Part Three Excerpts from the Lost Book of LOstness

PART THREE Excerpts from the LOsT BooK of LOsTness
2012-2013

 

 

 

 

 

 

More Excerpts from tha Lost Book

More Excerpts from tha LOST BOOK

 

When text and manifestating visual depiction converge into cannibalisms

I imagine the immensity of a "Lost book" that is beyond my comprehension or completion.

Where Text and the visual meld into cannabalism.  Pages from the Lost Book.  The pages are old text cut ups of my writings tangled with the writings of strangers.  The text seeks obliteration.  The manifestation of the etching into the visual as well as the spontaneous combustibles of the color wheel collide, corral and devour each other, occasionally simultaneously.  This is the documentation of the nonlinear converging into almost stories.  Sometimes the visuals illustrate the garbled already cannibalized text.  This is the simplicity of mutilation to transcend into "a somewhere else."  More examples and also .closer detail of the works below can be viewed at  http://www.flickr.com/photos/ponypayrollbonesblues/sets/72157633313550118/

Field Upon Western Fringe (For Hunter Savoy Fortuna)

The following is a prose piece that is part of a collection that is dealing with my North East Experiences.  The book is comprised of journalistic entries, poems, travelogs and probable nonsensical tangents.  The book may or may not be called Pennsylvania Blues/Mason Dixon /Mason Dixie Line Blues.  the intent and form are lost in the spring sources.  The book meets somewhere between journalistic documentations melding into true imaginings/non truth imaginings.  Field on the Western Fringe explores the mystical currents flowing beneath a day outing at Cobb Creek Park, which is existent at the fringes of Western Philadelphia.  I believe where the creek crosses Baltimore Avenue forms one of Philly's city limits.  I could be wrong.  This prose started simple and got almost long winded.  This is a mini environs travelogue as well as spiritual dialogue of the events impressions that day.  Occasionally satirical and expressionistic, the piece is a story without a story and an allegory that is in pursuit of mutilated humanity.  Language often stacks too much upon each other and gets lost in metaphysical hoodoo that trespasses beyond black and white magic till perched on the edge of supernaturalist buffonery.  I spent this day grotesquely documented here with my good friend/sister Hunter Savoy and of course Jenny.  All events are true.  I do not understand why the dog skeleton punished me though.  Possibly I do though.

                                                    Recent drawing inspired by the Birch Tree Below

Field at the Western Fringe (For Hunter Savoy Fortuna)

Drifting through the germinating foliage of Cobb Park, western fringe of Philadelphia. Two women and one man.  We enter the canopy of trees- which forms a skeletal vault between us and the blue chalk blue sky.  We cross the creek by taking off our shoes.  The deepest part of our crossing only goes a little bit above the ankles.  My wife almost cuts her self on sunken garbage.

The creek flows and babbles a clarity of translucent darkness.

We walk upon the field that has sent spirits to suture the amnesia drunkenness of dreaming.  The physicality of the pastoral isolated engulfs us.  Look!  Here, the large encompassing field with the stark birch tree that haunts my imagination.  Sunbeams crash down unfettered with their luminous physics and life giving catastrophic. 

Drifting into adrift silences. Three souls who cast three ghost shadows. Drifty eyed, we wander till we drift into the dissipation of individual solitudes.  My sister plucks  yellow flowers.  She then climbs a broken rotted tree at the edge of the wood.  The tree falls.   The fall is silence.   My wife haunts the birch tree and finds an unknown animal bone nearby. I look for an entrance through the vine fortified forest then troll about where the trash has been honed into the pastoral landscape scrape.

I cross the 1920s or 1930s stone bridge upon the freeway.  I cross the creek alone upon stone, above.  Vehicles are flying by on death dealing car dealership wheels.  I walk against traffic. I walk against the body that is walking shape shifting into an elderly infirm gentleman lacking the gentle.   I veer immediately left on a path that follows a ridge above the creek.  You can smell the sewer that is dumping into the creek.  I soon discover the place where 4 months ago I found a weathered frigid dog skull.  Scanning eyes scan for scavenging.  I find other bones of the road kill dog.  The winter has bleached them well. 

