Saturday, December 30, 2017

A PLAIN SPEAKING, HONEST, NEW YEAR'S EVE PROPOSITION/RESOLUTION TO AN ASTUTE, INTELLECTUALLY GIFTED, HO, WHO SEES RIGHT THROUGH ME


I will bring you all my
candied misery, my doubts,
all

my darkest moments; I'll gift
you with my sheared heart; are you
seduced yet

by all this
selfishness; this dupliciity
of newly minted ice; a Brahm's Requiem of French horns...

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2017

Friday, December 29, 2017

FUCK WALTER MISCHEL


and his marshmellow test.
Who in their right mind
would wait a year to eat
two marshmellows when
you can eat one now?
And that's supposed to tell me
who will cure cancer
and who will die of cancer?
Gimme the marshmellow
now. I've been
a heat seeking
guided pleasure missle
before I knew what pleasure was:
put a bag of dope,
a scotch neat,
a jelly bean or two or three, or a hundred thousand,
or Milky Way,
a piece of ass, a pair of tits,
three of a kind, or Royal Flush,
even a parting of lips
in front of me,
and I'm a gonner.
How about a warm apple pie
cradling a Hagan-Daz scoop of vanilla--
I'd crawl over my mother
to get next to that.
Wait a year!? Are you outta yer mind!?
I want to get the fuck outta me now,
motherfucker. What is pleasure about?
I want to lose myself; I want to get lost:
Lost in wine, in women, in poetry, in song.
That is how you find things
out. You lose control, you go crazy...
for a second, a week, a month, years.
Unfortunately,
most don't.
What horrible lives
they must lead.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2017

Wednesday, December 27, 2017

LIBIDOBESETZUNG WHILE ON A CAROUSEL OF SHIT


Your pussy rides
the middle horse,
the horse
that rears up,
while death sits still
at your side
behind you
& in front.
I cannot
get past them
& think:
I really
don't want to.
For where would I be
if I weren't digging
a grave with you
or without you,
inside you
or pushing
against the steel
of your heart?
I know now
what happens
after a man finds
a cunt that fits--
he waits
like a child
for the brass ring
to come 'round again
while the grave beckons
my name to be written--
like breath
on a mirror.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2017

Tuesday, December 26, 2017

WHAT A CONUNDRUM!


The Pope
invited me to Rome.
Donny
begged me to come to Mar-a-Lago.
Who,
I asked myself,
should I dis--
The child of God, or
the father of God?
Instead,
I babysat
Jay Z's kids
figuring:
hip hop artists
need a break, too.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2017

Sunday, December 24, 2017

JESUS IS LOOKING


to being born
& I'm looking
for a whore
on Canal Street
so I won't die
in this godforsaken world
in an unforgiving town
on the outskirts
of mental illness
& "there's a medication
for that."

Heard they moved uptown,
an old alkie said
in front of the mission
on Lafayette. Ain't no action here,
except for old fucks
like us.

Where uptown? I inquired.

How the hell should I know?
Do I look like I'm mobile
with money and care
if I ever get a stiff dick again?

I needed a bowl
of wonton soup;
the wind
was picking up,
the temperature dropping,
and I was lost
in thought and
old remedies.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2017

Thursday, December 21, 2017

MY ARTHRITIC FINGERS,


caked with age,
will try
to unwrap your gift.
Be patient
with me.
It's not
infirmity,
but only
a savoring
of the moment
so long
in coming;
I do
so love
attention.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2017

Monday, December 18, 2017

WHAT TALE WILL I TELL


about that crap game
I was too long in
and whenever
I wanted to cash out,
I made a number
or found a buck
and rolled again?
What will I ask
when I get up there
and have a chance
to straighten this out--
all this confusion
all those lost opportunities
all those mulish times?
What will I ask Him?

What would you ask Him?

Don't really know...
Don't really know the good it'll do.

C'mon, what would you ask?

Well, I guess like I said:
Why'd you keep me down there so long;
why'd you keep me in the game?

What da ya think He'd say?

I don't think He'd say a goddamn thing.
I don't think He knows either.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2017

Friday, December 15, 2017

#METOO SANTA, YOU PRICK, #METOO


Santa was on the run.
He'd just come offa a two week drunk
& just about made it
from his skid row pad
to his yearly department store hustle
without vomiting
when a five year old tugboat
pounced on his swollen knee.
Sweat began to drip
into Santa's beard.
He twitched & the tug
blew the whistle
not knowing Santa had the DT's
thought he was diddling her.

He took his sorry ass
to The Salvation Army
where he froze his ass off
swinging a bell like Quasimodo,
ho ho hoing
until he thanked some 14th street tootsie
who tossed a quarter in his jar, "hey,
thanks baby," & was told to take a hike.

Santa needed a drink bad
& convinced Mrs. Claus to front him a buck
& help hook up those imbecile reindeer to the sled
thinking he'd get a jump on the 24th & off he went.
Little did he know that all the chimneys
on the Upper West Side were greased.
He slid down the first one like his balls were on his back.
A bear trap's teeth was a kiss from his scrotum.
He looked into the candlelit darkness;
a hundred little eyes were ablaze
with revenge & madness; they started throwing Barbie Dolls
with teensy weensy dildos in their little fingers;
Ken dolls with contraception devices in their fists;
Cook books, nursing school brochures; panties
& training bras. It was the lesbo Village Of the Damned;
it was partisan politics; it was America; it was
Christmas.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2017

Tuesday, December 12, 2017

A SWEETER SOUND


I've never heard
then wind escaping
before a turd.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2017
4:25 a.m.

Sunday, December 10, 2017

TAKE WHAT YOU WANT, GOD IS DEAD AND HIS MOM WENT SHOPPING


The world will soon explode
from grief.
Young black & white girls
expose fecal tunnels of love
on CraigsList for cheap
tradeoffs of minimum wage
allowing the breath
of truck drivers
& university professors
to reach into their innards
& steal what never was:
youth & possibilities.
Russia is mad
with memories
& China with rice futures;
India keeps trying to grow
deserts of food
& the Congo beats drums
of failures & fortunes.
A crippled falcon
cannot be seen or heard
as the circles grow wider
above Christmas sales
& Hallmark bromides.

Our guts get pulled out
struggling with biology
as our little experiment
is unraveling.
Our only meal
is eating pussy
or sucking cock--
damn the nutrients.
Money & pleasure
should be the faces
on bills of exchange:
Caligula, Nero,
Mick Jagger.

Mom will be back
soon...unless
she gets trampled
in the rush
to be first
when the store
opens. She wants
an X-Box.
She's determined
not to lose
another son
that has yet
to be
conceived.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2017

Saturday, December 9, 2017

WE USE WHAT WE GOT (every little bitty thing) THAT GOD GAVE US


like guns
& pocket mirrors;
like a hairy fist,
or a fast thumb;
like tits
on a '55 Cadillac's bumper
put in a push-up bra,
or a chiseled jaw
bracing a British accent;
we use our parent's wealth,
or food stamped passivity.
We use our reputation,
the written word,
stuttering,
or long legs leading to mysterious fortunes.
We play humor, twist pathos, dance with angels
or devils or landlords or tax collectors--
all that dross,
--secrets & solitudes
and the desperation
of others;
vanity/poverty
& holidays of blue suicides,
big dicks & tight cunts
snapping shut or dribbling
out the clock;
sophisticated offhandedness,
construction sweat,
a beaten fighter's courage,
a hooker's scars,
a priest's purity--
what we got,
is what we use.
I do it.
You do it.
We all do it
in the service
of love,
like the worm,
like the snake,
like the slug.
Everywhere.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2017