Skinned Genie and the Same Chords

by Tiger In My Tank

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about

Music by Sebastian Castillo.
Album art by G.W. Duncanson (cash-money-cartoons.tumblr.com).

Written, recorded, etc. by Sebastian Castillo between 2013 and 2015 in Mount Vernon, NY & Philadelphia, PA.

Thanks to Robert for general assistance & advice. Thanks to friends for support.

Email me: seb.castillo1@gmail.com.

credits

released August 6, 2015

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Tiger In My Tank Mount Vernon, New York

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Track Name: Monsieur Mono
Everything is about monsieur!
Suspended fights corralled into a sewer.
Frosty balloons promise you the plague.
The more I speak, the more things tend to get vague.

Flock of my house, they drink champagne.
They never forget where meat gets made.
Plot in a chord, I'll need perfume.
Confession receipts, alone and in my room.
Track Name: Signal Peru
Signal: into the end.
Civil queues catch my eye.
Signal, like it's pretend.
You know how to waste my time.

But you don't know what it is that I'm feeling.
Temples are denuded to signify grime.
Argue about what constitutes thinking:
more than bliss.

But you don't what it is that I'm feeling.
Marketing's disciple like wry, pink signs.
Solving for X, when you know I can't spell things—
over it.

Signal: into the end.
Civil queues catch my eye.
Signal, like it's pretend.
You know how to waste my time.
Track Name: Prudent Policies
Index sprawling into pieces.
Thinking works in candlelight.
Landlord won't extend our lease,
so we'll peal through the dead of night.

Caustic spending, fragrant ashes:
prudent policies suffice.
"Extant price under our blankets,"
if you wanted arcane advice.

But it's wrong.
Stop listening to songs.
They tell you where you belong.
But you've known all along.

Listen to the glistening pavement,
if you care about what to wear.
Tutelage won't make you patient.
And neither will occult prayers.

So I'll read through human bibles
and walk along the avenues.
Looking out for thin disciples
I hope I'll run into.

Stop—
I can't hear my own song.
Don't know if I'll go along
with tired ways of thinking through hiss.
Track Name: Pristine
I feel fine.
I feel alright.
I feel like this all of the time!
Tonight fits my needs,
until I look at the clock.
I feel plain.
I feel insane.
I feel I'm missing half my brain.
Tonight slits a quarter-inch sleeve.
Salty corner of rocks taste empty.

My thoughts pristine, why don't you look?
Healthy, risky. I know they should
be something else, or else they could
be some kind of living carpet.

I feel quaint.
I feel restraint.
I feel my paintings are in bad taste.
Tonight is filled with weeds
fumigating a soft strategy.
I feel cold
and supple.
I feel that I'm unfashionable.
Tonight I can't even read
what the brightly lit screen is telling me.

My thoughts pristine, why don't you look?
Healthy, risky. I know they should
be something else, or else they could
be some kind of human tar pit.

My thoughts pristine, why don't you look?
Track Name: Icicle
Sing: superstars,
men in bars.
Ride our bicycles into tar.
Or to an island that's far.
Never regret what I
said, or misread.
My skull is dead.
See the icicles drop out of my head.

So why do you come to me in the dark?

Forget what's in my head.
I don't mean anything I sincerely said.
My eyes are a round, mausoleum bed.
Anticipating light.
The light, the light!

Sing: talking head.
My books are dead.
And the page resets what it says.
So why do you come to me in the dark?
Forget what your hands told me.
I don't care about
tightrope doubts,
or the cigarette ash in clouds.
So why do you come to me in the dark?

Sing, sing:
out of your rotting body.
I think that we should all go home.
Maybe, there's a different way
that we can say things to each other softly.
Track Name: Major Works
Don't tell me different stories
that you keep in inventory.
Just put some tea on to steep.
I'll trade you for Morning Glories
when the skin drips in the quarry.
I want to know what "exegetic" means.

A lie, a lie.
I want to sleep inside
a dream, it seems
that it should come quickly.
Arrive alive:
sip from the turpentine
and cream / too clean.

I don't care what manic pencils
you use, or which raw utensils
just frames the data in half.
Major works are in the kennel,
where bad writing's so essential.
I just want to know where the sextons eat their math.

A lie, a lie.
I want to sleep inside
a dream, it seems
that it should come quickly.
Arrive alive:
sip from the turpentine
and cream / too clean.
Track Name: The Same Chords
In the city's gardens,
you lift your shirt above your head.
I don't know why we're going to bed.

But the same chords are okay with me.

What was it that you wanted to say?
Isn't it already a little too late?
We don't have to care if what we say is smart.

Oh, pillage the city's sense of haute perfection.
Bank-rolled sewage plant infection.

But the same chords are okay with me.

What was it that you wanted to say?
Isn't it already a little too late?
We don't have to care if what we say is smart.
Track Name: Skinned Genie
Skin the modernist genies alive.
Watch the garden fables collide.
By the kitchen table's economy,
we can see that your family's alright.