Reality feels odd and clumsy.  I have left the girls back in the field.  The scenario feels like I have left the girls back in some ideal Eden nestled within the isolation of pure obscurities amongst this dirty old city.  Pastoral beauty in Philadelphia existent--a sodden fancy much rooted in the toxicity metropolitan soils.  I have enacted a breaking and entry into a sodden comedy dominated by a leering Rodney Dangerfield impersonator at a militant middle aged birthday party.  No pastoral amongst those bloated baby boomers sagging into bovine decline nursing home fanaticisms.   Speculation concurs I have left the pastoral with no good god damn reason.  I have traveled outside the bounds of dark and white magic into the realms of buffoonery.  Mysticism has gone astray into the shallow  equivalences of pornography.

I am a dirty fool rummaging and collecting scattered dried out bones that once assembled a canine.  I sure got Road kill Blues.  I get hog washed into a religious dialogue with the blues of road kill. The blues here of this mongrel dog is blue neon radiation. My troubled animal instincts cloistered in the cloudy sopping morose opaque of spiritual radiation poisoning.   The phantom ghost of the dog recognizes me as the thief that stole his bodily skull, back when nature was solemn beneath a January snow.  The ghost puts a sizzling curse upon.   I got rabies of the soul.  Confusions and vertigos contort.  When I return to the pastoral field, nausea seizes into visceral obdurate epilepsy.  I wretch disturbing the meditations of my wife.  I am vomiting the eggs consumed for break feast back upon the earth.  What leaves always returns, even with reluctance.

Yes, what leaves always returns, even if struck with reluctance.  What leaves will return into the violence of silences.

Otherness.  Oblique otherness.  The echoes of each ghost seemingly go unknown and are gone. Despite, the victory of salient silences existing amongst the biological blues, the temporal experience of existent subjective experiences expounds with the flash and flashiness of hopeful temporary.  Due course makes due course.

The ghosts, which have departed into their own individual drift return to be the casting silhouettes of the wandering souls upon this blessed pastoral.  The souls pronounce the promise of misinterpretation and return with lust to the seething seeking flesh.  Yes! Eventually, the eventualities of family communal familiar slowly surge when the collective blood lulls with mysterious tides.  Coagulation and the spontaneous combustion back into human flesh. Magnetizations summon the severance of solitude back into bundling kinetic actions.  The eventualities of convergence convene with accordance.  Each of us --are once and always fossilized echoes upon diverged peripheries that blood pouring etch  flowing back into each other.  We return backwardly into flesh manifest--accidental cowardice.

Evidence of mysteries find us on the return path.   We pass the rotting carcass of a white dog strayed into death. The white fur is like out of place textile carpet.  Speculation notates details.  We observe the uselessness of violence upon a corpse in the copse.  Drooling euphoric astonishment corrosively copulating with unfettered childhood,  must have inspired a couple a couple of kids to jettison a brick at the putrid corpse.  They don’t know the living can’t punish the dead.  Everyone gets a plethora of chances to become King fool amongst the mutilated orgy commencing through living life. However, a solid sordid lesson will be learnt and what gets learnt is simply stark in the absolute reaches.   The dead will often punish the living---Harshness-Relentless--Remote.

 Warily, we return toward grotesque pornographic montage called Filthidelphia.  Two young woman and one dull man.

The flowers my sister has gathered are offered in a ceremony later in the evening to my other sister.  I have forgotten anything.

by Matthew Pony Payroll Bones Proctor

Two more recent drawings capturing the aftermath energy of that day.

Evil Busted Through Some Series Forward Into Progress (an exquisite corpse)

  Portrait of   Bryan Keith Martin


Here is an exquisite corpse that Bryan Keith Martin and I created past March.  This is actually the second one we have composed.  The first one was lost in cryptic hieroglyphics due to failed outdated technological compatibility.  For those who don't an exquisite corpse is a writing technique made well known by the "surrealists."  I'm sure the technique dates back to DaDa and before.  Basically one writes something a sentence or three or four sentences then the next person writes a sentence or three or four sentences etc. without seeing what the other person wrote.  Oddly, Martin and I's collaboration often creates stories and narratives that almost happen.  A psychic encounter occurs on some dimensional plane.  All errors have been kept in take.

