Westminster – Page 10 – The Warrior of Poetry: The Poetry archive

Mason Cult On Homes As Cash Cows.

Mason is also an activist for social issues here is his latest articles.

Society must stop using homes as cash cows or so-called investments it is not helping the young or poor. Since the disappearance of long-term industrial jobs replaced by service sector jobs, there has been a colossal increase in property prices and lending from banks.

I will suggest that the ridiculous house prices start to wither then filter down to lower mortgage costs and realistic re-payments interest rates could rise and responsible savers could return, but we lack sustainable home industries & coal mines were conveniently closed even when clean coal technology is available, much else of British industry went abroad taken over by cheaper imports.

If any government is to be responsible then house prices have to come down and there must be different ways to pay for old age care than selling a house to pay for the care . In conclusion Britain has been surviving on the back of property profit for thirty
years plus this only serves to stoke inflation and makes life harder for many thousands of people. So as well as more social homes built let there be cheaper homes to mortgage and sensible deflation, these changes may even lead to unacceptable rents now being charged by private landlords to come down enabling the wages of low paid workers go further and save more.

If I…

If I am re-incarnated as a cat I will sleep upon cord jackets, I have now seen in my human life thus far the comfort and peace within the cat, two on one cord jacket curled in a mystic harmony and at the end of my time if I return as a cat trapped as I may feel in my new clothes I will curl on that cord jacket oh the calm

I Cry For The Celeb.

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

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 Beeching Cuts