The store of bones waiting unseen, dry, waiting for collection, by the cosmic bone grinder from a secondary ship and quietly so. It creeps in and slithers out, a wisp of a sigh is all you will hear. Total specifics, still largely unknown, but the bone collector grinds to dust bones of dead men, forcing as atoms of dust through vortexes, to reform through collectives. To evolve beyond the now posed and poised waiting for the next round for they are more than dust.
Dom
Put the finger on the Cummings stop him dead. A destructive creature is he, before the beak he should now be no later than tomorrow. The jail cell is ready, there is a bed, water, a piss pot and a public toilet, you smell of corruption you will soon come to the alter on judgement day.
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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
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