by Matthew PonY Bones Proctor
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.
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
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 REcord LP:
COUNTRY AND WESTERN FAVORITES
BRIAN COLL AND THE PLATTERMEN
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
composition. Emerald Records! You sure did somethin with your art
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.
composition would actually never occur tween the real valley called
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
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
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
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
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
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