"satie" poems
. what?
between MC hammer...
and men at work...
there's a choice?
come on...
you could have given
me an easier question,
like... Debussy
contra Satie...
or, like...
egg yolk or egg white?!
point being...
i'd love to see
christopher lambert
play the role of
raiden in that... mortal kombat
game made into a motion
picture...
you know...
if i owned a PS2...
i'd still be a gamer...
but i never owned a PS2....
or the metal gear solid 2
gaming experience...
not the PS1 experience
fighting ****** mantis*...
you know that hack / cheat...
when you switch controller
slots...
when ****** mantis* is
giving his grandiose speech..
and you switch the controller
ports, so that in in the game
you're not predictable...
final fantasy 7?!
completed it with a walk-through...
sorry... homework...
that being said:
all of Friday night and all of
Saturday morning...
and some Tenchu....
wacky-Jacky...
cow later chow,
enter mein...
choppers chop chop...
these days?
i game...
when i take a ****
i figured... if there are people who
take a book to the crapper...
i'll take a game...
war robots....
you know what's fascinating?
the interactive applicability of
a game...
team-work...
mesmerizing...
the whole gaming
structure drifted from a narrative,
to a congregational dynamism...
solipsism unraveled...
i dig the whole team work,
while taking a ****
love it... 5 stars review...
but am i a gamer...
do i not think that
a.i. is a revamp of Pinocchio?
no...
but metal gear solid?
a ******* solid game
on PS1...
you would be talking to a gamer
if i was allowed to buy
a PS2 console...
oh right...
i read books and listened to music,
and ended up writing anti-routine /
anti-technicality poetry /
anti-rhyme poetics....
my bad;
"we're" calling a revision
of chess in play;
yeah... sorry...
i was never into paragraphs,
with dialogue interludes...
for me...
poems were always above
a structural stature of paragraphs;
something to do with
haiku or... whatever came out of
Godzilla's mouth.
Nov 4, 2018
Nov 4, 2018 at 11:05 PM UTC
"The best memories are like overplayed mixtapes: they lose clarity and detail over time, yet they seem to sound better the older they get."
We listen to the fourth round of Trois Gymnopedies
on our break from the second round of **********
Our limbs entwined, in part because we like it
partly because we're stuck together by sweat and--
The air is thick with scents foul and fragrant
as furniture music fills the gaps in between
Every breath stalls to anticipate the notes
fingers twitch slightly on the downbeat
Ten minutes ago, we made our own music
Ten minutes ago, we were in perfect harmony
She stares at the ceiling as I stare on her lips
I watch her mumble the lyrics Satie never wrote:
*A pack of cigarettes,
a pack of cigarettes
Could you please buy from the store?*
We're taken over by uncontrollable laughter
as uncontrollable as the trembling when we came
She shifts to her side, and my arms are freed
I stand and pick my jeans from the floor
I take my time buttoning up my shirt,
soaking in the view before I run the errand
She lies naked still, as I put a jacket on
I leave on the fifth round of the Gymnopedie
Feb 27, 2014
Feb 27, 2014 at 1:51 PM UTC
Have you heard about old Erik Satie?
He was quite slim and not un fatti;
Son père was a Frog, his Ma a wee ****
(which must have given quite a shock
to his musical chums at the Conservatoire
where he wrote "Trois morceaux en forme de poire").
While sitting 'au piano' one fine day
At his Honfleur home so bright and gay,
Our Erik felt himself come over queer,
(le résultat triste de beaucoup de bière).
He hadn't felt so odd since he didn't know when
(that's when he wrote his "Gnossiennes").
Now I don't want you to think Erik was bent
That certainly wasn't what I meant;
But there's no doubt he was a little odd
(indeed many called him an asexual sod);
For, although French, he loved not the ladies
(and he also wrote three nice "Gymnopédies").
Many piano pieces which Satie penned
Are rather silly and round the bend;
One was called "Prélude for a Dog"
(which he wrote whilst sur le bogue);
Perhaps his best known work is called "Parade"
Which some people think is quite avant-garde.
