Tag: tories

No Arrival A Poem By Mason Cult.

God I am dead now, what do I do… I have been stuck in this box for days, the aliens or is it the angels said they are coming to rescue me, but alas no arrival, no beat of wings, so am I really dead or have you gone and left me in an unknown psychic wilderness, my soul is tired, so much for insurance, so much for god and faith, so much a con.

They lied. I could not find the pearly gates. Perhaps they would not let me, the penny chew, the shop, me a child, in the back pocket it went, I stole it. Forgive me god I have sinned.

John & Pancreatic Pete Ride Again Que The Music…

phead

 

Brazier under the canal bridge flaming holes fiercely flaming pluto John and pancreatic Pete sit as meditating beings of a kind… road kill rabbit rolling on an abstract metal rod flame head billowing from a redundant oil barrel, bright the shadowy duo poking the urgent flames with intent, they are hungry beyond any food banks.

The charmed simplistic brotherhood of the fire keeps a talking culture alive in the reality of poverty, permeation so disengaged from an expanding world of White Diamond and Eight Ace lager, taking over there one known world that is burning itself out, as they gaze at the final  flames under a canal towpath bridge with the sound of faint but audible friendship . Pissheads, happy pissheads, causing no harm to mobody, rule Britainia.

The Kingdom of Heaven Morally Bankrupt Stock Sale…

godian

 

No divinity it is all a show, for everything a price no wonder, new spiritual cuts grab a bargain shoppers heaven is now on sale on Sunday, bidding will start St Peter is the judge & auctioneer. Heaven is underfunded god is at large elsewhere in another universe.

It is said the pilot has left the plane, no safety valves in the volcanoes the lava about to blow there is poison in the ant hills, we are not so busy, no workers cannot escape the blocked holes, for the last time leaves have fallen the last one on Christmas Day.

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The Unseen God Must He Answer

god

 

God the spaceman, god the alien, god and the world. A world and a recipe, setting the scene.

Wide world and mean air was crystal lungs filled with pure air, a hunter gatherer sticks and stones, fire and brimstone warmth and light, understanding all elements living within the sphere world, however intended now ruled by violence.

Dominant types within spaces unity and poverty no more individual desperation portions of doom, under a dimming sun and hazy skies, downcast days the grey lid of clouds that hide the poor who are poked and prodded in hidden enclaves, in foulest degradation and ridicule.

Must the unseen god now answer for much faithless misery in the downcast days.

Mason Cult .

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