Pony Payroll Bones Talking (country) Cultural Necrophilia
Matthew PonY Bones Proctor


This is called crying dry tears in the past. This is called cultural necrophilia.

Hey! What's the best news a COUNTRY music fan could hope for? A dynamic performer and composer featuring a rich assortment of music, country style, and sung only as that person could only? A charismatic singer and interpreter who offers his or her OWN album that makes the personal universal? A singer who tells the human experience by telling honest stories with honest music?

Oh I'm barking up the wrong tree. I'm just a poor beaten dog on a leash.

Next thunderstorm, a damn oak tree falls on my tree house killing me.

If I'm a dog whose and where's my God Damn owner?

Dementia Delusions beyond the mirage of 3 dimensions.


Taylor Swift has a new album out!

She's a sexy skinny hippo with toothpick legs that stalks the New York streets amongst all those tough rabid Dobermans and pit bulls.

She owns a 20 million dollar Penthouse.

Our coiled repressed massive consumer culture celebrates the suave sexy curvy mannerisms of a young lady who has finally left the twang back in Nashville. She has finally left CUNTRY.

Folks like Miss Taylor cause she does pop music. Folks like Miss Swift cause she has manners. She is not trash! Certainly not after leaving the hallucinatory cornpone postures of Nashville, U.S.A.!

She owns a 20 million dollar PENTHOUSE! What does economic class have to do with anything?

She owns a 20 million dollar penthouse in New York City!

She took the twang out of her heart. She took the twang out of her Twat.

Don't matter. Twang made good probable suicide in country music decades ago.

Subcultures no more. The sub divisional suburbia of mass consumer culture meanders on. M E A N DE RS M EA N DE R S MEAN DE R S Mean deRsss.


Johnny Cash and June Carter had one son. He's 44 years of age at the time of this writing.

He produces albums and writes songs.

Ruptured from the digital Hexed Headlines! On his own visionary volition and/or stupidity, John Carter Cash stripped to his underwear at an airport in Newfoundland. The Canadian authorities detained him and determined he was very drunk. The authorities let him put his own clothes back on his own body. Everything was fine. Everything seems fine. Everything simmers fine like a sharpened femur punctured into blue skies gushing blue blood.

He has made tons of tweets about all the love and understanding and love and empathy coming his way out there after the incident.

He may be upset about country music and he has confused demons whirling.


Sullen hearts rankled

poultry swine cattle

dark coal smoke

trains rolling with moaning

the problem of social memory

burst color autumn (s)

bourbon wine and blood

all mixed together

beer bloozY

and the tears won't gyrate

and a good friend experiments

upon you with potent nihilism

Cuz he's got tremors in de souL

and confusions where realities bend

blend ferment

hows much to goad ye to violence good friend?

LeT us increase the staggering with moRe

poTent Frightful doses of the Black Medicine! He slurred

with excitements...

One day, It all started with William Blake Tarot


and he was trying to destroy a Porter Wagoner album.

He's one of those blue sky boys. They have Lotta CLout

amongst worrisome worked worlds O dementias--Wobbly OrbiTs


I got a Johnny Bond Record from Florida SPLATTERED in Blood called Sick, Sober and Sorry.

I got a Merle Kilgore record called The Tall Texan. He's got a great emotional song called Wicked City. It's packed with emotions confronting the evils of metropolitan landscapes.

I can write about those another time though. Those days that won't exist. Well maybe they will.


Life is a good place to die. You are I. We are all born to die. I can drink rain out of the ditch. You and I can raise our voice in despair or anger or even confusion and this will make things all the worse for you. Life is a good procedure to die.

The nostalgic listening to the golden age of country music. The nostalgic listening to the silver age of country music. The nostalgic listening to the tarnished bronze age of country music. Those things....Those things were this IDIOT's soundtrack to the stupidity of compromising the living of a good life. Life is a solid promise to die.


