Johnny Payne
I don’t know Satie; never went to Paris,
speak French when all other words have vanished.
Piano murmurs soothe us while they scare us.
The notes cascading slow can make my skull bust
but gently, as when eggshells slip off cooked flesh.
I don’t know Satie; never went to Paris.
I let compassion fill me in a fast rush
the way cold water passes through a blind fish.
Piano murmurs soothe us while they scare us.
Of killing hatchets, his touch is the softest.
Satie: his delicate name makes me panic
I don’t know Satie; never went to Paris.
I want to write his music, but I can’t guess
the secret sensual language that my notes missed.
Piano murmurs soothe us while they scare us.
Disquietude and mystery let my heart rest
as I stop hearing everything but hard mist.
I don’t know Satie; never went to Paris.
Piano murmurs soothe us while they scare us.