospital
with an unrelated disease to me
not a sore throat or usual cold
something called diabetes
making me skinny & old
at eleven
but
being traditionally young
i didn’t let it bother me
too much
went out
to prove
i was never sick.

as this story begins
in a stone fortress jr. high
where objective awareness took a back seat
to scenes & times---
gaudy ponchos
white tennis sneakers
square-tipped shoes
black leather jackets and
shiny sharkskin pants so tight
that it held up socks, back then
as the crotch puffed up
innocently---(neat)
“fuckin” was the Great Adjective used
in front of everything:
“look at those fuckin girls,”
“i can’t, i gotta go fuckin home,”
“last night, i got the best fuckin fuck you ever scene,”---
you get the fuckin idea;
anyway, the school i went to
thunderbird was the fuel used, or maybe it was tango
those satisfying beverages
in-between periods
as the girls eyed us suspiciously
envying the difference between the sexes.

comic book classes
note passing & whispering
about how she has a marvelous cunt,
“i heard she’s hot for ya, you could
fuck her easy.”
“fuck her.
i wanna fuck that one over there.”
but outside that shit stopped.
it was fights, basketball, slap ball, stickball,---
“take preston, that motherfucker hits tree sewers.”
they would hang around
waiting for their man to finish
and tend to personal business---
teased hair so high
you could actually see thru it,
clearly a sign for then; black rings
circling their eyes, cheap perfume, (canoe)
under their arms
making us hard & hot,
we’d stare at those with big tits and say,
“now there’s something to hang onto.”

saturday nights
on the corners
of couches
i’d turn into the great rhetorician
in tune to the mellow kings---
girls melted---internalizing
thinking
that tonight
maybe was such a night and
“holding you so near,” was a musical innuendo
for things to come---
“it’s got to mean more.”
“of course.”
“you aren’t the type to tell your friends....?”
“are you kiddin? you think that I’M like the other guys?”
“no, but I want to be sure.”
“SURE, YOU WANNA BE SURE?
ARE YOU FUCKIN’ KIDDIN’?
I TOOK YA BOWLIN’, TO, TWICE, TO THE MOVIES,
YOU’RE THE ONLY ONE I’VE BEEN SEEIN’ FOR WEEKS NOW,
AND YOU WANNA BE SURE. WHY DO YOU THINK I’VE BEEN SEEIN’ YOU?
i like you, that’s why,
and i think this could develop
into a meaningful relationship....but if
you don’t wanna....”
“no, it’s not that...”
“if you don’t like me as much as i...”
“no, it’s not...”
“then let’s stop becau...”
“NO”
sly motherfuckers
their little vaginas itching
for a touch
behind their mother’s unhip asses
sticking
their cute little tongues at 15
into a nicotined mouth
digging the first taste of saliva
syrup for them.

high
in the alley
i was like some great greek god
hurling the mighty ball
against our adversaries
(it became much more than that)
religious rites every friday and saturday
for the next 3 years.
meeting all the scum
that floated like a bad dream
in & out of doors from coney island
to middletown new york---
action was the thing
that reigned
above all other wants---
i was good!
better than school
better than other sports and
people were betting on me!!!
crowds, who knew my right arm, took out
case 5’s and 10’s trying to end the night
rich.
all in the right arm, 10 frames
“up 2 sticks, 3 boxes.”
“need a turkey.”
“cover 200?”
“you’re covered.”
all night into the morning
2 people, the ancient contest---
once you feel you gotem,
gotem by the balls,
never let go---keep churning
‘til his guts splash
over the scorers table---
(do what you do best
right?)
if it wasn’t the alley
it was the pool room---
there’s something about poolrooms & bowling alleys
that lend themselves
to action:
soft green/hard wood
clinking of colored balls/explosion of 10 pins
bridged by the smooth stroke.