He was a bit ***** and collected umbrellas
Which set him apart from saner fellers;
He had lots of velvet suits to his name
(and for some reason, they all looked the same).
But he over-did it on the ***** was often ******
Thus he died prematurely, and is sorely missed.
Oct 16, 2014
Oct 16, 2014 at 8:46 AM UTC
for Ralph Ellison
slippin
me ed
into the
wholesome
nothingness
of the
breach....
invisible
revelations
of
patient
affirmations
revealed
(nothing
remains
settled)
somewhere between
Exile on Main Street
Rolling Stones
Rip This Joint
&
Erik Satie
Gnossienne
Suffern
11/8/13
jbm
Nov 8, 2013
Nov 8, 2013 at 12:04 PM UTC
satie plays.
today the thoughts are changed,
each time, to see, what else to be.
to think without the culture, the nurture,
reborn to hear the news, to look anew.
we are not to blame,
it is the way of things.
seven thirteen monday morning.
sbm.
Mar 17, 2014
Mar 17, 2014 at 3:17 AM UTC
Bones in the rye field they sang, brittle stems of iron spreading leaves of
rust
A hidden look in watery eyes, secret sickness, ripping my guts
asunder
That space between midnight and morning when the world has been reduced
to monotone
In the blue-gray lucidity we sit, absorbed in cigarettes and gusting
wind
A few notes of Satie and I’m sitting in that blue room again, bamboo out the
window
Your voice like a finger running up my spine, singing to me, drowned out by
spring showers
Clay pots on the shelves, wilted sunflowers on the floor, grass pushing its way
through the floorboards
I step into falling rain, dream of sleep, dream of nothing, the blankness between
wakefulness
Hands carrying the scars of a thousand days, much like the day before, unconscious of
its passing
In tired two syllable words we exchange our hearts
In smiling kisses we pass each other breath, fresh like fertile ground split by
rugged plow
Black and white photographs in odd fitting drawers with cheap brass
handles
A pocket watch carried by many men before me, strewn upon stained counters
and newspaper clippings
I will these tired eyes to come to their senses, absorbed in a single word in a single
line
Losing their focus for minutes at a time, the sensation of drifting, the feeling of
fading
Like watercolor or lines in well-trod earth, shuffled into meaningless
harmonics
I still miss the sound of your violin, though you thought no one listened through
that ***** window
Scraps of Scriabin and Brahms, your symphonies saved me many a night
Such frail hands and white scalp, but you did not shake when bow met
fingers
Those nights of cheap Merlot, secretly stealing a moment of calm from your
skilled hands
The records never quite rivaled those nights, my unknown
friend
Jun 22, 2012
Jun 22, 2012 at 8:25 PM UTC
Come fellows,
come friends,
to the circus of gnossienes,
where strikes of midnight signal our rebirth,
and from the womb of a pen,
we are ****** upon the parchment that sustains our selves,
as our hair sheds in tufts,
and our teeth dull,
we harlequin worms,
who suffer in smiles,
through geographical refuse.
We harlequin worms,
can love only ants,
who only bite and sting,
which we feel to our cores,
as we watch for the giants,
whom we are convinced,
will crush us on sight.
We harlequin worms,
essential but weak,
embarrassments to our forefathers,
refuters of shovel hypothesis,
wit is best to ignore our five hearts,
before we think ourselves human.
Harlequin worms,
proletariat of the earth,
lords of the soil, listeners of Satie,
Slaves to the insignificance of our own progress.
We shall go without want,
we will smile for thee,
the flies whom pay us no mind.
Dec 25, 2012
Dec 25, 2012 at 2:12 AM UTC
I’m older now so I try to forget
But I get flashbacks
Of the every weekend endless parties
The music the drinking the smoke the laughter
The audible hell that was
The garage
The pretend family that was
Us
Me walking in to play you a song before bed
Which would turn into
You drunkenly doing your best at showing me how
To play Satie’s Première Gymnopédie
Which would end in me wondering how to say goodnight
While you would cry silently about nothing
On my shoulder.
