Do you remember crying in your beer for a dead star you thought you might know today. Do you cry for a celebrity who brings no joy, never makes you happy, but somehow does the business, whilst I sit with my ugly self-imposed version of doom
Tag: tories
Pluto The Flat Cat That Went Splat.
An epitaph to the feline friend of Mason Cult.
Stone cats in the sun will they ever live again, feral destiny was never good my squashed cat friend has expired. His short coil now ended abandoned flat and no more, now his coat is his, all his soul has sped away.
We noted him, we will try to remember him, but I sense we will all be stiff one day. Our thoughts will be as rigid as our bodies it a price we pay for gods gift short or long, that is mortality for Pluto the tomcat he is dead.
Mr Beeching Killed Me
A story from Mason Cult on the impact of withdrawing rail services back in the day by Mr Beeching. Longing for the sound of the train, but there is no track for I have to go a long way back.
Dark evenings in a moonlit village where street lights had not arrived, the smell of farms and heat from barns, as you walked on by, the sound of feet, ones that you recognise a village, a communal den of rivalry, conspiracy and gossip. So I dream in the core of that old village overgrown and derelict, on a chilly evening the time was moving close to 7pm an image of the thirty children came too me, I had been still, waiting, listening, the best I could for the persistent chuff and pulse of a tiny steam train with few carriages, coming ever closer to the village station and the scattering of cottages and farm houses bringing back the first brave who were tasting the smoke of industrial towns and the many new roles.
I was too young to know of decline but sure enough my family village died in a remote valley high enough up for snow to stay longer and steam trains to time there journeys. I woke up and looked for a sign, a derelict rail track sighted stretching and winding through a distant hillside, remains of hotchpotch dwellings, windowless and tattered linings of decorating paper flapping inside the weather raped cottages, old carbons in a naked fireplace waiting for the camping fraternity to pass by and re-engage the flue, in glow and imagination retrospective tatty artifacts to remind the transient visitors that living hearts and souls did beat, as longing as yours, existed
at two thousand feet up a hilly train track in 1959.
The Peace of Sleep
The peace of sleep is the sleep I get, or is it death, I know not yet as I seem to wake in a different state, have I changed, is it the new beginning I long for or is the prescription the same, no longer a fresh young being I keep checking my spark to be, today is to be quick but I am trying to work out why and who is the driver it is about time I got off this bus I think I will sleep again maybe longer this time.
A Clean Sheet Before You Go
Accountable for your extremes now you’re in a sweat the last week, write it down, how many times did you run away.
Write your sins down the clock is ticking you cannot ask your parents for they are but dead and the rest of us are dying, you want a clean sheet before you go, I am panicking god has given me the final cathartic challenge to clear my sins, to save the soul.
There are now four days to go and the clock is ticking, tick tock, my head on the block Jesus Christ avoid hell, what did I say the inquistion arrived in the last days .