tattooed arms
long hair combed in either a square back
or duck’s ass
bopping on kings highway
to a tough tune,
bad wheels lookin’
for a reason---
“you said sompthin’ bout my girl?”
“eh, no, i eh, don’t even know your girl.”
“you don’t know MY GIRL!
WHY YOU LYIN COCKSUCKER!”
BANG
BOOM it would start.
toughness was fun, excitingly
mistaken for a jelly jewish identity
surrounded by friendly insane wops
i made it work
being ballsy and loud
befriending the people i knew
protecting them
by my associations,
never bullying anybody---
people knew i was mean just by lookin’
at my scared snarl---
DON’T FUCK WITH ME, MAN
(please)

my folks got frightened---
“BOWLING ALLEY BUM,
GANGSTER, BASTARD,
my luck
i should have a son like you---
look at david, so nice, so refined,
so much respect for his parents
(respect, i hate that word)
your poor father and i have no luck
raise a child to be a bowler,
a gangster; is there any future?”---
“i’m leaving.”
“leave already, leave, go on and leave already.
enough, enough, i’ve had enough
your children should only give you
what you’re giving me and your father.”
“o.k. i’m leaving....”
“WAIT, WAIT, FIRST EAT,
WALK THE DOG,
AND TAKE OUT THE GARBAGE, (goddamn him.)”
always the garbage---
i could be dressed up
or balls ass naked,
taking a leak
or a good shit, still
there’d be that piercing cry:
“THE GARBAGE, THE GARBAGE.”
---i still don’t know really if it was garbage
for garbage sake
or just because that was
a way of showing i cared....about something.

abraham lincoln is alive & well and living
in brooklyn.
surviving years of decay
in an atmosphere of sterility
tended by a horny nun.
a big game---
more effort taken in cutting classes
than going to them.
pink cards by the dozen
3 envelopes so full that a truck
was needed to lift my file in my senior year.
big play in junior year by folks:
PLAN ONE:
find out what’s fucking him up;
PLAN TWO:
cure him (or it)
PLAN THREE:
get him into a college---
even if we have to build one!
what put them on my scanty trail
was the story older than prostitution:
“he has the potential, if....”
well, a battery of psychological tests
was the first step
in the ultimate solution
at n.y.u. for $100.00---”oh yes, well worth it.”
days & days (repeat)
(repeat)
(repeat) to find out:
i have the potential, if...
big trouble was study habits;
score so low it couldn’t be graded;
suited to be anything from an english teacher
to a minister---
which my folks would have settled for---
anything but a bowling alley bum.
once finding out that there was a brain
somewhere in that scatological body of mine
a shrink for “the cure” was next---
(a bad case of the clap would have been easier
and less painful)
---first shrink
stared at each other for 40 min. last 5 min. he asked,
“what are you thinking about?”
didn’t tell the prick.
this went on for 3 sessions
‘til i decided to leave
out of guilt
for wasting my parents bread on this asshole.
---second shrink
was great; went to him religiously
every wednesday, talked my poor
heart out---blaming my mother
for the way i dressed, smoked,
pissed,---the whole thing---
he called me an asshole,---
i understood. things got much better
but after 9 months my folks couldn’t see
any visible proof of my recovery
so they terminated the relationship.
i couldn’t blame them; i still bowled,
smoked, and fucked off. they called him an asshole,
in defense i called them assholes,
he called me an asshole---
pretty balanced, huh?

anyway, things started to change.
college was something important
(for my parents sake; (besides, i couldn’t
figure out a fucking thing to do with my life)
but with a 77 average there weren’t many ivy league schools
i could go to.
sullivan county community college accepted me.
requirements--------------------------------------------
blood.)

V

mashed potatoes on the wall
upstate
first school with fetal pig remembrances
of out the window
in double file
to double time
& time
that merciful healer
of small abrasions
of wife fucking
(somebody else's)
all very ethical---
she dug it.

pagan ritual, frazers’
vegetation cults all in
april
the cruelest month

HEY---
where’s my tarot pack?
quick get my cards---
it’s all in the queen’s cunt----;
hairy secrets
don’t wake me---
can’t you see
my emissions.

VI

ditch diggers
in south east asian snow
give me a gun,
sets of works, a tambourine man
on every corner;
“fast american crackers
trying to pass themselves off as europeans.”
brasz knew it
even from the lower east side
he saw clear across the country
into everybody’s heads
& puked.
who’s etherized now
t.s.?
& where? that’s far more important.
“everywhere,” you say?
“is it perfume from a dress
that makes me so digress?”

VII

i was judged
insane, by my own peers, man,
imagine that?
mere spectators
who want to suffer
my insanity. the sadder
i feel, the better
the experience
for others.

