Friday, March 21, 2014


It's laughable
to think you're in control.
No matter how old,
no matter how infirm,
no matter how dumb,
numb, beaten and bruised,
blotto or blotted-out,
blown, blimped, pimped,
poised or polished;
no matter how banged-up, banged-on,
or bandaged; no matter how wigged-out,
comatose, contused, confused, infused,
contested or converted; no matter
how holy, pure, pureed, or pruned;
no matter how sad, glad,
melancholy or maniacal;
no matter how rich, how hungry,
how at odds you are
with yourself
your sap--
your stupid sap--
to your genitals.
You are a tree,
my friend, a flower,
a bee or behemoth,
a reptile or a flea's
tiny hardon.
You could be the circumcised cock
of a Jewish elephant or the embarrassed spigot
of an octogenarian; the slit
of a knowing actress
or the gash of an equally hip whore
your body will dance
to the mischief
of spring.

We pawns and beggars
and peddlers,
and liars
and custodians
of codes
we will get to fuck
once again
and be fucked

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2014

No comments:

Post a Comment