SEX IS SUICIDE

if you happen to be male
and weigh less than a lightbulb
and a little red Kaluta
in the thrall of early September
when they rock 'n roll
on their search & destroy mission
with every Kalutaette as they can
for up to 14 hours at a time,
fucking their brains out
as they were known to say,
using sperm stored since summer's end
& depleting huge amounts of testosterone & corticosteroids
in their best imitation of Chinese rabbits
until their guts become ulcerated
& explode:
Cause of Death: Exhaustion.

But they died happy:
No after-sex phone calls,
No deciding on a name for the kids
& no need to support them or the ol' lady;
no in-laws to visit on Sunday
when traffic is the heaviest,
no listening to office betrayals
or how Nipsy or Bipsy or Tipsy
fucked up at school,
and no thought,
should things go south,
of alimony to shoulder--
just exhaustion,
that blissful after-sex sense
of oblivion, of coming
& going all
in the same stroke--something
most men
would die for.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2019

THE CHEEKS OF HER ASS APPEARS

an inch below
her short
shorts.
It's supposed
to enchant or
entice; it's supposed
to be sexy, but this
escapes me.
I'm unusual,
I admit.
I'm attracted
to scars
& scowls;
the turn
of ankle
or phrase;
a Dada depression
or suicidal
surrealism.

I like my women dressed.
What happens later,
behind the curtain
is Greek
to me.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2017

I'M GETTING A LITTLE TIRED

of this:
slowly committing suicide
so others can do something else
while watching. It's true,
I've become rather good
at it, practicing as I have
for six and a half decades,
but so what?
you can catch up
with a little diligence.
Don't worry,
you don't have to be terribly
aggressive; you don't have to go out
and buy a gun or a noose or a plastic bag;
you don't have to lean into a subway car,
or ride over loose-strung rickety bridges
in the dead of night during an ice storm;
you can capitalize
on what is already
working for you: keep smoking
after your heart attack; ingest some thick
runny Brie and sit there
as it narrows your arteries,
don't move
for anything;
keep your ass glued
to whatever seat it's on;
watch TV and nibble
while fighting
with your lady
or your man
or your kids
or your landlord
over nothing;
stay poor
and eat poorly
and always think
it's the others' fault (that's never hard
to do and very important);
drink up until it begins to hurt,
then just sip
until they tell you to stop
then say, "fuck-it"
do it anyway
because "no one really knows
or gives a shit if they do."

I am just trying to lead
by example.
And I think
I've done that.
Now get out
and show me
what you got.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2012-2016

SO STUPID IT MAKES PERFECT SENSE

There was Seymour
and now Robin. Before
those two gents
there was David,
Ernie, Sylvia, Anne,
John & John and,
I'm sure other
John's; & please
don't forget Vinny,
Dino, Marilyn, Amy,
and many lost fools,
like myself, who couldn't
find their way home
with a map.

It has always been
a hard life; work,
love, bread, adulation,
has little to do
with it; it's just
fucking hard.
You can turn over
the rocks & discover
a new enzyme, a new hormone,
a new molecule, insanities
lurking around the corners
of your birth, teachers
with bad breath & dandruff,
mustard sandwiches & Draino chasers,
and would be no closer in discerning
the link and linkages
of how you view yourself
or the world.

Tonight,
if you're not knotting
a rope or loading a shotgun,
if you're not shivering
in your closet more afraid
of the light than the dark;
if there's a pop tart
or a pancake or a cup
of black coffee for
tomorrow morning or
a slice of almost green bologna
for tonight's fare...
that is enough, it is enough
to turn on your radio
& blast yourself away
& into a space
that gives you space
and that will be
good enough--it has
to be.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2014