VIII

she’s pushing me
against the literal wall
hysteria
i’m sure of it
only yesterday she kissed
my forehead
and asked me to repent
(imagine that?)
ME
a good contraceptive catholic
way beyond the pleasure principle/sense pleasure
/hedonistic pleasure
cryptic, man,
it’s all vague
billy should not have died
he should have
vered away.

IX

dressed in drag
i’m getting married (in the morning
ding
dong
the bells
are go-
ing
to
chime)
to some
10th. st. faggot
who loves me
in silence
with frills & curls &
sweet smelling perfume
so nice
so soft
so...

X

my education
took place in subways
& 2nd. ave. johns---
prophets, i tell you
prophets:
---”nothing sucks as much as
success”
9-5 with fat faced bosses
2 cars with some skinny chick
that has bushels of hair
up and
down her arms and underneath her chin;
kids that fuck her
up and
down while you’re riding
that l.i.r. to boredom
` never to be seen again
lost in obscurity &
loving it.

XI

it’s all ambiguous, man,
nepenthe
some lost nymph
in some lonely wood
birch bark
all over her ass
“KISS ME”
she screams
& gives me
her cheek (of all things)
to say
the least
i was confused
(crisis)
so i took my cuban missile
disarmed it &
split.

it’s all phallic (also)---
smoke rings, pens, pencils, doors,
keyholes,---everything---even god
and i bet the pope
would like to be a nun
on fridays.

XII

you are there
while here
being & becoming
what you are already
existing thru nonexistence
starting from where you did not start
ending where you began
beginning where you ended.

“No Exit”
(“they are not consulting me
passing invisible judgment;
prematurely i have died
without accomplishment.”)
death does not come easily
or planned
“but at that moment
your life is completed
ready for the summation.”)
spit on rock
and fire
rasknolnikov, you bastard
drop your ax.
in that instant
a manifestation of my (his) free choice
an apparition whose presence haunts me
old ideas smother
while spontaneous flashes ignite in their wake;
we lose ourselves in agony and millennium
to save ourselves, only to lose
ourselves....freedom.
cheap tricks
all to deceive the forgetful eye;
emerson’s transparent eyeball,
smerdyakov’s head,
“you are---your life, and nothing else.”

XIII

surrounded by myself
my own flesh
forming infinitesimal cisterns
in my head

lead me to christ, o lord
make my sins
absolve themselves.

these hands are no longer hands to create
but only to rest themselves on an empty page.
CREATE MOTHERFUCKER
CREATE
silence, no response/inanimate
(why should i trouble myself
with ideas that are too much discussed
by me?)
of a blueprint love,
exactness, baby, that’s what counts
no mistakes
reminiscences
of long ago
can’t imagine what it once was
i there to fuck it
or stroke it
‘til i burst into flames
at the touch of a hand,
(speculation, all this
speculation bullshit, “ i would
i could
maybe
might have,”
potential possibilities---
all unredeemable in time)
carrying productive sperm
to give life
to another dead person
which is only the result of living (loving?)
living is a prelude
or the finish precedes the start
this precise moment is no longer
words are straightjacketed
i mean they strain
and crack
under the pressure
of too many tongues.
i’m trapped in the amorphousness of limitation
in the middle of being & becoming
non-existing/existing

lead me to christ, o lord
let my sins
absolve themselves.

XIV

a ransacked palace
stands alone on a ravaged hill
blocking the unassailable sky
behind it.
its jewels taken
halls left bare
stripped of all possessions
save a barefoot child with small splinters
crossed on the souls of his feet.

i must leave
the fruit is ripe after being nurtured
for twentyoneyears.
i have no arthritis
suffering from no constipation
obligated to no old masters
running out now
hurdling, actually
radiant---
twentyoneyearsold.

XV
"Was I wrong? Could charity be the sister of death for me? At least I will ask forgiveness for having fed on lies. Let us go now. But not a friendly hand! Where can I find help?"
--Rimbaud

but beware
the monkey demon
is here
all around us
watch out
for his claws
stinging flesh
sinking his teeth
into every pore.

i must escape
this lunacy
which has lasted
ever since
i became cog-
nizant of the fact
that
where is mom’s nipple
now?