I’m older now so you think I’d forget
But I remember
The first birthday you had after your brother died when
You downed a bottle or three in the span of an hour or two
I went upstairs to make sure you were okay
Only to find your friends had carried you from
The garage to your bed
Which made for the most perfect
Stumbling distance
Any drunk could ever imagine.
I’m older now so I pretend to forget
But the memories crumble with clarity at night
You, opening the bottle at five and passing out at one or two in the morning
Only coming in the house to **** and eat and banter
Oh, the endless banter
I had fun with messing with your mind and playing with your words
When you were gone
As you so often were, every night of my
Entire span of pretending to blossom. I never knew who you were going to be -
“Your dad is a drug addict you know. He’s not perfect either. What are you staring at?”
“Oh baby, you’re so brilliant. You know that?! You’re brilliant!”
“I miss him so much. I’m so so sad and lonely…”
“It’s not all about you, you know. Don’t let it go to your head.”
I learned how to be a numb construction worker,
Constantly working on the foundation of the walls
I was building to protect myself from you.
I’m older now so you’d think I’d forget,
You’d think the memories would fade with each passing year
You’d think the wounds would have healed by now,
You’d think I could call myself a strong young woman.
But I can’t, I’m tormented by remembering, I’m haunted still
I am a ghost
The voices yell at me, tell me to throw in the towel already,
Get rid of everything what a waste of space. They sound like you.
Sometimes I miss it, I miss the hell that was living with you.
I miss the consistency, the predictable time-frame in which I could depend
On you to be emotionally unavailable. When I close my eyes, I can still see
Your silhouette swaying in the hallway, your hand fumbling for the light switch
The demon that would come out of your mouth every time I said
I love you.
But I’m older now, I try to forget.
I half succeed in daylight
But the memories crumble with clarity at night
The memories crumble with clarity at night.
Nov 22, 2012
Nov 22, 2012 at 10:28 PM UTC
And as smoke snaked from between your lips
Like the angry ash of inactive volcano,
You said “They’re all a bunch of crackers, no good, no fun, no nothing.”
I smirked as I tasted Parliament in your gums.
“That’s enough now, let’s party” and we certainly did. You (featuring
me) hit up every street and every open door; we heard
the Music bleeding in the road, shaking the feets of the young dead.
As their ears crinkled,
their mouths dried,
And their halos melted,
I thought I heard you humming Satie.
But you were only coughing up nicotine
In rhythm to the dying song of an overdosing art student.
Feb 15, 2010
Feb 15, 2010 at 9:43 AM UTC
1
In the year Victoria
came to the throne,
on 9 acres by a river’s bend,
(bought for £490)
Joseph Dover built his mill.
yarn
to weave,
wool to knit,
the raw fleece
washed, carded,
scribbled, tentered, dyed,
spun and woven
(back parlour or
mill shed)
finished,
sold.
Today the fleeces are
burnt at the farm,
and the sheds and lofts
display colourful crafts.
The past is collected in
sepia photographs,
strange heritaged tools.
The present hides in
figures on the footfall,
those costings for the café.
In an August
of grey cloud
and persistent rain,
the sun on occasion
shakes the building into life;
it filters through the tall riverside trees,
makes swathes of coloured light
swim across the wooden floors.
2
The studio, cool
on the hottest day,
is graced with garden flowers,
and the business of making everywhere.
Days fold work into the pleasure
of small gestures of care,
Satie’s tenderest song
a litany under the breath.
When toes meet
beneath a table shared,
this touch registers
the slow wonder of it all;
that ‘being here’
in this expansive place
of stone and wood,
textured always
with the white noised
rush of water.
At night we steal back in
to sit together by a single lamp:
to decipher Henry’s mimetic prose
of estuary, moor and river;
ponder Robert’s quartets in A,
every phrase singing Clara, Clara . . .
Later, lights extinguished
we move in the pitch of darkness
through the long galleries,
carefully down the invisible stairs.
Outside, in the
coloured silence
of the river’s run,
the hills carry the sky
cloud-haunted, star-strewn.
moon-lit.
