Erik Satie

I thought Erik Satie deserved a bit of recognition.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q7DBoiyBoJ8


Satie slipped into a cerulean blue
and blew soft shards of light
heavy shadows.
He brushed a bell, ringing in quiet knells
of autumn births, new repetitions.
Old beginnings, he cut the sides of a melody circle,
straight through the left out right edge in empty space,
longing for the cool, tender reservation of
cerulean blue.

Late in the quiet of the night

Late in the quiet of the night

When even the wind is blown out,

I sit alone and listen.

This city is not dead.

Sometimes there is the low hum of a car skulking off, or

sneaking in.

The occasional fragments of laughter and music pass over.

Sometimes I hear the distant moans of lovers,

the faded shouts of drunk bergies left lost in their wines.

Once I heard the tinkle of a cat as he stalked across the lawn,

a little bell strapped to his neck, laughing out,

Destroying the tense hunt, the blood rushed chase.

But, what I always hear is the quiet.

Those dense moments when I am alone with nothing but the beat and sing,

There is no lover next to me to moan in the sticky heat of our wrapped limbs, 

or fill the quiet with open murmurs.

Maybe a bell is strapped to my neck, maybe I prefer the silence.

maybe both