POSTSCRIPT TO THE NUREMBERG EGG
THE ANSWER

the answer lies


somewhere between the thighs
or in the brain
of the organ.

the truths of scientists
are nothing
compared
to the truth
of the
moment.

Norman Savage
Coney Island, 1967-1970

REJECTION

just got rejected
by a pretty chick
who lives
with a man
twenty years her senior--
a longer ride
I guess.

Norman Savage
Coney Island, 1969

BEFORE TIME

stirring in my bed
you're like some Roman candle;
me--
fumbling
for a match.

Norman Savage
Coney Island, 1969

Friday, April 17, 2009

FRIDAY 8 O'CLOCK

night
that sticks
its tongue
into the ears
of corners
hides from the eyes
of cracks...

awoke
and ran
out
to meet
eros
so I could
do it
up
thirs-
ty
head
tall spade
a-
round
blind-
fold lick
my way
cook-
er it
cot-
ton draws
it up
cock
a doo-
dle do
it
(trey, man
taste it
beat-
en be-
fore
(twice or)
now and
fuck crip-
ple girl
three times)
re-
turn to
calm
street
mag-
i-
cal horse
ride
find
some food
to re-
sume.

Norman Savage
Coney Island, 1969

SATURDAY, 9:33 A.M.

wake-up
shot
never.
things to do
today:
one:
cop.
walk into strange pads
to steal;
walking fast
to meet
a loud $37 Italian
knit and
gator shoes.

Norman Savage
Coney Island, 1969

Thursday, April 16, 2009

THE NATURAL AND UNNATURAL ARE NATURALLY UNNATURAL

THE RITUAL

Trumpet shouts blind
on Rays' disc;
blood gets sucked
up
twice.
Black sun
rise changing,
climbing broken steps
into steam-heated
quinine room:
who'sdat?
meman.
(quiet

dry tongues lick
empty bags
water sque
ezed
gently into cap
match lit (it began before the climb)
draw it
draw it
up (again)
(again
eeez
get it mixed
boot it (once
boot it (twice)
now...
aw,
dat's nice.

That was the way the first day ended.

Norman Savage
Coney Island, 1969

AFTER

Smoke,
after the rain,
rising
from black tar
syrupy streets,
are all that's left,
after
a summer's
lightening storm.

Norman Savage
Coney Island, 1969

Wednesday, April 15, 2009

ANOTHER KIND OF SEX POEM

PENETRATION IS 9/10 OF THE LAW

Con Edison dug deep
past what was rock
next to Jack
whose rhythm
was broken
just as he was ready,
and she primed; he'd been trying
to fuck her for years now.
Jack was hot for her.
Very hot.
He had exhausted all the old lines:
C'mon once before we live;
you ain't gettin any older;
who ya savin it for; I wouldn't tell,
I promise, I wouldn't... shit,
there's no one here to tell--
but Thelma wouldn't budge.
Finally, in desperation:
Hey, honey, I ain't goin nowhere, this is forever--
did it.
She hiked
those angelic crinolins
up where God winked.
Jack strained and sweated
forgetting which came off first
as the first light
shone through worm holes,
but Jack didn't care; his nostrils were caves.
Hell, I'm so close; I'll deal with that shit later.
But Thelma had swiftly put the vise on.
Jack sued: invasion
of privacy; noise harrassment;
any goddamn thing.
But the judge
looking more like a blacksmith
asked: Well,
did ya cop? Did ya get
the little fella in?--
Jack, a bit embarrassed,
answered, no--
--threw his ass out.

Jack climbed back down
into the huge Con Ed hole thinking
of how to bullshit another 100 years
living next to a woman
who no longer
trusted him.

Norman Savage
Coney Island, 1969

Tuesday, April 14, 2009

FOUR SEX POEMS

A GOOD DAY

wet morning;
slip-
slosh utterances;
a good day
to fuck
all day,
(whew!)

Norman Savage
Coney Island, 1965

A WOMAN LIKE IRON

I couldn't make it
with the German chick; the kind
that just allows herself
to rub her tits in front of ya
and laugh
so I left
early
and grabbed a piece
of America
on the ferry, $1.25
for her now;
the only accessible woman
whose price
goes up
with age.

