Pony Payroll Bones Talkin Cal Starr BLues
by Matthew PonY Bones Proctor

In a font of 1960s sky blue it states Cal Starr and Guitar. Why isn’t it Cal Starr and His Guitar?

Cal starr and GUitar is HIs name. The old saying goes “that’s my name and don’t wear it out.” Well just listening to not even the complete side of his album IN NASHVILLE (MUSIC CITY, U.S.A.) wore me out. I was defeated. Matthew Doyal Proctor was absolutely defeated. Pony Payroll Bones was defeated. Life was subjected to a problem and this problem did well in the almost complete obliteration of the veil which allowed the mind and soul to NOT consciously hold dear like a field holding with the tools of gravity a simple dead heifer dead on the ground wafting the stench in and out of the scents of so-called humans.

He wore out my califone 4 speed record player. The needle just fell out when i decided I could not handle this country crooner. It just fell out on the faded molten lava red linoleum floor.

A day of trials for sure. Personal trials of the sublime banal.

I clean houses for a living….mostly mansions...fraught with potentialities. I am stranger to most these people. A man of mostly dependable routine.

Cal Starr is on Fraternity records. Should I Call him a false prophet of the pompadour? That is definitely verging on nasty name calling. He is an ass suck er of the devil, YEs the devil shits the fermentations of morose melancholy into this ghostly man’s mouth.

My first reaction to his album. I picture a corpse in a dry dusty ditch whose mouth was agape frozen in the affixment of death. Wind blew dirt outta tha corpse’s mouth. A southerly wind.

When I arrive home today i drank two 4.9 percent beers. I ate yesterday’s food that was not spicy enough. Mr. Dube, a brother, joined me in yesterday’s meal in the late afternoon. He also drinks a beer. We accidentally discuss that W.C. Fields was an alcoholic. ONe can tell by the photographs. His mutant distorting flotsam bravado, that man who also owned circuses in the spirit world.

I wish to write of beautiful things, not all this constant glory gore of gluttonous writhing hogs in the muddy pen. I wish to approach the pristine again. Then why not go do it? Well these rhetoricals.

Today the sun is out after five days of relentless gloom insisting late spring rain storm systematics.

You see, I”m Supposed to tell you about Cal Starr…...and that guitar of emotional pleasure he wields.

My cat almost died from a mouth infection last week complicated by the slow failing of his kidneys. This wrought biblical wrath into my romantic relationship, a partner of six years. Numerous people extol the declarative “do not get married.”

Well to get back to Pogo the cat. He is surviving but we have to feed him intravenously in his loose skin pouches a saline hydrating electrolytes liquid. HE doesn’t and cannot get enough water. When he does he pisses out all his nutrients. His body is malfunctioning.

Side A kicks off with the song “I tickle Nancy.” It’s a song about tickling and a personal once since Mr. Starr is the sole author of this one.

“OH I tickle Nancy and Nancy tickles me. When we get married how happy we will be. We will work together and we will be so happy as can be.”

The song is an earnest pop flavoring sentimentality completely archaic in stupefying romantic jargon. This is like poorly executed pornography. We will not know what body parts each is tickling.

“Pretty Things” explores the emotional abjection of not owning any pretty things even though all your friends and lovers do. Whose defining what pretty is? Money does….not the heart. Hearts are all dry heaving and heartlessness.

The song "Children" is from the famous Acuff Rose songwriting publishers. The same ones that ensnared Hank Williams Senior
who made that company rapturously wealthy. The musical arrangement has some jaunty out of place organ.

THere is a terrible version of "Welcome to My World." It's not that well done. Its defiantly so ANTI EDDIE ARNOLD.

"JOhnny Shiloh" is the song that gets bragged on a lot in the back. This is a story song like one of those written by Johnny Driftwood,
whom the renditions by macabre macabre Johnny Horton made enormously famous. Unusual in this instance, the song favors the telling of a
young boy of ten years ago who runs away after the death of his mother and joins the Union army.

There is no need to listen to side two. It won't fix my broken record player...nor the ……dry humping with skeletons in the dusty ditch at dusk. I hear tha supper bell clangin commotions and I’m not gonna go this time.