Pony Payroll Bones Talking Childhood Country Music Memories
Thar was tha stone Jesus head with blue eyes resting in the foyer at the top of the dark carpeted steps that led to and fro from tha haunted basement. Heaven Hell heaven Hell to a child. Yes, the basement was haunted. IN cahoots with the band Alabama. I felt there ghost vibes all the way from Fort Payne Alabama. In cahoots, with the Jive Bunny Master Mixer. In cahoots with tha Devil incarnate himself, Ronnie Milsap crooning "Smokey Mountain Memories."
Thar were some kinda demons always percolating in tha basement. Some folks had died down there and never left. There was an old man who became the ghost of a woman when he died. He was tha she who would chase me up the stairs.
Downstairs was also where the music was played. The silver stereo ushered forth the mechanics for tha cassette tapes to roll. Side A. Side B. Side A. Side B. My mother would have me flip the tape when she was exercising on the treadmill. Mother listening to Alabama's "Mountain Music" whilst walking hard on the treadmill dripping sweet. Mother knew about Sisyphus somewhere in her soul.
Mother driving with tha sun roof down and Alabama is singing "Mountain Music." WE are riding down the hill --up tha hill- down tha hill--up tha hill--down tha hill when tha prog psychedelic fiddle breakdown MELLLLTSDOWWWN YERRR BRAINNNNWAVVESSSSss.
Alabama is singin "Close Enough To Perfect." Why is that man crying? Why is that bearded man crying tears of blood? Sentimental blood. Drivel. Sexy drivel. How many times was mom fucked to that song? Everyone is Christian in the world. Everyone shall be made CHRISTIAN In this WHOLE WIDE WORLD, CALHOUN GEORIA YU DOOO SAYETH!
Brother had debauched teenage parties in tha haunted basement. He almost got away with it, till tha parents found some girl's panties stuffed in some dark corner and almost forgotten. Were the lone panty stained? Brother flipped out and punched a hole in his wall. Through strange synchronicity of his era, this rebelling awkward teenaged step brother shared J.R. Ewing's first name on Dallas. Brother did not like tha jokes about who shot him. Brother didn't listen to a whole lotta country music. He liked Afrika Bambaataa and TWO LIVE CREW.
Prologue Eulogy: Before Bacon goT BurnT
Inherent in the mutant drawling DNA, Country music violently forces and reinforces rigorous demands for nostalgia and sentimentality. Morbidity. Disgusting doleful droning. Nostalgia and/or sentimentality when they shouldn't be thar. Memories. Yearning. Yanking yer soft dick amongst tha curses. Some good things may have happened once. Some good things may have ALMOST happened once. Bad things did happen. Bad thangs did take dark root and sonny boy, those bad thangs sure did happen..... and happen again............. and them bad things happened again.
Beware when tha memory rooster yodels from the derelict farm from the past. The cows that once chewed tha grass cud in the bucolic rolling pasture are all dead. The horses that used to take such fragrant horse shits in that bucolic rolling pasture are also dead. There are more shoddy subdivisions then farms now. The shoddy keeps on spreading the overtly potent dementia. Money beats Soul.
Those REAL hallucinations that go slippery stealth into our childhood dream sleep. Years later those ghosts hatch outta tha dark and manifest real outta incoherent dormancy... and then ever farther down those ghosts get Real GOdDamN spooky--- down tha railroad track years of living life. I hear screams from that abandoned caboose lit on fire by three drunken mean vandals. Evil glass eyed Hobo blues. Don't you hear them screams? Staggering----
I wasz even a younger moppet ONCE. We lived just right off Dews Pond Road. We would visit the neighbor. Otto with tha statuesque perm hair. His wife was Doris. They had a waterbed and a daughter who had some troubles. I slept on that waterbed once.
That family like all families had secrets and troubles. Approaching family familiar tribulations in tha early 1980s amongst that built in tha late 1970's era subdivision . Truncations on life's rock dirt road that rain turns into naked mud slop.
I did not hear enough hymns in this hymn saturated lonesome shadow wavering in tha Sugar Valley Calhoun, Ga. Babysitter Carolyn would listen to gospel, lots of gospel. She loved me in some strange way. Elvis gospel. She made a mayonnaise sandwich once for me. I dare say I cried. Hard. SHE HAD A BIG OLE GRAY STATUESQUE PERM. SHE DATED AND almost married this lawyer named Larry.
