SHE PLEASURES HERSELF

with a centipede
like apparatus;
little white rubber nubs
juts from the
two foot shaft
penetrating her
unlatched body.
In & out,
in & out,
slowly
quickly
slowly
slide
the head
the heart
the cock
side
to
side.
Nibbling
outside
now
inside
now
both
while her mind
conjures
a mysterious
& delicious brew
of desires.

She wants
to be taken
hard,
I think.
Her life
has not
been charitable.
She needs pain,
more than most,
& responds
to pain
more than most.
A pain
that was there
waiting
for her,
long before
words
made meaning
irrelevant.
Science
has sustained her;
measured her;
doled her out
in units;
she lives in a world
brokered by
mathematics.
She trusts
no one;
believes
everyone.
Her center
carries a grief
that rides
a deep & abiding
wind; it shakes
the branches
that gives her
balance.

She had thought
she knew
loneliness
until
she met
me.

She is ready
to love. And
so am I.
We know how
at the edge
of a ripple
lies a wake.

Both of us
will dine alone
tonight.
It's why
we're so, so
ravenous.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2015