Purity is a disk drive.
But there's no reasoned endings in sight.
Swipe the extant files, then run for miles,
and maybe they'll keep you alive.

Fill me up.
Drill me up.

Fill me up beside the seasoned street lights.
Track Name: Wrong Souvenir Love
What's the matter with my face?
It's always porous.
Painted like a smear
you keep in storage.
Sold my fleshy tragedies
on bad recordings.
Take a look now at my spleen:
it's almost 'corpus,'
almost worthless,
almost surface,
almost plastic luck.
I'm so charming,
insane darling,
flawless proper smut.

Wrong souvenir love—
Attach me to the hip: fulfill intimacy, drugs.
Slasher flicks with flesh wound tricks
& doctors like to predict it.
Can I find what degrees need thugs?
English, Painting: entertaining!
Loaded pockets make me say, "What?"

What's a souvenir
without a target?
Let's drink to a Bronx Cheer
for deceased artists.
What's the matter with that bass
in the last chorus?
I recorded in one take:
it's almost gorgeous,
almost mirthless,
almost certain,
almost sexy muck.
It's so sparkling:
left-brain arty,
thoughtless, & uncut.

Wrong souvenir love—
Attach me to the hip: fulfill intimacy, drugs.
Slasher flicks with flesh wound tricks
& doctors like to predict it.
Can I find what degrees need thugs?
English, Painting: entertaining!
Loaded pockets make me say, "What?"
Artless dancing? Yeah, sure, Nancy.
Categories never give it up!
Track Name: Three Danish Crowns
Self-education disease.
I thought nobody else was around.
I learned what fantasies
could buy me three Danish crowns.

It's all flavors,
expired rations.
Empty suitcase
named Sebastian.
It's never enough,
it's never too much,
it's never an icy, Edenic sludge.

Walking in the Sunday breeze,
I thought about coming around—
my song's own garbled reprieve:
that music was a garbage town.

It's all papers,
with no action.
Faculty of love's
unsavory reflection.
It's never enough,
it's never too much
it's never an icy, Edenic sludge.
It's not serious,
but it's fashion.
It's an outhouse
for marketing depression.
It's never enough,
it's never too much,
it's never an icy, Edenic sludge.

It feels like I'm crying:
I thought that's what singing was for!
But made up ecstasy
works for my two minute chores.
Track Name: Knelt In Hair
Lone open door.
Say I'd never notice
schools right outside.
I don't know what to do
when you go upstairs.
Unfair: the room's messiah
is overrated. Knelt in hair.
I got to learn what's over there.

So tell me more
about the cloth on my skin.
It's never enough.
It's never too thin.

Where is my prayer?
I don't even care.
When you sit at home,
it's so easy to stare at poems.
So, go to bed.
Doric dreams in the basement.
Chilly roots reprise.

So tell me more
about the cloth on my skin.
It's never enough.
It's never akin
to life when I'm alone.
It stings when I feel thrown.
When I care about myself,
by myself.
Track Name: Besides
Inside the stable,
ministry is mean tonight.

Forever awful:
muse is sheer and clean as light.

Beside the cage,
tethered to my open dread.
Track Name: Could You Tell Me
Could you tell me that I'm not insane?
Could you tell me that I got nothing wrong with my brain?
Looking over my shoulder, is everything okay?
Could you tell me that—could you tell me that!

Could you tell me that we're on a plain?
Could you tell me that nobody is going to go after my jugular vein?
Walking by the graveyard, I got a passenger's brain.
Could you tell me that you are the one to make everything feel great.
Track Name: Waste Track
Baffling chores
my friends adore.
Syndicated,
primetime bores.
Corpulent, incessant war
right outside the passenger seating.
Smack the face
of our treaty.
Adjudicate
what's on TV.
Simulate
bed-time fealty
to our insouciant family.

Rid me of my need
for abstruse philosophy.
Cynical heredity
prolongs my chemical pedantry.

Kill me now, ollie.
Intro videos on repeat.
Exo-skeleton petit.
My body is moving without me.

Waste my grace,
I don't even care.
Bedroom lights
reflect down the stairs.
Church delights
when the chapel players
run out of room for the meeting.
Eat the cake
without teeth.
Feed the children
slivers of beef.
Roast the cook
with absolutist amenities.

Rid me of my need
for abstruse philosophy.
Cynical heredity
prolongs my chemical pedantry.

Kill me now, ollie.
Intro videos on repeat.
Exo-skeleton petit.
My body is moving without me.
Track Name: Silver Rocket
Icy servants
with heavy pockets
shoot their payment
in silver rockets.

Humming coffee
& singing wry schemes.
Acting bossy,
whenever I scream.

Love when things are just like they seem.

I don't know what's on the plastic screen.
Write me into a petty, abstract scene.

Well-read serpents
with empty sockets,
slither into
a slender locket.

Thinking lofty,
with structured pipe dreams.
Things get glossy,
whenever I dream.

Love when things are just like they seem.

I don't know what's on the plastic screen.
Write me into a petty, abstract scene.