Norman Savage
Coney Island, 1966

SOUNDS HEARD IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT

ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod,
ohmygodIfeel so good, so happy, so
secure, so...
Whyshouldn'tyafeelthatway,
ain't I
yer mother?

Norman Savage
Coney Island, 1967

SIMPLIFICATION, (LIKE CHESS)

My life is complicated,
she said.
Yeah,
but I only got one dick,
I countered.

Norman Savage
Coney Island, 1968

Monday, April 13, 2009

ON BEING AN OLD MAN (TENTATIVELY)

My child is dead
but, as yet,
he does not know it.
Alive,
he is projected across
the naked screen where
a magic lantern threw off
forms that knew not the boundaries
of flesh. It's my own lie
that prevents the occurance
and not without reason.
But that's my problem.

It should be the child,
not the gender,
that's important;
yet I can't help wanting the strong
Spartan male who's as old as Greece
and as young as a first reading is.
I find that hard to live with,
though not impossible.

My life is spent staring
into Times Square neon
and then,
once sufficiently blinded,
I try the Port Authority
to catch the next bus out;
it's silly
to try and do something like that.
I've not found
a comfortably narrow street
to walk down; either my shoes
scrape against the red protruding brick,
or the street opens
too quickly
giving way to the broadest of intersections.
There is only the misleading map
of intuition to assist,
only today,
with the huge hidden asterisk that says:
use once,
then,
throw away.

It is not so hard
to understand
beauty;
despite the urn
it doesn't exist
except
as contradiction.

I cannot make love
without seeing the other side.
My inability is with women.
Sparta is not that far.

Norman Savage
Coney Island, 1968

THE DANCER

As a dancer
she could do no more
than wince
in the face of silence;
frothing
she mumbled something about
the inconsistency of feet,
how they seemed to get in the way
everytime she tried to step
in and out of spaces;
how she felt caught
by their limitation;
finally walking on her hands
all over the place
but even they, though,
presented that human flaw
that had her fall flat
on her pointed nose
that she raised
everytime it happened.
Listen, I told her, stay in bed already,
enough of this foolishness.
I did all I could--
shut off the radio, phonograph,
television, sealed all the windows--
(her body twinged
with the turning of another knob).
And she got more and more pissed-off
until I made compromises
like letting her hear a car horn
or the toilet flushing,
which would set her off into a tizzy,
piroutting around the room on her hands,
making scrambled eggs on the tips of toes,
but not quite putting it together:
finding my eggs with slippers on,
black tights around my orange juice.
It was frustrating.
USE YOUR FEET FOR WALKING GODDAMNIT,
I screamed.
But she couldn't hear me:
horns were honking,
water running, and she was doing
her body
justice.

Norman Savage
Coney Island, 1967

Sunday, April 12, 2009

A BEDTIME STORY

for Corinne

Your body's crease
is now steam-dried
and vacant;
all the waterlogged memories
have wept
and gone to another home.
Sand no longer dances
under your feet,
the sea sighs,
breathes, and
retreats.
All that's left
are yellowed and bent
snapshots and
the rubbed heads
of pencils.
Your womanhood,
a spiced stream
that made rivulets
through my sheets
is neutral,
boring,
dead.

I crunch on a piece of broken glass
with a new broken tooth, jagged,
and smile a demented smile
to myself.
All the spaces that stood
as background
to your form
and shadow,
your words,
that fitted silence
so well
are silenced--

Tonight the stars
are not important;
only the spaces
the dead ones leave
are.

Norman Savage
Coney Island, 1969

ANYWHERE

I want to be
somewhere where I'm not,
and not know
I'm somewhere
when I get there.

Norman Savage
Coney Island, 1965

LUST

(going into the night. away
from lights and figures, hands jammed
into pockets
protecting
used fingers. Rapaciousness.
Each women
taken,
separately, without love,
without
feeling. Actually, not touching, they sit
and eat flesh, and pretend
they're romantic.

Myself also exposed.
A fine steel spray
pricks holes
in my face, gradually seeing
what I really am
so painfully slow
to realize what I must give
before I can count
what is given back.

The addition of days
trails the last act
of my life.
The wreckage lies
across my face; after seeing
what I thought solid
break and fall
around my feet.

Norman Savage
Coney Island, 1969

Saturday, April 11, 2009

FEAR

Forget the night
it is too dark
to go into.