Jan 7, 2013
Jan 7, 2013 at 1:30 AM UTC
Debussy's in the air
Satie's in the sea
Gershwin's growing in the ground
how much more beauty can there be
Einstein's up in orbit
Newton's sitting 'neath a tree
Schrodinger's both here and there
so where should I be
Naruda conquered love
Bukowski; Reality
Ginsberg Howled all the rest
what thought is left for me
I'd like to say something never said before
something of wonder, profundity
here it comes
here it comes
I'm coming up empty
Jan 8, 2017
Jan 8, 2017 at 5:01 AM UTC
I am one with sensibilities of an adagio. There are few things
I cannot describe with words. A beautiful adagio, I think, is one
of them. Its beauty is ineffable. All are musical poems, but one
is tinged with sorrow. I am thinking of Barber's ADAGIO FOR
STRINGS. PACHELBEL'S CANON, on the other hand,
is gentle and evocative, as is Albioni's adagio. You're sitting on
the sofa holding your sweetheart in your arms listening to
Bach's AIR ON THE G STRING as you give her a sweet kiss
on her neck. You dim the lights. Vivaldi's GUITAR CONCERTO
begins to play followed by Marcello's ADAGIO IN D MINOR
and then you give her another kiss, this one on her lips. It's
getting late, but there's still time to absorb the exquisite PAS DE
DEUX by Tchaikovsky from the NUTCRACKER. Now she
kisses you, not once, but many times. You slip in Beethoven's
MOONLIGHT SONATA, Debussy's CLAIR DE LUNE, Satie's
elegant TROIS GYMNOPEDIES, and Chopin's PRELUDE,
OP. 28, even though they are not adagios, but because they are
etheral. And before you and she go to bed to make love, you listen
to Rodrigo's CONCIERTO DE ARANJUEZ FOR GUITAR AND ORCHESTRA. No better foreplay exists.
TOD HOWARD HAWKS
Apr 13, 2021
Apr 13, 2021 at 12:14 PM UTC
i'm sorry, but it's true...
however rigid you might
find the need to confirm
a truth...
but even the great
piano composers
of the last century,
be that liszt, chopin,
satie, debussy, or schumann...
can't compete with
thomas newman's
score for american beauty,
i.e. any other name...
it's the pauses,
which act are stressors to
the whole composition...
we're surrounded by
so many sounds that are
trans-mammalian...
we've become
so accustomed to them,
that, as i once said:
the song of birds with due
end of spring: irritates me!
i'm sorry...
i'm sorry that poetry seems feeble
by way of imitating this
approach...
there are never to few
words to be said,
as said, regarding
someone's death:
i wish i said...
i wish i said
this...
i wish i said
this to him (her)...
poetry can fake this minimalism,
akin to the oriental haiku...
but that's beside the point...
don't fake it...
drown in your words as the last
breaths in the sea of narratives...
thomas newman transcended
the "masters" of piano...
i don't know how he managed
to overcome satie or debussy...
i'm scratching my head
thinking: huh?
he actually wrote a piano haiku!
perhaps that's a misnomer example,
but given the waterfall dynamic
to my writing, i have no interest
in using the correct word...
if the word i used was incorrect;
god, it takes so little...
to overpower so much,
say: overpowering the power
hierarchy that gave us pyramids...
why isn't there an aztec story
regarding those pyramids?
surely there must be something!
ah! after all... those pyramids weren't
tombs, dedicated toward a burial...
they were sites of capital punishment,
imposing sites,
enough... to warn
future transgressors of law...
these weren't tombs...
they were scaffolds of capital execution...
no wonder there was no jewish
stubbornness among the aztecs...
there was no divine intervention.
yeah yeah, i know, atheism is vogue...
but with atheism comes no art...
and why would art succumb
to a rational "argument" for its existence?
fair enough... no canvas, no paint,
no paint-strokes, no painting...
i hope you find a brick-wall more
entertaining.
Jun 22, 2017
Jun 22, 2017 at 7:15 PM UTC
Whisper,
on the surface of the crockery
the fairy porcelain
and Satie's piano.
Rinse
unconfessed wishes
and, among the cutlery,
I say goodbye
to Gymnopédie.
There is always an air of water
in the words that tell me
when the morning ends
and in the brightness of the dishes,
the same colour
of sorrow.