Here's a bucket full. The bucket has a hole in it. The bucket is really a wheel barrel. A rusty wheel barrel that carries the butchered parts of numerous pigs to be evenly rendered into spam soul composite.

More bull shit strewn across the blue grass! Mr. Parody parodies the real. Jisms of nihilisms.

This is CONFESSION TIME far beneath the thick gauze shadow thrown from the magnificent cruelty prone mass culture of entertainment called instant necrophilia. The current statute of dominant western culture demands the slow destruction of all other cultures with slovenly dehumanization.

Let's document the mystical bull shit of self hatred. Some think it's so interesting. Pony does not, yet Pony is guilty amongst these conglomerates of cajoled and congealed sins. Let us explore the archival depositories concerning the statuary of states of being.

Ole smartass William Faulkner. Were you wise to state the obvious, troubling phrase. The past is not even past?

The truth of literature can dowse and discover the well waters of secrets.

The future of Pony Payroll Bones is self evident. He will be taken to the factory automated by robots, which are managed by robot management technicians. Pony shall be rendered to dog food. His batch will be tainted and all the cans of his rendered potentially toxic meat shall be recalled. They shall be shipped back from the grocery stores of reality. The thin metal cans of meat shall be destroyed.

Your wife sometimes remembers all the awful things about you. She makes you feel it. She repeats it and digs deep. The subtle actions of recent past and the ancient past. Nothing is past cause the metaphorical heart of any misunderstanding flaw or mistake continually beats even if one lone soul holds astute emotional belief. She conjures the corpses of your sins and transmutes them into majestic ghosts, which diligently haunt you.

Many decades in and you still ain't no good.

You will sit in the dugout the remainder of the game. Only half of the first inning is over. Your 11 year old self was absolutely no good at baseball.

Your dumb pre adolescent mind will dwell on the pretty girl that shares three classes with you. When you hear the mother and sister country duo The Judds this is like gasoline on the fire of your child emotions. Fire on the gasoline of your child emotions.

Love is like a baseball game.

You're just the failed result of an origami attempt at a whippoorwill crumpled up and tossed in a toilet of cobwebs. That's the reality of your non importance in this haunted house. The Best of Chet Atkins by Chet Atkins is the soundtrack. I meant Shit Atkins.

"Now Majestic Ghost Corpse of my past sins, I am also a ghost. I am a real ghost because I used to be human. Let me tell you how the wind feels in outer space!

The winds in outer space feel like the nuclear radiation of demonic briars twisted around constellation barbwire. The wind is sorrow. There is no redemption. You have been written out of the book of life when you were still alive in that living human body."


Now a days, listening, writing or playing Country Music just doesn't work like it used to...ta bring an inkling of healing health in the dark lonesome hollow of troublesome. You see, I got the deep shadow blues of cold bottom road.

Before I go let me tell you about this brief, startling stark experience. One autumn morning I was walking in the cornfield belonging to a farm that had existed since revolutionary war days. Yes, I was trespassing, though who notice me? Well, the cornfield had been reaped and harvested and I was walking barefoot on all the stubble deeply in sacraments of reflections concerning the universal experiences of the soul. With eyes shifting upward, suddenly, I saw a bald eagle pierce a gaze into the meat of my flesh and the meat of my metaphysical self. He was walking on the far side of the country road, taking inventory of the morning environs.

Let me tell you! I am a man of hope!


Glen Campbell is in nursing home of all nursing homes. His tombstone is a movie documentary called I'll Be Me. The film is a heart wrenching documentary that depicts his final tour whilst honestly depicting a spiritually sordid and sorrowful behind the scenes exploration of the biological erosions wrought by terminal Alzheimer's disease. This film is an outstanding example of Mass Culture Necrophilia.

He can still sometimes recall the melody of "Wichita Lineman." His soul shakes outta his eyes. Tabla Rasa Tabla Rasa.

There is a wind blowing in every season. The wind feels like briars.


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