The mind of maverick poet Mason Cult, grappling the hell of modern living, poetic despair and deep thinking. Mason at his most difficult and reflective moods in his fourth poetry book from the Peoples Republic of Yorkshire. Feel the anger as Mason battles against modern life or the modern hell of living as he often calls it. No matter how stressful life gets there is always time for poetry.
Tag: class a
May Of Africa A Political Rant.
It is now May of Africa forsaking the intelligent agendas and concerns of Brussels, Mrs May prefers to seek trade with countries that have appalling human rights records including genocide to name one. BRITAIN has been trading with the continent of Africa for centuries, the pitfalls are known already to most, Mrs May is looking for a pleasant Brevity but there isn’t one and I have this feeling this woman and her chums will keep this economy going even if this mean concessions for people coming from all over this world, especially in the ares of housing and opening the gates to more foreign people swelling an already overcrowded country such as Britain. So watch this space. Trade with other countries respectfully but don’t make big waves of trading more exclusively with Africa British people don’t want to lose their identity we have had year on year of this we can’t even house people in this country as it is in the year 2018,
Mother Moon
The indifference of lapping water in a sealed land locked harbour, water, it laps goes backwards and forwards. Even mother moon has no impression upon this wind variable lagoon of intransigence, but thunder will come, changes will be be brought forth profound upon this semi stillness. The walls in this circle will be broken and once more the waters of life will flood back to the divine gravitates of an unchanging sea ruled by mother moon.
What Remains
The legacy of a strong presence, it had been a long time since we had visited a cottage called Cold Place, mud and dust, global spider webs over objects abounded the key turned a faltering mechanism.
A soft creaky push opened the door so heavy it had momentum of it’s own we lit ancient scented candles as we weaved through a cobweb menagerie of damp furniture toward two gentlemanly high back chairs that faced one another in gloom, with a black leaded fireplace we both sat cold in bold dampness but all the while a buzzing was a niggling away at our senses, profound as if some inevitable awakening was coming to greet us and it did, the fire combusted to life wind broke through, dry rot window frames all that was damp unfurled itself. Dry cobwebs blew sucked by a moving internal vortex the family wished us back.
We Don’t Do Love
We don’t do love we just do movements and potions, where once there were emotions, many of the drugs of our times in lines to keep us happy and horrid, the difficult deaths and passionless end, served up
in sensations, in news we do not know a bottom from a top as a cloud passes over at the wrong time, just twenty years inside and I’ll remember the mistake next week. When bringing life back will be too late.