Slapped, popped, miffed.
Slipped, pooped, missed.
Slept, peeked, mist.
Spent, packed, must.
Spilled, piled, mauled.
Spoilage, pillage, mileage.
Sparrows, pillows, hedgerows.
Persimmons, marshmallow fluff.
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
Tag Archive: Ringolevio
Sebastien Greco, vocals
Carlos Chagall, guitars
Music & Lyrics by Sebastien Greco and Carlos Chagall, 2013
Just this side of spoken word
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
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
Alphabet City 