Bryan Keith Martin creates solo music under Wipe Hour.  He has a new release tape called time canceller.  He also is in the trans dimensional harsh noise project Hollow Bush with Rodger Stella (Macronympha notoriety).


 EVIL BUSTED THROUGH SOME SERIES FORWARD INTO PROGRESS

tha wind rippled tha moonlight and sought thelost wolf howling in tha tornado.
patinaed elbow room knockin glares drenched in tudoresque plop-glaze - i see nothing wrong with this.  Thus struck the harpoon upon tha man;s throat
boooting a hummingbird back to register a flown complaint busted yoke anterior headspace lisped
 the spoke got caught deeply in dat mud awful mud encrusted casket
where the Lincoln plagued by a hole in his head matvhed nightshades in two color folderol
you can tellit on tha mountain when tha mountain falls in your goddamn valley.  locust got loose and drove you paddywack to tha cave.
within the constraint of bullshit and ambitionless house-grokking diaorrhea john and the mouth that never finishes feeding
.  The immigration of fractions will cost you dearly when that war council reconvenes in the years disordered by your daughter;s father.
ye-ar kung fu in the corner for a quarter rhymes with horrible unresourcefulnes- no lie this time just some mint stealin
 The solidarity of forththought got us into the jaguar limousine grafted to the skin of a scram.
where he puked no stone - thrust upon like blade to stone thrust through in steps to shadow lake of blood foam mist yule tide
Moonlight has reversed into the womb
gallows rendition caught slime & cascade above all powered garish bowels steeped tremulously
flotsam upon the jetstream. who will tell shipwrecked brother in the mason jar exploded by figmented lightning.
when moonlike ore the hazure seas, busted infantile wiper gale
 i dug with aa shovel to find the sstolen buried shovrl
pppppprowler head-stand night watch frequent snarl & bittervest mantowel
 Johnny is in the field with a sack of potatos.  he is crying for father the dinosaur luckless typhoid upon stone calculators
in our bizarre realm a house shivers tight yonder effluvia grandiose like some balked lottery wallop but, if it knew
i heard a car engine down in tommy's swamp.  who shall tale the tell of those lost myths cuz our damn homestead is waiting to burn down in the varnish of afterthouught glistening with venom of made up spiders.  friends countrymen i beseech Calabus has returned to his native solstice landscape
raised a weapon in peace heralded news-stake young shoot aproblematic & besides, gold is shorn a quote
 who will tell us now about the crimean woa--war--bobby is angry at tommy the cop.  I have seen the calander angry at one single day.  who gonna tell your momma off at tha carwash.  i aint no hooligan
smell my robot SMELL MY ROBOT breakdown in fluid relations angled garbled textion souped-out fawn break nose cauldron air
burst the poppy where tha penicillin leaks, neath the wound of hospitality
give garden tips / brown alloysius fallow mistake lost lied / growth yanked but never some readable
iam a sailor lost in the forest of elegies.  he had a stroke before any good fortune could burst outta that concrete fortufortune cookie.
problem problem dredged maniacl qbert if you made one spitoon it has potential to sproing upon the page asunder
 grimace the orgy all is unfinished spoke thus alike tommy's the sheriff.
"he will never work again until he gets a job", said Daily Hands himself, comin in outta the evil rain
B.B gun struck with the violence of coagulated fire ants.  i will stare out the window and dream of staring out a window where i siop slipping breaths .  Golden dawn you have absconded into cleveland rust.  i do not play chess cause i have too much patience.
it was jazz what set them all aprt - put a loud maintenance grind pallets value fat to steak
.  Wash the wound where the blackberries sprout.  the moon was a silver cataract when mother was murdered in her shiny cadillac late friday night.
auld wyfe eggs threnody nest
.  I don;t need no yarn upon my pillow drenched with blood and sweat.  kill the mountain when you hear the cannon belch rawhided industrial solvent.
thankful colonists chore their cabbage but it's the life that makes a meal, want of nutrition or salinity
He owns a gun and we shall not tell you where he divulged the hiding process.


