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David S. Clinton Walsall / United Kingdom, Male, 33
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    • (9/18/2006 3:22:00 PM)

      (the words she never blew through her angelic lips
      that never sent my mind on pyschedelic trips.
      Never the winding of her grinding hips
      never sent me into ecstatic fits)

      Don't you remember that you once said: you like happy endings? Well if you try, you might get your happy ending.

    • (5/27/2006 6:47:00 PM)


      I like the way the structure of this poem breaks down - analogous with the breakdown of feudalism.
      Content however...self-flagellation in poetic form, not to mention high treason...

      Long live the Queen, and her fascist regime!

    • (11/15/2005 4:56:00 PM)

      Ever the avid reader of Masonian poetry, I eagerly wrestled with my unwilling computer to show me what he had described as one of the highpoints of his canon.

      Expectations, hopes and asumptions all dashed. All dashed in one fell swoop of this charming bard's pen, one flicker of those lively eyes, and one defiant flick of his Welleresque locks. Shock! horror! smile! soul! and then nod of the head.

      Celebration! for what Mason was showing me was the vulgar realities of the party scene, of which he is part but simulataneously from which he is aloof. What is soul-healing about his philosophy of the drunken hour is that it is 'warts and all', in the ugly extreme.

      And so on with this rapid, breatless 'Hunt' that whisks us round the backstreets and the byways. An unfamilar route for Mason, who normally takes us by the hand and skips with us around the idealised world of natural beauty. This poem is special, because it lets us not idly skip, but grabs us unceremoniously by the organs and forces us to travel at at unremitting and breatless pace around the 'lascivious lasses'with 'breasts as bait' and the 'pissed chavs'.

      The rhythm is all ablaze; sprinting, hypnotising and intoxicating. All below the 'cool' exterior that our poet tries to maintain. The senses are bombarded. The world attacks. We grow 'dizzier and dizzier' and grow ever more frantic. We reach the fever pitch. We begin the night in solid form and liquidise oursleves into the mix of drunken humanity, the orgy of exhaustion.

      'Reckless' bodies thrust though the amorphous tangle of semi-consciousness. It is the 'dissolution' of life as we know it. The drudgery is drowned into a deep, delicious dive of a party.

      And who is watching? Jesus Christ no less. Charm and wild abandon fuse in a night of wild wanton bacchanalia.

      Mason knows the ephemeral nature of revelry, and how it conflicts with sanity and society all too soon. The liquid of blood, sweat and tears - of what it is to be mortal and human transforms into the clogging grease on Mason's fish and chips - a painful reminder of not what was, but what is. Debauchery.

      'we laughed, we drank and danced away the shite.
      And if not forever, at least for tonight.'

      Earthly, vulgar and sumptuously realistic. A rare detour from normality for Mason, then again, so was the party. A detour around the Rutlands and back-ends of life. Maybe he could come back agian to try and reminisce. He'd certainly be welcome. The night is dead! Long live the night!

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