Pony Payroll Bones talkin Irish Country Music (Dedication to William Rosemary)
by Matthew PonY Bones Proctor


SO he gifted a record LP to me. My wife had gone to the record LP store in Towson, Maryland. I was doing home doing other things. I was at home flaying to tune untune and then tune my broken ancient appalachian Georgian cracked crackled haunted fiddle. I was also reworking a country gospel song about how “don’t tha light always shine in the woods.” How interesting to sing such Timely topic for I was struggling with the darkness of motivation.


You see this be Irish Country Music discussion. You see this be the wounded bird called Irish Country Music.

Someone has poisoned the leprechaun. He collapsed whilst doing a jig. The fairies are mad in the rocks. The fairies are madness in the rocks.

dON’T “Just walk on by.”...stop and pilfer through the obscenes magnitudes of the clover fields. I will tell you know each clover green is a four leaf clover.

...I love you but we’re strangers when we meet.”


Betweens somewheres 3 knots on the rope burning...igniting the twisted fibers of rope into flames. THis is a transmutation of energies.

Between 7 and 9 knots. Concerning rope geometrical geographies. Genial bursting flames O thee ropE.

You see tha ropE won’T slacken. This what drovE us here. I’m not sure the exactitude of souls who each grasp this rope. Opposition sides of the rope.


The REcord LP:



A blonde early in her 20sss...oh the rock of youth! Her hands clasped ...shiny glisten fingernails one strikingly sees. Her bluish orange eye shadow shadows.

That photographic composition. Emerald Records! You sure did somethin with your art department.

YOu can see 1/3rd of the guitar acoustic forefront. A wet lookin pink depths rose tucked neatly neath the G string. Nylon strings this guitar. THe rose may be real. The rose may be fake. LIke a proposition of love that rose upon that guitar is. LIke a salacious solicitation of prostitutional potentialities that rose tucked neath the nylon G string. G String panty country blues….listen to tha moans crackle the cracking of high falsetto.

This photographic composition would actually never occur tween the real valley called reality.

THe position of the guitar just dumbly awkward.

The acoustic guitar rises perpendicular out of the mid to bottom left. The sides of the guitar are polished and reflect light. You cannot see the make or model of this acoustic guitar. The head just jettison into the void.

The blonde attractive female youth is slightly not in focus. Her eyebrows are slightly arching too much. Her smile is gremlin like. There is a demonic potential dormancy stout in her striking stare.

Is she smashing a dildo into the face of the Irish country singer? Is this the visual intention of cannibalistic cool sexuality…..the lust to devour cock...that Irish country music cock right off his body?

Does she just have mean words to say? Is the Irish country music out of view actually proposing marriage to this lasie?

You gotta be careful when you read and render interpretations concerning facial expressions.

THe slight out of focus has the effect of creating an atmosphere of anxious dread.


You see this be Irish country music created by instrument playing and singing belonging to Mr. Coll and the Plattermen. Once upon, these Plattermen and Mr. Coll himself were platter boys.s

The back cover notes state “ have been singing and playing together from the days when they shared desks at school in Omagh…”.

WE are also informed: “All their records are hits in Ireland and huge crowds flock to see the band whenever they appear.”

Mr. Coll is atributed to making some facetious factless boasting also.

IT reads :

“So, when the time came to prepare for this, his first album, Brian decided to revive some Irish standards and give them his own styling.”

Don’t be fooled by the way. Yes, don’t be fooled by the inclusion of the old UNITED STATES WESTERN COUNTRY STANDARD “Cattle Call.” NO asshole calls to his cattle in Ireland.

Apparently SLim Whitman was pissed off. He owned that song.


Over a week later after receiving such LP, I run into Mr. Will ROsemary. I am with three other weirdos in the dark darkness O a Wednesday night.

We were all tryin loosely as a group to move an immovable chicken coop. The landlord here was a comedic obtuse jerko ass clenched asshole. He was King Liar and in all likelihood had in some way created more webbings of lies than Beelzebub himself.