Mr. Lawyer Larry had grease sleaze for blood. That man was running from something bad he had done or wanted to do. He drove a slick Cadillac. He spent a whole lotta time lookin slick. He had a horseshit grin and terrible suits. They never really got married. Time takes and makes things busted up down to tha ground teeth everywhere and no more mouth. Just a jaw bone buried in tha storied ground.
Yes, back to Otto and Doris. Statuesque Perm, that man. Mr. Statuesque Perm. The family owned a pink poodle. I was convinced hard for years that Poodles could be naturally pink. He ran pet services. He trimmed and shaved people's pets. He gave dogs haircuts. Dog barber blues. He had undisclosed feminine tendencies. He made my brother ride with him to the Oostanalua River and throw dead chickens in the muddy brown currents. You gotta git rid of dead things in tha river. That is a law.
Elvis on pills on velvet between the tha shaggy carpet living room and tha kitchen with dark orange linoleum. A haunting dark dusky PLASTIC orange. The floor sure did seemed to glow. Elvis is weeping. "Why is Elvis crying," I asked. My parents laughed a little. Otto did not? Grief? The things we grieve. And what's wrong with tha daughter? Where is tha daughter? Where is tha daughter with tha cryptic anxiety who ain't thar and whose mind got made slovenly slowwwww by the anxiety and who is supposed to be a chubby shut in. What happened to tha daughter that made her?
Doris with thick glasses is crushing and pulverizing oranges in the dark kitchen light--tha blood juice of oranges. The dark orange linoleum floor is glowing. The living room is roaring orange from the black iron fireplace. Logs slowly shuddering into red hot hell embers. Kenneling cracking into burning splinters making everything hotter and hotter. The fireplace glass is dirty with soot. Orange flames lick the glass plate. Demon tongues wanna get out! Poke and tongs nearby fascinate me. Those I believe are used on real people sometimes. The child is thinking....or really the child is feeling. FEELING a Super beyond reality.
Then the child really gits it. HE gets it good! Elvis is Jesus and Jesus is crying a mean weeping. The king is watching me real hard neath those tears. Yes, Elvis hovering in the velvet oblivion abyss. He wishes to take me. Take the child far away. Not fat lady middle aged Doris high on valium and glossed with high blood pressure. Not Doris with the sticky orange juice blood on her chubby fat hands.
The kitchen is darker and Mr. Satan is crouched in tha cupboard space below the barely dripping sink. OLE SLEW FOOT. MR. GOAT MAN KING HIMSELF taking notes on tha holy ghost innovating the Elvis Jesus complex!
I feel the perception of tha ghostly gaudy painterly Presley like tha hard stone carved Jesus head statue, which rested on the tha 100 year old foyer table resting next to tha thickly thick tooo thick bible with tha grotesque arcane bible scenes illustrated very serious. The picture of the Roman Soldiers stickin deep those children with thrusts from short gleaming gladiator swords.
Yes, Elvis took action. Some kinda kinetic lighting energy sprung and physically struck my 4 year old stunned self. I lost balance and tha child FELLLLL Hard PALMS DOWN on tha iron lip of that black iron roaring fire place. I screamed out screeches of pain and panic. The panic of pain. Now I was cryin like Elvis. No one was chuckling. Whisked--examined and chided.
Father and Marty Robbins. Father and MARTY ROBBINS. Marty reminded father of a previous life before the life he inhabited as a doctor. Marty recalled father to the long gone time he was a Roman Soldier stranded in tha hideous engulfment of a battle. An axe comes swinging down to crush crash and eviscerate his body. Father screams and.......that's all he recalls.
Willie Nelson---You fucked me up. On tha road again. I had a puppet garnered from long gone Opryland Amusement Park. The dingy memories of the 1980s---That shaggy Muppet creature I made the mother fucker play that little bitty nylon getar. We entered the motherfucking Elementary Talent contest. Or was this 4th grade? I did very well at the rehearsal. The actual performance was uncomfortable. An awful panic. I made the puppet sing too fast. Or did I. Willie Nelson you got me. I may have wore a bandana. I know the shaggy puppet sure did. A red bandana. Somebody talked me real good into this shenanigan.
Summer and spring hazes
Here like a rabbit.
I gittin tired gluing tha fur back on
Dean Martin, Mr. Tuxedo himself preferred country music over his standard usual lounge pop of fake alcoholisms.
