Tag: Models

Mason Cult Religious Rant

There are times when I think religion has stayed around to promote war and wouldn’t dare to question the word of God, the one they could never see but could only hint at what indeed was or is the opium of mind that sets the scene for the carnage of death and destruction how infinitely pathetic is man.  So many years ago women were burnt at the stake accused for what was termed the practice of witchcraft, when the persecuted person was probably disabled and poor. I am always fascinated and horrified at how power corrupts, people are manipulated by leaders, many of whom are bullies and ultimate cowards. I think the horrific death of dictators is true Karma,  have we the weak and meek found a way to counter this harmful arena.

I think not. In the current times of our existence the reality is grim pure social stratification of the masses A, B, C and on, but one aspect missing is kindness within humanity, the brain washing by government and media is profound, telling us how one should be. This causes harmful shock waves among the young and vulnerable.

Continuous false bench marks to reach out to the body, the vehicle of the mind has lost it’s quest for the insecurity of  glamorised apparent perfection which is vivacious and fleeting.  The hope factor in this, at this time, is zero. As so much is controlled by the few mostly unseen. Maybe benevolent earth needs a rest from man the overdeveloped animal, maybe it’s time for the gentle green bubble people to be shielded from uncountable horror that has rocked and shocked what started out as innocence at birth. On a blank canvas not yet written.

A Collection of Poems From Mason Cult Part 1

The News

Do not ignore the news, it may catch up on you. Ten thousand miles could close in on you we are all related in mind emanations, all related by degrees of affliction, one day a god, the next a criminal in misfortune, non understanding in the chain of random chance. Intercommunication feeds a three sixty degree cycle what goes around comes around do not forget.

Short To Sleep

Short to sleep, fast to dream of reality. I’m not sure if I need the panic room, the need to wake, to regain control. To feel, to pinch your skin, to check your real. For another day done. This evaluation of mortality and our outer edge. So much doesn’t make sense, but with the panic comes inner love. There is no value on loved ones checking  on them to make sure they are there.

Sea Pulse

Sea pulse with no beat timed in conscious, universe within. Without a teacher, it rushes in like a broad tongue of lashing mass, against a shores walls of useless defence. In time this will reach you and drag you back to the muffled sounds of creation deep of discordant cacophony drowning the drums of evil.

1984 Is Upon Us.

For all who cannot save the world today, maybe their kindness will do, if a property is the only thing that makes your mark, maybe that will not do. As the brick division continues to identify and divide, what you perceive as civilised so called society. Stop your fantasy I say, for if you cannot stand aside and away from your possessions and be human, then your life has been so very shallow, you may just be missing the best friends you never had, because of this. Put down your browser, let’s face it, Facebook is causing problems by the minute, at the end of the day this government does not want anyone to talk openly. They wish to study your behaviour and mould any future accordingly, people, you are being set up and George Orwell was the second coming 1984 us upon us.

Politics Oh Politics…Sigh.

Politics and the answers you will never find especially in the days of the now; why because the egos are at play the root of the personal and self aggrandisement. It is also an Arena where key players at any level must have money and the means, universities are a mixing ground where idealism is blind to the pragmatic facts. Most of whom change their views when reality bites. Yes there does need to be ground level meeting hall debates, because you’ll never find the dustman at the middle class community engagement forums. So the return at some point of tub thumping meetings, revolving around poor housing, bad private landlords and bedroom tax, but not sneaky social media which is falling over itself, as Mark Zuckerberg will be finding out to his cost sooner or later.

The Great Void

The great void I’ve found is nigh, but where’s my bridge? I hear a calling for which I try to answer. The lights won’t go on in the room; it is dark. I shout, “Where are you?” but no-one replies. It is all room-by-room, semi grey. I keep calling out, but there is something wrong with the room. A door is open there is a bed, sheets rolled back crumpled and distressed. All is in grey. Where am I ? Where is anyone? I don’t know this is past. I have yet to move on. I am within a holding station of sorts. I am with others who appear as shadows of their former selves, but no-one I identify with, for this was life. Where do I go now and what of others living, who by now know that I have gone? That desperate void is here with light as assumed not quite within and a window to be opened.

The Struggle To Be Born

The discolouration of innocence, from the struggle to be born. To the first breath taken you are aware, or otherwise you made it through the life stream.  Who you become others will discover. In the meantime you have to cope with your emerging surroundings much stands before me.

For many earth years conversation is babble, that of the adult. They are supposed to be my guardians for my struggling emergence into what evolves, into a bear pit of woes and foes, sponsored by ignorance of the parents, determined to surpass one another in political institutions of hierarchy.

This whilst the truth of the wind passes change through all. I emerge discovering god gilt edged promises of everyone under the sun.  My son is or will be equal.  The innocence of this journey is broken up in terms of minds and flesh perish as potentials of innocence, either flower fresh in the morning, but withered by the sun’s power at the end of the day. .

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