Mr. D, as we shall refer to him, suffered the grandiose beastly talent of being completely not convincing….yet also keeping stealth the truth of his more slithering slurry backwash tepid haze mysterios.

Do not drink his absinthe. Everyone gets the warning and everyone just goes along and does so anyway.

Recently, Mr D’s prize puppy was almost stolen right smatter dab dashery outta his very own yard! Now, since thins shifted shifty Mr D. did something that really doesn’t make much sense. By the way the dog is a dog and not a puppy anymore.

Well, He kept his dog ….his suffering dog to a chain outside...upon the front yard of his tenant’s land...the new dog house has been decreed….thus being a forgotten to use home made hand built sauna not utilized in quite some distantly time….no more nakedly bodies sweltering and hatchin out soul in there. Now layers upon layers of dog beds and blankets….….never never not enough slack of dog space. Dog space mental canine health. The dog yelped and yawped at us in the darkly hazes as we stood in the veils of streetlight halo beaming breath electrical light casting. YEs he kept that dog suffering very well on that kept kettle cold metal ring chain clang chain. Mr. D must be reported to the muscles of Animal Welfare agents.

Does the young dog dream of the vaporous ghosts of sweaty scents and sweaty naked bodies?

He can’t go far like most any dogs in tha dirty ole city, but his bark sure does go far.

This house now in an alley, used to be a farmhouse. NOw those Baltimore ROwHOmes barricaded it in starting in the 1920s and going all the way thicker till the early 1950s. THis used to be its own village then it became its own little town. It was called Waverly. Still is.

THe baseball stadium was here. It was torn down. Babe Ruth bludgeoned the ball over bases here. Now, there be a run down dereliction shopping center there now…..a dollar store that is good for buying the cheapest mass produced valerian in town. The security system is always directly talking and threatening to each and every one customer who waltzes right in.

YEs, five of us tryin pathetique style to move an immovable forsaken chicken coop that Mr. D, the kind landlord of business lucky dunces, has claimed outright that chicken coop is mine.

I notice they are clearing the overgrown lot next door. A delirious dilapidation is having occurrences with this modestly large green house. This house is more than likely not as old as the old farmhouse in the alley way. This property-- also a vestige of the past pastoral passion past of Waverly a village. THe lot is clear yet the misshapen mutilated automobiles still lurked stalled and distorted in the back of the lot next to three crumbling brick structured buildings that were once rented out in the area for individuals desiring the storage of possessions.

Yes that once overgrown spring and summering lots. THis where Zach the cat is buried...whose former Master CHarlie once ran kinetic trim nude naked bodily performing a suspenseful beguiling one man Greek Tragedy.

This be the same lot I trestle droned amplified distorted distraught fiddle music. I ranted a poem about UFO’s.

My wife and I had just been to a free performance of a Bach concert. fThree(3) years ago that Sunday was cold-----tha world then I had believed held a different jumbled rats nest of pain collateral coins smackin clankin in tha rustY metal bucket. ALl everyone pay your spiritual tithe. Hand over your coins of pain. Everyone had sweaty palms of blood and swollen tongues. I also had a lazy eye.

Old York Road. THe one of a handful of once trade roads in the Baltimore area. Old York naturally use to run all the way North to York, Pennsylvania.

Well, we could not move away any chicken coop that night. Not even the five of us. Oh…..hmmm there was in actuality six of us. Yes. Not even six human bodies could maneuver the awkward live poultry architecture. Mr. D. did not help us by any means by almost blocking the coop in with his abandoned functionality minivan. He had slashed his own tires.

ONce upon a time, the neighborhood folk in close proximity were in fear of the live poultry. These city folks believed that these chickens could and would attack people. They believed these chickens would and could spread un imaginable terminal diseases.

I firmly hug Mr. Will ROsemary and advise him the unsolicited advice concerning the preparation and drinking of poppy seed tea. We do not mention the that Irish Country Music LP.

There are the joys of mystery when things are left unsaid….unspoken….

SO IN upon the affirming rabies of life living, thar be only so so many distortions of joys we can handle.