Poem – Page 61 – The Warrior of Poetry: The Poetry archive

To Find England, To Find Genteel Ladies.

I am sure you will find England once more and leave America behind with its ballistic mind we may rediscover gentlemen and genteel ladies of grace & sit by a brook, as the ripples kiss the stones beneath and a wind flowing to and fro leaving crystal air in the still of a night .

The wonders above still a mystery, a winged saint in the form of the snowy owl, weaving in woodland lightning speed through the shed portholes, with a wise soul inside finishing the journey of peace and grace. Where a touch of a hand and kind words could be heard, a land where we once knew of one another. Mason Cult.

I Am Not A Friend.

Somewhere neutral in the sky is that where we wait when we die, we are the life, we do death, make no bones about it we are mobile evil who roam this earth, mixing the bombs and dropping them.

I am a devil working my way through earth to hell, have pity on the poor now living for I am not a friend. Mason Cult.

I laugh, I cry, People Watch Me As They Walk On By.

Lying in state a quick break from the worm, breaking away from the underpinning I am ripened like an old joint, cursed with dodgy seed, trust today and tomorrow I live here moulded in a corner curled as a rat in dead nest.

The night faded and the day lifted I am a down in my own time, I laugh, I cry, people watch me as they walk on by. Life not so serious if your sat with me, I read the newspaper, cut the eyes from a politician, pretend I’m deaf they never listened.

I’m a mute mug shot of madness divine enough to be different no vanity in the vagrant, I am waiting for them to take me all away, wish I could stay up in this corner I lived around here as a boy with rampant laughter and nothing else but joy Mason Cult .

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.