By Bryan Keith Martin and Matthew doyal Pony Payroll Bones Proctor

Climbing Jacob's Ladder  April 2013 M doya ponY Proctor


Writing is a vision.  Climbing into the divine and experiencing the flesh of imagination.

Duskhouse To Duskhouse manuscript news and excerpts

Duskhouse to Duskhouse is a poetry prose collection that deals with nihilstic mysteries of the south experienced through childhood and family. The book follows the circular path of death from dusk to dusk where the ideal of home is shown to be always just out of reach.  The book is an allegory without an allegory.  The poems and prose sure do lead down lost roads, yet this lost in the nullification mystery of the Southern United States acts as a slow baptism upon the grotesque purgatorial account towards shamanistic healing.  One deals with the Southern mythos in past present and future cataclysm like slowly drowning in a slow muddy river.

 I finished this collection mid summer 2012.  I consider this a companion piece to the much more fathoming of Anathema Blues.

A version of this book will be bookbinded in late summer through a good hearted and supportive medicine man in Maine.  At least two different covers are proposed to be used.  Below are two proposed cover illustrations as well as a few excerpts from the book.

Childhood at play among playmates (childhood passioN pLaY)

TheY were brave.  Two boYs and the girl.  Breakin sticks gainst tha hollowed dry rot petrifactions Oak tree.  Kickin this solemn totem---
            Hornets congealed out
The YoLK of dark spirits cavalcading out.
    Someone     is     always     someone         else’s death.

Sunlight splashed upon the darkly shaded mule clod creek--cows moo moo and shit passively inside the sun drenched distance--cows shit out moos this hoT drY summer--Northwest, Georgia---sugar ValleY-----

Playtime is all the time and sure can taunT meaNess---and whO giTs tha meaN taunts and churls turns---goes all in passive order.    And Is shaLt bE fair.

All three goT throwin rocks at tha creeK wheN old testament suffering tooK manifestation-----
        ---rocK stone smashes the head rooted to the 13 yeaR old body---
    ShouTs of drenching bursting redness--ThE prettY 11 yeaR old scrawnY MarY scrawnY    is fatly with sobbing droplets---hot red guilT

    ---thE boY feels a new experience of expenditure    childhood fading is concocting ---        childhood is a death inside imaginary    pastures

        He understands the sensation of the nervous system--He is poultry meaT disorganized violently from whaT once was a whole chicken independently alive--

(end)



Experiences and Expenditures
           

I left town---without any shoes---
   
        I had hard cash wadded in my left pocket, though theY took my I.D.

So goes the going                Upside the shadow like a mountain, not a hill--never a hill--never never a hill--
   
    No one hears ya when ya shout down from a mountain, whilst the valleY lustres extravagant with mirth.
       
GREEN EMERALD growling  FIRES INSIDE AQUA BLUE FIRES.    IS this magic or violence?

Provoking a Confederate Roll call inside a volatile aura vile Yankee house will reap the fruits of the diabolical and biblical wraith.

                In the torn faded green coat at the ruby door demanding the till toll.  He must be on the payroll and official.

                   



           

Perdition

        Tribulation made a petition and won favor

Permanence Echo        Bells

        Cascading    cacodemon
    Crashing

The gashed darkness
Sticky and slicK with blood        slick with blood    slicken with blooood
Slick        with bloooood
       
            My 8 year old son drunk in thee cornstalks of oblivion-----Hot wind Hot whipping wind gainst and forth whirling twirling portents---whirly Gurley

        Tha riff raff have arrived with rifles
Tha God damN Riff Raff have done arrived with rifles
        Finger bone on tha trigger--eyes on tha hoG

           

DUTY
   
    He wears a coat made of shadows--Blood squared earth FEVERISh
        We        is                ferried             across
by the shroud---offering us to tragedy---

        Clack Shackled with heavy iron chains goes the lone spirit into a deeper fathom
            Oh Lord loneliness---  Lonely jusT goT LonesomE---

     Solvency summer rains, ghost in kerosene rags finds the body-- drift deep ravine  thicket briars brambles---Be wary friend--tha revenue man lurks!
           