His last real conscious release was 1983's The Nashville Sessions. However, he did release a 1985 HIT single with Conway Twitty. Metaphorically, Twitty's tits swelled up real fat and bulbous. They then exploded a slow explosion gushing a mixture of every conceivable human fluid everywhere. I mean everywhere. All over the lap steel guitar player.
MEMORIESS ARE MADE OF THIS! SING IT DEAN! SING IT WITH YOUR NO ACCENT!
Mom burnt her ankle once. Mom burnt her ankle till a 3rd degree burn got developed. The dirt bike fell on top of her. "You remember when that happened? It wuz before I met you. I mean, I had you."
All terrain vehicles roam in rural families like they do in country music. There is a song Hank Williams Jr. does celebrating the freedom of driving a four wheeler.
Lake Weiss. North Eastern Alabama. Jet Ski Jet Ski Jet Ski with tha family. Ride four wheelers with tha family. Tha smell of gasoline. The sound of the ATVs rolling down outta tha Ford truck bed. Summer time Summer time. Summer time Blues. Mr. Alan Jackson with that mournful song "Here in the Real World." Mr. Alan Jackson singin about tha Chattahoochee and hotter then a hootchie cooter twat. Alan Jackson tellin teenage hearts about how ta feel "Livin on Love." I got ta bring one of those first girlfriends out thar for a weekend.
She was the best one and the one I learned matters of the heart dick and pussy tha most first from. Her black raven hair. We rode around trails far away from tha family down dirt roads that winded into dark buzzing green pines. Tha Four wheeler vinyl seat was scorchin hot to that touch in that Alabama sun heat. She held on to my waist. I let her drive tha faded blood red four wheeler sometimes, even though I was told not to do a damn thing like that.
Both our asses were sweating in our short bottoms. Butterflies were fucking in our stomachs. Pale stupid sex gropin teenagers gittin slow eviscerating by the likely hoods O life. We'd both already tried ta kill our selves. Her scars were deeper people then mine. She got closer to that gospel of death conversion. She knew how to lose weight a little too well. We both knew how ta do tha drug.
We pulled over many a time on tha side of tha main dirt road fumbling and grope frothing. We fooled around with touchin in tha woods. Her tits were almost sweaty. I fingered her wet cunt, more then she touched my nervous sad dick. Blue skies. Blue Skies. Blue Skies. Blue Skies. Blue Skies. Blue Skies. Blue.
I ate her out in the back of the Ford truck. Less then 40 foot that truck was parked from the lake trailer full O family suntanned hamburger greased fun. It was her idea. I ate her out my mouth between her legs with that tongue in the pinkness. Slightly sour and a whole lot of wet and metallic and awkward. Mom almost caught us. Clint black or Travis Tritt were rockin tha cuntry from a boom box blasting.
And whilst we are at it upon tha memory memorial's altar O suffering tha pursuance of dumb ass hairy skinny ass past....Hank Williams Jr. on that four wheeler gunning. I did not know then as know that man was indoctrinating me.
That waszt not "Ketchup on my blue jeans/just burned my hand/Lord it's hard being a bachelor man." That was not ketchup on Jr.'s jeans.
That was an euphuism for blood. The grandeur of blood from the ritual slaughter. The cum splatter of blood. The iron smell of blood. The staining ways of blood!
When his rowdy friends git thar what's gonna happen?
In the music video, thar's bikini ladies steppin outta a hot tub. Yes, Williams has a debauchery hot tub in his secret country bachelor pad. This just seems all just like a fun fuck of a party with beer on ice and a pig in the ground. This just seems like a perfect summer shit ding! That's not what's really going on. I know. I know all too well! I know all too God Damn well!
Weeks ago, I was in a weak state in the everyday reality. One of those tornado cycles. The every day was bashing down wayyy to hard. I got way on down. Dark down and drowsy. A barely perceptible light shone and was experienced. I had a dream I almost forgot. It sure felt bittersweet.
Randy Travis was able to sing again. He wasz performing at an awards ceremony. One of those generic insincere music awards ceremonies. He stood firm and tall on the stage. He sang a gospel song--ACAPPELLA SOARING! Things got shoved and moved. The heart of things got moved with his still waters spiritual display of tenacious redemption.
The scent O thunderstorms lingering.
Lingering hard. Listless. O Kudzu Holy GhosT ye may swallow
this fool somedaY.
I have to go. A L O N E.