Skip to main content
Read page text
page 66
Carole Satyamurti Three Poems Here and There On the shady side of Rue Caulaincourt one of the two local down-and-outs is taking a leak, shaking a last few drops off the end of his limp, pink dick, a small defiant gesture – at us, is it? before tenderly tucking it away. This side, I’m eating a bavette, succulent, àà point. I eat alone, with perfect manners. I don’t even apply lipstick in public. From here, his prick looks pale, sad as a deflated balloon. All day he drinks, and smiles and talks to an imaginary friend who understands him. He needs to piss often. That is his pitch, and he is king of it.
page 67
Satyamur ti There’s no such thing as an inconsequential fact. He is there. I am here. In between, the traffic flows and flows. 61 The Messenger They found him by the sea, down Margate way, wandering about, classy suit soaked through. Wouldn’t speak – not a single syllable to go on so they brought him in here, obviously. We’re used to strange, but he was – alien you might say, though he ate OK, slept, drank, shat like the rest of us. Usually new ones are jumpy, but he seemed at peace just watchful. Sometimes you’d see a trace of tears. How can there be nothing but silence on the tip of a man’s tongue – not even piss off or pass the salt? He seemed to manage by not wanting anything. After a while, we gave him painting things and he made marks – just shapes and scribbles – nothing made sense. Every day he’d show us, as though it was a message, or a question – well you felt useless – you could see from his eyes it was important. Star gazer’s eyes, flecked with silver light. Are you a visitor from outer space? I said to him, just to be friendly. Silence, of course.

Page Text

View plaintext

Carole Satyamurti Three Poems

Here and There

On the shady side of Rue Caulaincourt one of the two local down-and-outs is taking a leak, shaking a last few drops off the end of his limp, pink dick, a small defiant gesture – at us, is it? before tenderly tucking it away.

This side, I’m eating a bavette, succulent, àà point. I eat alone, with perfect manners. I don’t even apply lipstick in public.

From here, his prick looks pale, sad as a deflated balloon. All day he drinks, and smiles and talks to an imaginary friend who understands him. He needs to piss often. That is his pitch, and he is king of it.

read next page

My Bookmarks

Buy this Book
Skip to main content