Norman Savage
Coney Island, 1969

BLUES

Saturday night descends
like Elvin Jones
around my shoulders
as darkness supplies
the masturbatory comfort---
I look for signs:
The Daily News gets fucked,
and acquitted;
Agnew found stroking it
and coming
for the first time;
Richard reprimands him
for sticking to business;
Sartre blames his mother...
this is CRAZY
this IS absurd
to stop in the
m
i
d
d
l
e
of a sentence
finding each word
lacks the meaning
you thought
it had.

I reach
for my albums
to give myself
a chance;
like now,
Lady Day
to end the fever
shoots me
full of
medicine.

Norman Savage
Coney Island, 1970

BENNINGTON WOMEN

drink beer from the bottle
while whores
drink theirs
from glasses.

Norman Savage
Coney Island, 1969

WORKING DREAM # 2


Plebeian pleasure
for the masochist
walking:
20 miles through 8 hours
of Key Food specials;
time to be?...not being.
Listening
for distraction:
"FIRE IN THE STOCK ROOM!"
possible?
with all the garbage bags?
"Anything in the window... in the store."
(Dear God,
I promise to believe in you
if you'd please break the window
tomorrow. If you're tied up,
could you please
send the Holy Ghost?)

No pressure--
--sell.

Norman Savage
Coney Island, 1968

Friday, April 10, 2009

TRANSACTION/COPPING

followed the man
round
half lit
corner
(cymbals dancing
round his toes)
to do
business.

Norman Savage
Coney Island, 1969

I DON'T BELIEVE YOU

crash dive
bee hive
silver monkey
on my side.
bottle cap
inward map
ain't no use
in lookin back.
baby dead
queen red
all my thoughts
inside my head.

we went
and came
in the same motion.
was said to induce
desired response
and all that but (more

speeded into the ring
talked the hungry christians
to death/also
fiddled under nero's gown
with cute bow stroke.

wedding cake
on the lake
secret lies
inside the snake.

sting/zappo
(again)
this time
zappo/sting
this time
(again)
(again)
time this
time.

all roads lead to somewhere
rectally
said some roman
or other.
chords are best
put together silently
said a grecian urn.

Norman Savage
Coney Island, 1969

Thursday, April 9, 2009

THE CONCRETE WOMB

bristling blindness;
black, empty
with light, off
my fingertips i reach
for sound. there is
none. there is only
the studded shot that suggests
moon-like desire.
milky spit rides
the cats' back. my fugitive shell treads
cautiously, but fleetingly,
forcing decisions
that deserve
more time.
zero degrees nurtures
the seed that grows
and dies in the same breath.

grass beginnings mark
where i once slept;
sweated out my perverted sleep,
rolled over to suck
the paralytic marrow.
gaining momentum
in a soft flight down
i saw the bird's broken leg
and jumped from her wing--
landing inside the wriggling worm,
i froze
and remained
still.

groaned through the yawning trap
door pushed from my wet landscape
agonizingly slow
towards the dry light
and fixed colors.
exiled
for all the times i failed
to grasp the liquid solitude.

we live lawlessly
within bounds.

i believe in our innocent
selfishness, and our intrinsic
denial. death takes a moment
to be born in any season; not only
flowers concede shortly but we too,
who numbly hold on
for however long
forever is.

we have no choice
but to be egoistic. we are planted
out of
and conceived into
our own image. eating the flesh
that housed me and, again, demanded
nothing. i rip the tissue
of my heritage and revel
in the delight of unknowing
destruction soon to come.

my house had no colors;
no shape in contour,
and no consciousness.
out of control and silent
i float inside my early
prison and am not pardoned
before my time is due.

inside, taciturnity spoke
reverse deliquation; artistically
virgin, yet possessing
all possibility; life dictates
curiosity. it is too late to hunger
for only vegetables--i have tasted meat
and my fathers' father and his
before that made a christ-like choice
and tongued the snakes' heart.
there is nothing left--
except chronic instantaneity
--there is everything to do
again, almost retroactively
we believe we are alive.
even the degenerate
gambler would not wager
on when the white bullet
shoots out and holds.

outside, the sticky water
subsides, and lets me go,
into the human glue.

