Sebastien Greco, vocals
Carlos Chagall, guitars
Music & Lyrics by Sebastien Greco and Carlos Chagall, 2013
Just this side of spoken word
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Blue workshirts
crusted in salt-rings,
sweat born out,
of foundry heat,
smelters blaze,
soups of molten copper,
where a trip sends lava
flowing down ramps
to melt men’s ankles,
makes castings of souls
who labor
for low wage,
no esteem.
Suiciders atop vats
swan dive into
ore pools,
vanish like vapors.
Here, then
simply gone.
All they were,
now steam.
On the subway home,
I doze to the sports page,
dream of powerful
drives to center,
propelled by torque,
strong hips, action,
sympathetic knees, breaking wrists,
the geometry of grace,
the boys of summer
kiss the cheeks of autumn ladies.
Sweet grass,
new, mown.
City sparrows
on ginkgo trees
in the high branches aside the el,
lilt fossil
melodies,
call to me
through open train doors
to wake me
at some station after mine.
I smell the heavy layer of my own sweat
there on my clothes,
the heat of the train
an oven
that bakes me proper.
I rise, exit,
to debut on this foreign platform,
sad to have missed my stop,
to have missed my time.
I search the faces of those around me,
for the one to help
point the way back,
the staircase to the other way.
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
No one
hue,
should dominate
you.
This is
as far as
I go.
Eye
what’s out there.
Wee small creatures.
At the I,
the heart
of stormy worlds,
timely mere buds:
Shall we dance?
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
This afternoon,
I tied a balloon,
to the gold pierced ring,
to my navel.
I sense
the trade-winds
on high, tug
my soul
through the taut string.
Umbilical
to cirrus nimbi,
serious business
this nimble coercion
of word to nuance,
motion to notion,
failure to grasp.
Still, to feel jostled
in currents,
suddenly aloft in one giant yank!
I spin like a whirly,
pendulum broad sweeps
across the darkened sky inverted,
sacrificial innocent on a bungee,
just before the fall.
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
I have special drops
I place in my eyes,
to over-dilate my pupils.
To let in light
from distant stars,
ancient pink,
blue and white.
I trace a line,
from here to there,
with the glow-tip
of a Marlboro red,
from Orion, to Andromeda,
along nebulae and pulsars,
long gone ago,
but still my sky.
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
Poking in the pink, in an itty bitty shack,
measly isla, shock treatment,
seize her seizure, shutter stops,
caesura, palpitations,
shudders, slip it
up and down,
slit, flit around,
my back, your beat, this heat,
bric-a-brac, paddywack,
chewing on a – stroking on a – smoking on a
bone, bong, boing.
Listen while she
glistens in the mist,
whiles away
in moisture, in the gist,
slide a willow ‘neath the wisp,
such a sucker, simple syrups,
succulicious, psychopathic, sycophantic;
twinkling in the twilight tight outside atop the T-Top
in a T-Shirt, out your tank top, tease me, tickle till you
just
can’t
stand
no
more.
Stuttering, shuttering, splattering, tittering, withering, wuthering heights,
stammering, hammering, glimmering, plummeting, mumbling, plumbing deep
numbing thrusts
slippery, tres y cuatro
cinco-pation
ooh!
dilation, drives you sideways, odd
meters, on the up-
beat, against
the up-
beat
again then
no
. . .
beat.
Keep you guessing, catch your breath
in your throat,
scratch an itch, sandy paper,
stairstep Slinkies sidling at ya,
eyes burn, on the verge,
on the turn, delight tingles,
daylight cravings, forelocks tangle,
smoke rings, pillow soft
halos steam sweat flex
triceps calves cut hard
dancers pole long gold
spotlight fades
black bass no trace
at the top no mo’
bottom face out smack
dab beyond the fray
cotton swabbing gently dabbing
at the lattice small concussions;
sneeze while you come, maybe thrice, three’s a charm
pick up steam, at the bridge,
out the closet, to the edge,
feeling dizzy just for kicks,
fat in front, grab the spot,
settle in, back on cruise,
back on Cruz,
straddling, standing O.
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
Angie Wasabi, is that her real name?
No, what are you, out of your frigging mind?
We call her that ’cause she’s hot and spicy.
Once she tied me up with my cummerbund,
after we hit the town in black and white.
She even drew blood with her diamond studs.
It’s all good; afterwards we made pasta.
She can do knuckle pushups on one arm,
while doing leg scissors from the waist down.
Talent like this comes along once in life.
Her dead daddy used to own a dojo
off Delancey Street, near Katz’s Deli.
I think I’m in love Carlos. She’s the one.
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
The water’s fragrance,
primal and diluvian,
riots my senses.
Clean patchouli scent,
rivets me, sweet then, sweet now;
I am mostly it.
Two parts hydrogen,
and oxygen. Feel the spray
invigorate skin.
Hydrationation.
Hydrationationousness.
Quench me, soak me down.
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
Lydia awaits,
baptized at the riverside;
she invites us, “Stay.”
At Thayati’ra,
we sleep atop purple goods,
feed on simple breads.
“Strong heart, it’s farewell.”
He’d have liked you, my sister,
as I, most beloved.
Back at Sam’othrace,
I think of her, still smell her;
she is not like me.
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
You can breathe this day,
yet have the gall to tell me
that there is no god?
Aromatic blooms,
life is stirring everywhere,
open up to joy.
Lie down on the earth,
spread eagle, navel to sky,
greet the ancient sun.
Germinate, seedling,
bud, grow, photo synthesize,
rise above your din.
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
Alphabet City 