Mason Cult the Hot Vented Streets of Chicago.

The organic dripping plasma bulk bin, stuck in old Chicago Town behind the fire escapes the hissing of steam vents, random discharges and screaming noise, much torture was hidden among the trash. The bins were dripping red hot glue of a green brown hue and shapes formed at random never quite making completion. A white ray high in the sky hovered above the large oblong containers. This was going to emerge into a new initiation of beings unholy and raw. Mason Cult dressed as a vagabond turned to the rancid, putrid, steamed alley. He had been warned by The Great White Brotherhood that discarnate evil forces had landed in the twilight time. Mason approached protected as he walked, by his oval violet aura with the gold God head above. Mason is going to save the world we wait in anxiety as blue flash tries to speed from beneath rocks in Scotland, we are fast, we are nimble and we shall see.

Mason was now heavily involved down a hot steam vented street in Old Chicago in the twilight time, against formidable mountains of genetic mutant slime. Stuff that was not quiet making completion to its evil form, oozing from a bulk trash bin the blue lights from the Scottish retreat had arrived and surrounded Masons aura, as the mission had gone overload to stop the spread of mutations. No national emergency had yet been called, Boc Hondo was on holiday upon Saturn taking lessons from Venusian Jesus, so Mason’s only hope were the outcasts. who were presently in England on rejuvenation in Turkers Wood a beam of light was hurriedly administered and the Kundalini call was given and they sure as stars came.

You always know when an important event is real or so I’m told when no fanfare is announced, good or bad especially when the subject is outer world evolution and that is exactly where Mason Cult stood, at this moment in time nearly alone, save for the blue lights from Scotland in the steam trap of old Chicago waiting for an army of Boc’s outcasts in England. In the light shaft to Masons side there was millions of tons of devolved slime pushing its way beneath Chicago grids and Mason by now was struggling to stay alert.

Some of the blue light was slowly being absorbed by thickening slime . Then hail flesh and flash eighteen Outcasts fell streaming down from a twilight sky ever respondent to Masons call above the outcasts, a ship full of wonderful detergent turbo anionic supplicants poised to flow into multiple grates of steamy goo, anti genetic microbe miracles, a bubble bonanza flowed hard at bad goo evolution, beneath old rotten underbelly of Chicago town and without the knowledge of those walking down the sweaty streets oblivious Mason Cult and an army of Outcasts let the old world breath for another day.

I am Mason Cult Metaphysical Warrior.

Mason visited an old air base in his local area and his wild imagination kicked in, the end result was this…enjoy.

Have you been lately, to an old airfield, walked a cycle track, looked at the boggy areas, looked at the underground vents on the cycle tracks, can you here the lungs of the underground pumps. Like an eighteenth century steam pump engine, an unusual life of it’s own. Go a little deeper in mind, at least, ask, what under the earth is going on. Well my friend we will get to that soon. I am Mason Cult Metaphysical Warrior trained on Mars by Cosmic Adepts I operate in England in Turkers Wood near York with my assistant Boc Hondo and eighteen outcasts and we have been told through the cosmic jungle drum to start the investigation into underground genetic development by the  dark and discarnate forces living and breeding near and around World War Two,  airbases they arrive hidden to the side, with flocks of geese slipping down to earth hatches in ovoid protection, blue grey plasma occasionally. They are caught in sight of mortals and seem angry, but disbelief and resources stop investigation. As large local farms owned by gentry are harnessed under a very threatening spell.

Mason Cult Short Sci Fi Story

The crew led by the beautiful blonde Captain Hornet Jackson shuffled to the frozen rails of the stricken vessel all heads were raised to the heights, starting at the top and coming down slowly. When just about level with the deck of the boat, a warehouse door, so it appeared. A black outline appears on the ice panel of the pyramid structure, indeed this was a door in the iceberg. Pulling apart ice cracking crystals, falling from the base, a white cavern that seemed to go on forever. Revealed with no sign of instruction, the crew fell back first mate Ivan Illumine sent Morse codes as far back into the white space as he could, hoping some form of intelligence would resonate with this method of communication. History in deafening silence and in slowest motion, black dots were returned in an understanding fashion. But no pictures proffered themselves to the frozen Nordic buccaneers of the Antarctic landscape.

By Decree

Year three thousand by interplanetary decree, decisive religious buildings had to be taken down and replaced by oval violet domes of etheric simplicity, they were to become reception centres for those who would come from other planet. The violet domes would be worldwide, they glowed as beacons throughout the darkest night with violet oval pods mulching into the violet conditioning, domes Bock Hondo and Mason Cult had been dismantling them all over the world.  To make sure that the orders of the adepts would be carried out under the instructions of the one simple Absolute. This would take Mason and Bock one hundred years to establish, the days of final truth peace and interplanetary unity was dawn old earth civilisations were to be replaced as a the faulty model it was hail peace celebrate our Cosmic Masters.

This Night In Pure Yorkshire Dialect

Tis neet ah reach warily otop o’ t’ bedside cabinet, t’ candle burns, plumin upward eur spiral teur t’ ceilin i’, witherin degrees o’ warmth ‘n fla.  Ah pea o’a intoa eur ‘alf opened drawa is uz daisy still theear, for shi ‘as neya petals enny mooar, shi is eur dusty circle ‘a rebirths av long gone shi is neya longa attached. Ah picked ‘a petals o’a t’ years i’ ‘n art o’ eur nivva endin search for uz love.  Ah’m naw a sen neya music i’ uz noggin neya dance doa ah move ta ah’m i’ elderly state ‘n eur nocturnal lonely owd beast t’ longings conspire ta dawn eur final curteeam.  Bur for naw ah id’ ontoa t’ veils o’ uncertainty as uz petals slipped fra daisies ‘eart, therefooar ahl close t’ drawa summa’ else will tek o’a.  Ah shut mine een ‘n trust t’ ensuin black neet. Ta tek uz wheear it ‘as ta tarreur daisy flowa o’ ‘earts divine.

Tis night I reach warily atop of the bedside cabinet, the candle burns pluming upward a spiral to the ceiling in withering degrees of warmth and flow. I peer over into a half opened drawer, is my daisy still there for she has no petals any more she is a dusty circle her rebirths have long gone she is no longer attached. I picked her petals over the years in and out of a never ending search for my love. I am now alone, no music in my head no dance do I move to, I’m in elderly state and a nocturnal lonely old beast, the longings conspire to dawn a final curtain, but for now I hold onto the veils of uncertainty as my petals slipped from daisies heart. Therefore I will close the drawer something else will take over I shut mine eyes and trust the ensuing black night to take me where it has to goodbye daisy flower of hearts divine.

The Warrior of Poetry: The Poetry archive