Sebastien Greco, vocals
Carlos Chagall, guitars
DD Rivera, bass
Papo Cuadrado, percussion
Words & Music – Carlos Chagall, 2013
Just this side of spoken word – near beatnik
– to all those who remember the Shower House – for Johnny W.
Tag Archive: Arts
We all know someone
who knew someone
who was once “once bitten, twice burned,”
no three-charm, went down,
way down, for the count.
Daffodil daze,
long ago summer,
when we’d samba soft,
swept an upstate girl,
who smelled like lemon,
cloudy sweet, beechnut,
she glided on sand.
We’d kiss, I’d open my eyes before she,
it just never failed – surprised she
would smile, seeing me
again for the only time.
Outside Vails Mills,
there’s a drive-in
long closed,
used to show Cinemascope,
where girls in pink cashmere
took my breath away
long before intermission,
and again when the credits ran.
Cars pulling through the gate,
2 tickets and sodas in hand,
waves of mosquito white-light
from the projection booth,
color-soaked 2D flickers,
cheap speaker hooked
there on the window rolled down,
at the very start,
a Saturday night picture show.
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
Sebastien Greco, vocals
Carlos Chagall, guitars
Music & Lyrics by Sebastien Greco and Carlos Chagall, 2013
Just this side of spoken word
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
sex sweat smoke beat
dance sex sweat smoke
beat dance sex sweat
smoke beat dance sex
sweat smoke beat dance
sexy sweaty smoky beat.
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
From the beach to our summer house, you left
dark gray and barefoot prints disappearing,
a pace of one gone, every four you took,
evaporating there in the hot sun,
baking the pavement, in visible mist,
fully rendered, pointillistic, then gone …
Poof! I’m amazed you didn’t burn your soles.
You draped your long body exotically
with a wrap of sea greens, aquas, sun golds,
backdrop to the blue heather of your eyes.
Earlier, at the ocean pretending
we were the first to arrive here, this bank,
this coast side, this planet, this time around,
you turned to point, fins skimming the surface,
then turned to me, your face filled with waiting
my response, but I’d not heard the question,
as waves consumed your voice and I’ve wondered
what it was exactly you said that day.
She searches for sea shells, slowly combs sands,
then wades out waist-high; the surf erases
yesterdays’ traces, and less is no more.
She, it’s just she, shucking shells by the shore.
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
Alphabet City 