Thursday, July 1, 2010


or not,
nothing much
is lost
to memory.
She made me think
of that girl I wanted to fuck
when fifteen
while me
and the legion of other cripples,
the old
the infirm
the mad
waited for the soon to be extinct M1 bus
rather than fade
the murderous underground transit
here, in NYC.
She was a pretty young thing,
jaunty, perky, her nipples
proudly displaying
a taste me sign
for those lucky enough
to get that close.
50 years ago
there was another
much like her
who pivoted
before my teenaged fever
touched her
choosing a tough
tattooed Italian
I used to hang with
a bit older
than me.
It bothered me,
but not too much;
I was getting enough
from other angels of the night--
community whores--
and had a few others
on, or near,
the hook.

Ten years later,
we met again. She
living with her mother;
me, living with my devils,
and we finally fucked.
What turned her head around
is not for me to say.
Perhaps, attraction,
though I doubt it;
more likely desperation
and a way for her
to get out.
But I was somewhere else, too.
I was only looking for "exits,"
not caring or knowing that
there is none
except the one
that's permanent,
but knowing that
gave me a kind of freedom
while going down the sinkhole
and playing in the swill.

I can't fuck anyone
except me
and only metaphorically.
The cock,
I've learned,
does not come
with a lifetime
guarantee. Still,
it's been a good
ride. I've gotten
more than my fair share,
and can't complain.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2010

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