Jul 29, 2018
Jul 29, 2018 at 5:53 AM UTC
Erik Satie: Gnossienne No. 1, 2, 3
Apr 13, 2014
Apr 13, 2014 at 7:35 PM UTC
Erik Satie - Gymnopédie No.1
Apr 13, 2014
Apr 13, 2014 at 7:28 PM UTC
Trusting Erik Satie
I introduce myself to
Her
As an absurdist.
Mar 9, 2019
Mar 9, 2019 at 10:11 AM UTC
My home, your home
Come home, our home
Come home my sweet love
Come home tonight
Home
Come home
Home
Our home
Come home my sweet wife
Come home tonight
Loves
Life
Your
Right
You know I needed you here
And its right
You know I want you close
Holding you tight
All night
Come home
Love...
Nov 13, 2019
Nov 13, 2019 at 1:04 AM UTC
i can’t listen to the Strokes without thinking of my first love,
and how I only fell in love with them because
they were his favourite band, and i was in love with him.
i can’t listen to Mozart, Chopin, Satie, or classical music of any kind without thinking of my mother playing piano late at night
while I fell asleep to the sound of her fingers emanating warm melodies.
i can’t listen to Elliott Smith without thinking of being on the bus on the way to high school, and how much solace his music brought me
during those deeply lonely years of anguish and abandonment.
i can’t listen to the Beatles without thinking of my entire family,
jamming together in the garage, without thinking of love.
i can’t listen to the Weepies without thinking of my best friend,
driving around in her car on our way to anywhere, how those songs are symbols of our friendship in the form of sound.
i can’t listen to Regina Spektor without thinking of myself, throughout all stages of my life, without feeling alive, reminding me of who i am,
as an artist, as a lover, as a being.
i can’t listen to Tegan and Sara, ***** Rilo Kiley, Metric, Yeah Yeah Yeahs, or Broken Social Scene without thinking of my high school friends, all those concerts we went to, all the late nights.
That was the music that made me brave.
I can’t listen to Jazz music without thinking of my grandfather, and how many times I sang with him while he played the piano and smiled.
most of these people have come and gone
and i could go on
but if I’ve loved someone, there is a song that I will always associate
with them, and that time of my life.
music is the definition of every moment.
it’s one of the most comforting truths that there is.
Mar 7, 2014
Mar 7, 2014 at 1:56 AM UTC
subtle dancing to Erik Satie
dancing that isn't dancing at all
I exist much bigger for you
I squeeze your head
warm familiar liquid seeps out
your head scrunched, peaceful despair
I pour myself into you again
screaming death as you mold me like clay
a kiss goodnight
you hold me
running your fingers all over your creation
Jan 11, 2021
Jan 11, 2021 at 3:03 AM UTC
after the großartig composers...
there can only be
the great pianists...
you can do all you want
appreciating someone like
joe satriani:
but a guitar can never
become a piano:
none of that hushes suspense
of a piano soloist...
even a violin requires back-up
(akin to schindler's list
main theme)...
but... piano...
schumann,
satie,
debussy,
chopin,
liszt...
schubert...
campanella's
reinterpretation of wagner...
a piano can stand
alone,
and doesn't even,
remotely,
require the harangue
of an orchestra
(listen 'ere,
you uneducated swine -
sort of scenario)...
no opera...
but piano:
like... listening to the uniformity
of rain drops
falling onto a tin roof...
mind you:
i have to return
to the slaughterhouse music
of modernity
with its heavy influence
on stressing rhythm, drum...
as much as i do enjoy
the aloofness,
the ivory tower music...
i have to come down
to the horse-hooves
and buckles
of THUMP... THUMP...
as much as i appreciate it...
i can't be sat
next to these porcelain
aenemics for long...
from on high,
to from down below...
i need the current music
of the slaughterhouse.
- but only a piano can pierce
the silence...
and relieve something
akin to the royal albert
concern hall...
with an unanimous
revelation of...
that trembling
before the satiated
sound of: a sigh;
as if to confirm:
yes... you are alive.
Mar 3, 2019
Mar 3, 2019 at 7:17 PM UTC