i'm aware
of my silent partnership
with death; he could not do it
without me.
i know that, too well,
and am worse off for it.
there is only the crucifixion
remaining for, even a slight
suspicion. my safety was lost
when i entered. and all my fantasies
won't return me.

i'm lethally potent.
my son will be the same;
my narcissitic double
lives in the mysterious aperture
of rocks. purposely,
i delay the furious thumping
of the jack-hammer.

chance comes to play every night
with an assortment of faces
but the same command: Rub.
the phantom lady
rides on top. i deny
her presence and accept
her passionate elusiveness.
last evening i played with her promise,
but refuse to spill
another child tonight;
tomorrow is different.

my mouth forms the circle
while my eyes look
for the red protruding mark
that will protect me
from having to deal
with a role
that was not decided on
by me;
i want desperately
to be that role.
i know what i am
only because
of my first name.

i've waited
for direction
out, and must wait
for direction
in.
i've teased myself
with kirilov's conscience
but remain inside the clock
and outside the act.

i have come to believe
in the impotency
of gods and mirrors.

Norman Savage
Coney Island, 1967

Wednesday, April 8, 2009

THE QUESTION

You think
you're hip
& fast
& because
I smell you
I know
you're there.

I don't know nothin
of the kind.

I don't know why
your eyes
are hungry;
or why
your arm
looks like perferated paper
dotted red.

Come off it,
you say,
& fuck me.
Just a second,
I answer,
it's cookin.

Norman Savage
Coney Island, 1969

SAXIFRAGE

A code of valor--
we slay too many dragons
in quest for a fair maiden
that more often than not
stays in her ivory tower
far from the clutches
of a saintly suitor
who pants
far below
waiting
for her word
to climb.

an insipid hunter
waits
outside the coliseum
with hands clasped,
mouth watering
demanding a soul
for a Roman heart--
We are all gladiators
awaiting
a lion.

Norman Savage
Coney Island, 1969

Tuesday, April 7, 2009

EDGAR"S DILEMNA

"Vastness! and Age! and Memories of Eld!
Silence! and Desolation! and Dim Night!"

Did it in the street tonight;
8th Street--of all places--a freak show
stretching from Coney Island
to the city's carnival where
Queen Gypsy read my eyes:
"Cumhere, honey; you lookin?"
(Of course I was,
but was disappointed
she didn't remember
our last embrace or,
maybe, just
my name.

Again, it was surprisingly good.

I sit here now, back
home, wet,
and loose. My crusted shell broken
with yoke dripping
on the page
finally
able to sift through my renitent head
and put some bullshit
down on paper
and regret
that that's what it takes--
a small stamp collector's bag.
It does, though, get me through
the night nicely,
with a packaged woman. Myself
a psychopathic hipster strung-out
on a perfectly synthetic discharge
that also
happens to be white.

A different mirror rests
in my eye throwing back
no reflection and
although it's dark
I see the gleam
from the tiger's eye that,
for a time, prevents further
inquisition. (I know
there's more brilliance in that blur.
And that fact
keeps me here.)

Pretty lady
take me home
and I promise
to amuse.
And promise
to be good--
just don't
ask me nothin
I'd have to lie about
or trick me
into being truthful.
We must keep turning,
without explaining, like
how this poem
got here.

Pretty lady
sitting cooly
with your head
bent
laughing
at my awkwardness.
I'd be aggressive
if I didn't want you
and wouldn't need
this bastard night
to believe I have you.
Somebody must know
I'm desperate.
Who can I sue
for fraud?

Norman Savage
Coney Island, 1967

Monday, April 6, 2009

Two For the Price of One

THE MISUNDERSTANDING

she cursed him for the 2 cent tip;
it was all he had.

Norman Savage
Coney Island, 1966


BLOOMINDALE'S

faggots and beautiful women:
everybody feels safe.

Norman Savage
Coney Island, 1969

Thursday, April 2, 2009

In Celebration of Spring, 2009

THE BASEBALL GAME

Venus de Milo
perched on my porch
waves me out.
"It was high, man!"
"You're out."
"High and outside!"
'You're out."
"Why you bitch I should kill you for that call!"
"Why don't you just break my legs this time,"
she whispered.

Norman Savage
Coney Island, 1967