THE TEENSY-TINY TERMINATOR

Smaller than Arnold's
pubic hairs,
& stronger...&
it wants your ass.
It knows nothing
else.

And, unlike Trump,
it's really tough.
It does not
announce itself;
your dick
will not leak;
your pussy
will not drip;
you will not
emit an odor.
Its mug
isn't hung
in post offices.
No, it's more like
an AA meeting:
no "musts,"
no requirements,
no nothings,
just be
available
by breathing.
It does not brag,
it does;
it does not lie,
it's tongueless;
it lets you be
until you be
no more.
It is, unlike Trump,
very patient,
& very smart.

Arnold & Donald,
a governor &
a president,
predicting & deciding
our fate. You couldn't
make this up.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2020

CALLING DR. FREUD

Vell, it's obvious, no?
He is trying to replicate
his greatest success,
his only success:
The Apprentice.
All his other business'
went into the shithole, no?:
Airline, Steaks, Water,
A Charity, A University,
A Football Team, Buildings, even Casinos (where
only the most incompetent
can't make a dollar)--Poof! Gone!
Only his Daddy's money
(and that was very stinky money, too),
bailed him out until other Daddys
allowed him only to keep his name
while they made the shit.

But The Apprentice, ah, The Apprentice,
that was his. He could be his boorish,
stupid stumbling self & still rule
the little office where syncophants went
to grovel to the mushroom capped cock
underneath a desk of make believe.
It is there, in the safey
of his home, he wants people--
and now cities & states--
to slug it out.
He wants people
to beg
before he hires.
He wants bodies
to contort,
to agonize.
He wants to see
all the states
all the cities
who betrayed him
turn on each other
in a feeding frenzy
for money, for equipment,
for a breath;
he wants those cities & states
to bring those trucks,
those iceboxes,
so he can see
in real time
with his racoon eyes
the dead carted out
to wait to be planted.
He loves this;
it's what he lives for.

Today, on this Friday, March 27th, afternoon,
he's already started to primp himself--
plastic hair, orange flesh--
for his daily fix:
a "news" conference
where his mouth--
looking more like a turkey's asshole--
will emit today's droppings:
small hard pellets of shit.
He will stand above the fray
& select the reporters he deigns to favor
with more lies
knowing full well
the havoc
& death
he stokes.

All this talk,
all this handwringing,
& all this breastbeating &
all these acts of courage,
is for naught.
He is
his one & only firament light
that he navigates by;
he is the only star
in this show.
He cannot
& will not
give that up.

There is only one word
for this disease, my friends;
one word that captures
a pathology for which
there is no escape--
that word
must be
love.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2020

DONALD TRUMP

is trying to get
a hardon
for new years.
He said
he will get
the biggest & strongest & best hardon
ever.
In fact,
he's going to Times Square tonight
to prove it.
He's going
to lie
down underneath
the ball
as it drops
while we,
the millions there
& the tens of millions
everywhere else
counts off
the seconds.

You'll never get
below seven
he bellowed.
Never never never ever never.
He's never been one
to mince words.
We'll see.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2018

VD

They have fucked
their country silly,
and they've used
no protection,
but it's we
who drip
from syphilis,
gonorrhea,
genital herpes
and all manner
of yeast infections.
Pus is in
our drinking water,
puke is in the air.
Penicillan is useless
against this strain
of virus; only words
as guns or cannons
will staunch the flow
of bullshit.
Vladimir & Donald,
cocksmen for our age,
living in our bloodstream
for far too long,
has rendered us blind
and truly
insane.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2018

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

A MODEST SOLUTION

Have Ivanka
suck some street dick
& let Tiffany take notes.
Move Eric
& Donny, Jr
into an SRO
& give em 16 bucks
a month in Food Stamps;
force Barron
to choose
another name--
these are easy to do.
What's a little harder,
but promises to be
more interesting,
is moving all "the swells"
on Park, Lex, & 5th Avenues
to Pig Hollow Mississippi,
Crapalachia, the inbred mountains
of Kentucky while shuffling
some pig slop Alabama/Arkansas/Georgia north,
into the main line of Boston,
Philly, Riverdale, Scarsdale,
overturn Montana into Louisiana,
spill the bucket of blood that's Texas
into Maine's aortic valve...
you know, Mongrelize! Blood
doesn't turn up its nose;
let there by blood jets of poetry.
Shake it up baby,
twist&shout Isley Brothers style.

Can this American flag bullshit.
Give it a rest. Stop talking.
It's bad, it's stale, we've seen
this movie. Sleep with a new mate.
Smell a new smell. Taste something
that awakens your tongue.
For god's sake:
Make It New.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2017

TAKING A LEAK IN URINALS MADE OF PYRITE

All men peek
at urinals
at men
who stand
next to them
surreptitiously
checking size.
Their eyes
on a swivel
as mine were
the other evening.
O, my,
I said
to myself:
Trump,
on my right,
had a dick
like a wrinkled spigot;
Vlad had the head
of a marble.
I turned
to my left,
I turned
to my right
& zipped up
slowly.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2017

2 SHIT SANDWICHES:

One,
full of childish morbidities;
the other,
an old shrew
full of meanness and greed;
one born of bigotry
& brownshirts;
the other raised
in Goldwater's piss;
one's dick
a wrinkled spigot;
the other's cunt
a Sahara of madness.

Go ahead,
take a bite.
I dare you.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2016

TRUMP THIS!!!

I gotta Big Cock!
That's right! Big!
Very Big!
I mean Big!
Cock.
Big.
My father had a big one.
Grandfather, too.
Come from a long line
of Big Cocks!
Yes, I do! Big.
My great great grandfather
had a schlong so big
that after he took a piss
he didn't shake it out,
he had to kick the fuckin thing.
That's right.
Big!
One tough man.
And a smart man.
Went to The Yukon
in the Gold Rush days.
He had a huge huge huge
Penis. Yes he did.
Opened a whorehouse
& a restaurant;
he fucked em
& fed em. That's right.
Talk about pole numbers!
What a pole he had!

The train is leaving
the station; the sad-eyed
ladies are rowing home;
the Big Top
is shuttered
as the laughing bones
lie bleaching
in the sun.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2016