For Lulu, A Shiv To The Gut

from by Snake Walk

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(She wipes it away with lace)
(Covers with shades her face)

Don’t trip
Don’t squirm
Or roast, or get hotter
Just grip the wheel firmly and coast through the water

Alone, sits a lady like me
In a bungalow-coffee-house-bakery
Aglow with eccentricity
And a nose that gives up her ethnicity
Lulu, as her name would be
Reaches a thin hand into her bag;
Produces a pad and two pens, red and black
In the farthest booth on the left in the back
This is where she gets her work done, in a cubicle
This is where she’d burst into song in a musical

Corduroy pants are her business slacks
A comfy jumper - That’s the way she likes it best,
But looks better in a dress than in a sweater-vest
Argyle patter stretched across her chest. And check it:
Double Damn Ds, as a matter of fact;
No doubt the female me would be stacked
—On the real though, she’s real lanky and flat
And tall in high-tops and a small knit cap.
She fell for a chap with unmapped hair
And a beautiful laugh - It’s his curse
Yes, he’s struggled his life, had to put up a sheet of ice
And when it got worse, had to take girls’ lives.
He’s the kind of killer who prepares a home cooked meal
So he doesn’t have to hide the knives
He zjooshes your wine with a couteau to your spine
Or to your throat, as he chops the chives

Zut alors! He’s a Cordon-Bleu-Saboteur!
And in the slums with the bums, hitting weed with ennui,
Look at her. Sacrebleu! From the top of your tower
A spyglass to your eye, as high-class spies might wear —
But what the hell? Are you unaware of the mademoiselle, mon frère?
Sie ist ein sehr, sehr optimistische Mädchen, mein herr
She get her romance from France, but no discretion from the Axis
Asking serious questions in impressions of accents
Differing her dialect — Never sits on one
And like the quill of Will, her syllable fall tripping from the tongue
Except names she don’t get; She forgets most you taught her
Teeters between the stay-clean and the slaughter
Folks give a toast to her talking-point fodder
She grips the wheel firmly and coasts through the water.

Don’t trip
Don’t squirm
Or roast, or get hotter
Just grip the wheel firmly and coast through the water

I won’t say I’ll never get hurt again
But I’m not gonna say that I’m not gonna flirt again:
As long as I last on the land —with a rash on my hand
And my lady abandoning me in a rocket—
I’ll stand by my band with a hand on my grand gland
A black and red pen in my pocket.
My locket is locked full of pics of her
And my socket’d twist for a fix of her
And in spite of the dames I stick flags in
I cry at the sight o that damn station wagon

But I wipe it away with lace
Cover with shades my face, okay

Dry and loc’d, I will repair
Take a toke and pull up a chair
I’ll give you notes on stroking your dote’s hair
Emote through the smoke and take it from there
But if’n ya audit like rock, with a dead stare
You’re gonna hurt her a lot when you get scared
‘Cause you’re easily scared ‘cause your easel is bare
You’re a polka-dot smock with a tear

See, for Lulu, a shiv to the gut could mean much
A month on the crutch, and a week or two asking no one to lunch;
Falls asleep in food, gets in weepy moods alone in her room on her phone on Youtube—
Damn dude.
I’d pretty much have to say that you pretty much put her in a pretty damn bad way, dude.
Man. Woo.

Don’t trip
Don’t squirm
Or roast, or get hotter
Just grip the wheel firmly and coast through the water


from Snake Walk Demo, released October 31, 2014



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Snake Walk Santa Rosa, California

Verdant loopery.
Anti-pop architecture.
Socially-unaware danceability.
Phat harmonies.
Lyrical flights of fancy.
Vapid, fame-seeking meaninglessness.

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