Soundtrack for Silent Comedies

by Chameleon Treat

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Saved some pictures of the moon Because I'd love to go. When the room spins from boredom, I close my eyes and float. A celestial perfection Crafted long ago. Pure as driven snow, A ball of the smoothest dough. A lunar day begins, Separate from our sins. Spinning to and fro With breath held and eyes closed Well it's quite a view from here, Some two-thousand years of fear. I wonder would it make you sad If judgment day was near? The context is obscene, Taking psalms like dramamine. The time melts right past While the rain peels away the ash. Feeling sick in reality: Escapism rescue me. Give me my own time To grasp frantically at twigs And to realize that I am As rooted as they are. I will pace these ten steps, I will listen to these sounds, I will wonder if they're here: Up above, or down below. That rumbling outside Must be in my mind. Can you hear me when I think? If I offended you, blink twice. Insignificant violent moods. Seeing creatures file in twos. Critical heartbreak ensues. Throw the book and the spirit too. When the window reveals too much, and explodes through mental touch, Lay down to avoid the rush, Writing prophesies in the dust. And in rare moments like these I can picture with ease Why they dreamed up this biblical goal, Something that can save the soul. I guess I've always felt this way, Abroad or when locked away, I know I'm only making a scene For my sense of self esteem.
I used to hide Underneath the Broken couch and watch through the holes As my friends Armed with flashlights Cut the darkness To look for me Until I gave up. Played in the basement Until the morning. It was enough was enough was enough was enough. Feeling present For all of forty minutes Was enough was enough was enough was enough For me. The breathing crowd makes Condensation Beads that drip Down the walls and Into your hair. I put aside the Looming specter Of my future I just plucked the strings Until the cops showed up. It's still enough still enough still enough still enough. (Though I mourn for it like someone who has died) It's still enough still enough still enough still enough For me.
People always said that I looked like a friend Based on surface similarities. A modern everyman, built upon the backs Of these secondhand identities. Everybody knows somebody who looks like me. Everybody knows somebody that sounds like me. To summarize the plot, a reaper comes to change my thoughts And watch me suffer for morality. He cuts down what I've become, attempts to change the prodigal son to feel the weight of his mortality. Everybody knows somebody who looks like me Everybody knows somebody that sounds like me He asks about my vices with a blank look on his face, And which ones I would take with me. Shuffling pawns on the coast of the carnal sea, My useless palms and curling feet. I said the main things I'd bring: paper and a pen, And the luxury to never write again.
Actress 07:44
Forced into the fine arts room Before I accidentally saw too much of you. I was asked to stand and be introduced, A single sentence to summarize my use. And it sounds as creepy as the fan in "New Age" I want to prove that I'm not the same. It's ironic that I'm acting when I'm speaking to the characters on stage. When I tell you what I know, I'm really showing you All I don't. Everybody's watching me, when I just wanna sit And watch you. A velvet green material that draped and then concealed the second act. A fluttering that caught my eye revealed all that lay in wait behind. In a glance I thought I saw a glimpse of who they really are outside. I dropped the act, I could not pretend, I was shocked back to who I really am. Forced into a rehearsal room to study for a class that I hardly understand, I'm an isolated man. I can tell not a single actress wants to see me there in the crowd But I'm too proud to notice, though I can't control my face. In fact, I can't even adjust my legs without wondering how it looks, And every time they interact I shove my face in my books. Scribble notes while they give a few, to look like a know a thing or two But I haven't thought a thing since I sat down. Instead a single note repeats, a single note repeats, a single phrase repeats, and I don't care what it means.
Kid Sampson 07:05
Perched atop the concrete like a soldier on Hadrian's Wall. The coastline is crumbling, this house is gonna fall. The bricks will mix in with the swells, Getting pounded by the swells, To make the dirtiest, sweetest sea foam. A future ruin or a monument, But for this week, it's home. But something flies above me like Kid Sampson on the beach. I will be cut down If I throw my weight around. When everything is ending and my dust is on the ground, I'd be the first to drown. If I stay and wait around. I could block a single street, make one-way traffic change its current. Hang a sign around my neck like a doomslinging prophet. But I am following the footprints to the quiet public beach. In search of human contact that feels so far out of reach.
