Alphabet City

Sebastien Greco, Vocals
Carlos Chagall, guitars, bass

From the room below there’s a drumroll,
from good speakers, sounds like vinyl
pushing air, down below.
And up top a zoot sizzles on a Zildjian,

a zephyr in the trees,
just a haze, a cool gone wild.

In the mist, in the pink, in the midst, on the brink,
of a turnaround, one more time, leave it unresolved,
dead on the beat.

The pickup at the start
like bells on horses, loping slow in winter
but picking up speed. There! In the glass!
Under rough blankets drawn up o’er our heads,
or on a summer day, with the sheets drawn down,
tracing dusty rays.

Some spittle, a lick on a stick,
it’s just a rattle, a roll,
a drag across cobblestone.

I blow smoke, Ringolevio,
and 3 steps over Germany,
in the ether I’m there.
On your rooftop coming down on your fire escape
breathing in thin air, gone dizzy
in somber altitude, I unjustly expire.

Rough blankets drawn up o’er our heads,
or on a summer day, with the sheets drawn down,
tracing dusty rays. Some spittle, a lick on a stick,
it’s just a rattle, a roll, a drag across cobblestone.

From the room below there’s a drumroll,
from good speakers, sounds like vinyl
pushing air, down below.
And up top a zoot sizzles on a Zildjian,
a zephyr in the treetops,
just a haze, a cool gone wild.

In the mist, in the pink, in the midst, on the brink,
of a turnaround, one more time, leave it unresolved,
dead on the beat.

© Carlos Chagall, 2013