Author: Mason Cult Poet

Mason Cult Poet was born in Westmorland in the Lake District in a farming engineering community. On one side of the family many portions of nobility mainly the Stuarts. Mason Cult did as the herd does and went through the education process. attended drama school and ran small businesses. The stigma of mental health issues blighted him as it does with all creative people, was diagnosed in 2011 with a form of Asperger’s Syndrome which can impair executive function however it has given him a higher sense to see what others do not and from this ability he concludes the world is controlled by esoteric forces and that other interventions operate steering the world we know ro a new beginning.. What we witness we are forced to challenge and the work of Mason Cult assists this

The Sand Casts Over Me

A dance in the dune of mystery, sand peeling skin wind playing droplets drying abandoned hair, absurd waves prance as horse spirit thieves the long and slow beginning of the end, moonlit emergence stars crashing into view, a magical tracer.

Comets field the sky, strobes of my eyes resting forth into oblivious regions and extreme unknown, that’s somewhere else, a mystery, a show matters not. The mass that makes the night I lie down to sleep as the sand casts over me, the wind like the spirits shadowing me home to rest. Mason Cult.

Orwell 2050…

Human registration plates, hardcore DNA, chipped. Shuffled. Decanted, devoured. Dispersed, to dissolve destroyed microchips in the mortuary, rattling, in a kidney dish, it is 2050. Total accountability is the name of the game played on an unknowing humanity within ultimate state controlled ordered society.

Atom Bomb In A Peanut

Atom bomb in a peanut ready to burst into the world, the world in a rotating bowl of nuts, in hard shells, link lines to destruction. Human chains of indifference disagreement derisive, by irony dissolving war and land, living wars, hatred without understanding or discourse.

New For Old

Polishing dead fathers shoes then trying to wear them obviously not a good fit, the premature passing of father meant I hadn’t grown enough to replace him on earth there was at least some room to grow the shoes were abandoned no amount of care would produce the result you desired, that the feet of your father would ever wear them again. Goodbye brown brogue with stiff laces let the residue essence of your father now rest in peace .

In The Autum

I only believe in the wind, about in the cold night air, how it passes and flutes and whistles through a million gaps and slithers of light, like pages in a book turning changing the story with every new word, wind will have more than enough to do.
As autumn arrives dying leaves brittle and noisy wind winding through twisty trees, noisy dry dying leaves down to the ground they go mixed now on the forest floor with other wind shot seed for unknown feet to bristle through, heel high, a soothing crunch of serenity in the solace and inevitability a changing season brings .