Daughter on the forest edge--drawling wet pale growling-------
   
    IN the shadow of what once was hillbilly Orpheus--now shattered by the long ago flapping thunderbird

Childhood was ruled by the spectral shadows of dogs--down dark green rolling hills
     we were
        We were chased
We are chased over and over by each other---Where is Mary Mauldin now??

        Dragging left leg limp inside the road, that bum---Variance carnage of fairy tales.

    Alabaster yonder eve broke the innuendo---

    That stranger walking tha road? 
            He is always fostering desperate obligations. 
                   
Something bout an honest way to live. 


           








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Pony Payrolllll Bones Travel Speculations upon Art Winter 2012

What is lost is found is lost

Blustering of movement

Pure action is multiplicity of forms

A depiction the act is process --Is all action depiction
And/or coded violence.

The fatal fallacy of our time is the heat seeking of scalding and freezing violence (s).

How removed or close is the composition.

“Because people tend to be offended by facts or what used to be called truth.”
---Francis Bacon

Direct truth or indirect truth?   You are in the briars.

Levitate out of the briars.

Mondrian’s Sunflowers.

How to handle flesh of the water.
How to handle flesh.

The conventions of painting--upsetting the conventions of painting---such a boring revolution----Painting ---Image making--converses on--and is also boring.

One is a failure because one continues to paint and draw

One can easily forget the personal reasons for the creative processes.

What are the conventions? Describe them?  List them?  --Listless-------

Your family holds potential probability that will express hatreds due to your
Creative endeavors

Futile past times futile passion times---recovering from the passivity decay of time.

Advanced technology aims to gentrify art and remove humanity from such direct touch with magical transformative processes.  This is done by new social normals and is often only suggestive.

The human shall make MESSY art with often badly executed calculations for results.

Every idea is beside the point.

To weather and to have weariness of patience embodied as pestilence/indolence.

Everyone has different nervous systems.

One can not be aware of all cross cultural currents seeding and seething the artistic process.

Art has no separation with the common and sacred.

One has absolute dialogues with ghosts through the art process and creation.

One is transformed into the image (s) one is making//occurring

Excursion into discovery

The creative act equates to sustenance and ritual (s).

Art attempts to lure the viewer out of the material demands of physical existence.

Obliteration of agreeable features and details.

Alchemy that turns one dimensional surface into bottomless depths.

Degradation

The art process is the obliteration to rebirth.  Where does birth leave one situated?  Where does the sense of obliteration leave one?

A/Lone by probability

The dark investigation of comedy brings light.

The images that form beneath the eyes, yet before the brain.

The soul ghost has taken time to sculpt aspects of the brain meat.

Picasso’s paintings of dead cocks, those roosters!

Arshile Gorky MEANT IT with the composition “The Limit.”  He died the following year.

Jasper Johns and Robert Rauschenberg paintings suggest the tacky and are tacky.  One may or may not be left with absolute dullness.

Who are your contemporaries?

Paint from a photograph, then make the image your memory, then paint/scratch/scrawl your image into manifestation.

Sometimes when I sleep I dredge through briars down to the river and swim those dark currents.  Sometimes the morning arises.

A singular painting and/or drawing will resonate emotionally more in depth then the cleverness of a so-called mixed media composition/installation.  This statement being from the subjective experience of my flesh existence.

There is an incomplete unfinished subway station beneath the Philadelphia museum of art.

A serious night of drinking may or may not help one with creation.

Lackluster senses and of purpose seem to carousel and see saw.

Affirming gestures/that is what creation/art is?

“We only have this single gesture to begin”--Cesare Pavese from the poem “Imagination’s End.”

These are writings dating from December 2012-January 10, 2013.  Composed in various locations from Minnesota, Virginia, Georgia and Pennsylvania.