Painter 03:59
This odometer is low, and I'll admit That I was dragged to all the places that I've been. Walk a mile in my shoes, and I'll let you keep them They look better on you anyway. Now I can see the countryside with Claude. He'll bring a Glass to show me how he sees. Distorted, faded pictures fill pages one to three And the spirit of the place is good enough for me. I'm still a creator: but I'd rather be a painter. To focus on tone And let the work stand on its own. A mystified way to represent With a cigarette and a refined accent. Integrity and dignity that justifies itself Comes with being painterly
Losing Touch 05:08
Unavoidable hissing, Drowning in dark noise, Feel cracks as the structure shifts. Breaths with no definition, Buzzing and ringing, Flowing water and phasing fuzz. Hear skin shed and settle Like sand onto metal: The soft patter of former flesh. I think I'm losing touch. I think I hear too much. I think I'm losing touch. Maybe I hear too much. Read slower than ever, Letter to letter, Losing sentences to words. Avoiding a climax Developed a reflex To give up and distract myself. Sunk in cultural touch points, It's not in a book but Could be if you wrote it down. I think I'm losing touch. Maybe I think too much. I think I'm losing touch. Maybe I think too much. We made these decisions, Picking and choosing. What am I losing By only consuming? Been having these visions For over a month now, I meet myself in a dream. There's nothing to say but I need to say something. I freeze up and cannot speak. My brain isn't working, Frantically searching For small talk that isn't there. I'm losing touch with you. I'm losing touch with everyone. I don't talk the ways I used to. It feels forced to speak to anyone.
A bug drowns itself in my Glass of wine, But it's drunk as hell so it doesn't mind That I've swallowed it whole, In fact, it's the trip of a lifetime. It's a trip, that's what I've heard And all speculation is absurd And I won't know until I've observed. So I climb inside A red sea with buoyancy That surprises me, My extremities no longer belong to me As I float from side to side With limp fingers and toes. She said "baby, stop pretending." I said "maybe I will someday soon. It's all that I can do." Trust me, I'm not just lazy Without these voices I'd go crazy too. So I invented you. It's all based on something else, The nostalgia that I've felt, So I blame the generalizations. At the same time, it's all I've got, A chain of who begot The next big thing that I would love to be. A sophomoric expectation, A critical lamentation, Clean divides of decades. Though it's ended I can't help but wish That their life was some type of gift And they've found their peace in the rift. A cliche of rock and roll, To copy the Rolling Stones. But who were they in the first place? So I copy you and you copy them and They copied someone else from somewhere else, An anxious game of show and tell.
Orange Girl 08:09
A walk With a Chelsea Girl I met Who's much smarter than me But God, I need a friend. The trash A cruel reminder of All of the things That I will never do With you. It doesn't bum me out But it's awkward as hell Avoiding these eggshells. Our streets Form a perfect block Amidst the curves And hills that force a swerve. The "orange girls" don't blame me When I speak a bit too bluntly. The pages can't tell me that I'm no good Though I can see why you would. A glass Left untouched. I finish it off After you walk back. My guts They don't churn so well In this vertical booth: Gin and dry vermouth. The stacks That sit at home Don't ask for a thing, Only my attention. I'm doing a bad job of acting like myself.


released November 6, 2017

Chameleon Treat is:
Andrew Kruske
Jake Edwards

All songs written and produced by Chameleon Treat

Recorded by Andrew Kruske

Additional drum recording by Dylan Vaisey
Mastered by Seth Engel

Special thanks to Cody Hewitt and Luke Faste for listening to demos and offering tasteful feedback.
(and of course, the parents.)


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Chameleon Treat Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania

Chameleon Treat is an artist interested in neo-psychedelia /experimental pop, and prioritizes long-form records that utilize other media.

The band is currently the solo project of Andrew Kruske.

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