I, awoke, steeped, in, a, damp, open-grave, as, unimport, and, hungover, as, an, imperial-slave. The, ship’s, surrendering, mast, wrapped, around, a, wreckaged, unpieced, mishap. The, dispirited, bow, of, a, capsized, night’s, deeds, unforgiving, and, the, bottled, land, of, the, imperiled, living, I, spuriously, sent, as, far, as, I, could, away. I, knelt, in, paradigm-shifting, waves, and, I, prayed, on, an, upset, desolate, sea, for, safe-passage, to, some, better, person’s, day.
Written by Callum Featherstone To capture, nurse, and, hold, the unfairness of it all. The rapturous, coal- heartedness, of Hellish snares, beneath, the Mall. When, afterwards, those cauldrons, spout nightly mares, of, bridled gall. The captor cursed, his embold- ened heir, is, a; hairless toupee, sheared, and, effortlessly, shorn. The flesh, is, pierced, […]
Is, it, really, worth, luxuriously, spending, any, of, the time, thinking about, a laborious, zig-zag, evolution, when, we’ve, all, gro- und, to a halt, and, theneverendingstory, has, fallen down, tumbling… tragically, then, …drowned, in, sobbing, bottomless puddles, keen for; restitution. Be careful, when, slither- ing up,the greasy ladder, to, pole position, when, it’s, a long way down. Theslipperyslopes, moult and, slough, most, like, the skins of add-er. Poisoned with rage, they; take-away, every, soul cast, equalling; the loss,of, much more, than, is, ever, found.
Furring clasps, around; synapses. The servitude, of, stroke-ing, lost selves. Capital flesh, is, imprisoned, in, the cholesterol, of, shop aisles. It collapses. “There’s, MORE, in the back… Hurry up!! Stop thinking… Stock the shelves!!”
The pills don’t make me any better anyway. It’s all just another person’s scheme. They just leave a bitter taste…
…leave me bitter…
…without a mirror to save face. And without a self or even it’s esteem. Without a saving grace. Just simply without.
insomnia is just,/,tsuj si ainmosni a word,/,drow a these days,/,syad eseht it all blurs into a,/,a otni srulb lla ti breathless scream,/,maercs sselhtaerb
I wish upon some stars but they don’t hear me calling. Maybe because we are both too busy lovelessly falling from our broken skies and dreams.
I used to be so sure that these indignant days would pass. That I’d reach a peak up high above the flat. Made in my honour. And peer into joy through a looking glass.
but, that, too, fell…
cracked,/,dekcarc
broke,/,ekorb
and, shattered,/,derettahs into morose,
just, like, everything else.
The apologies don’t reach this far down. Sor-./.-roS
Midwinter, is, an unsleeping, corpse bride, unwed. Who’s tormented grief, permeates, the ether. She’s, permanently, entombed in, every; glistening, sorrowful, cracked, mirror, that seems to, impress upon, the pitch, the brick, and, the grass, the forested branch, and, tarmac…
reflecting Her open caskets of bitter hatred.
Runaway lover, uncaught. Jilted, by a luminary, of the day. Which, means, no light, can, ever, comfort Her. There, can be, no other. Not even, His, night-time adversary. All, that was, uplifting, became, vacuumed, icy dunes of hope; dead, unshifting, through, limp, wet fingers, sifting…
solar grins outshone moonlit passes made.
Hearken to, Her. She, embodies; a silent, keening chorus. It grips, all, it touches, far, or, near, with, unmoving, silent decibels. Freezing, on impact, with; clear, dulcet, spiked, nothingness. Please, my dear, be careful, not to crush, Her, underfoot…
air rues another year of Her spinsterhood.
A, lament, seizes. Each, day, and, night, as Her, immortal, enemy. Making them; rigid, uptight, uneasy. Immovable, except, of course, for the eyes. She, has; Her reasons. He, always, used to, compliment, Her features. Now, She longs, for a love, that, unfreezes…
After a time, of trial, underwater, I, have been, made a trial, of, for, my green naïveté. By, blue judges, sojourning, atop; seabeds, oceanbeds, and, riverbeds, all, whom, convey. That, it takes, only, seconds, to be; jettisoned, or, cast, or, swept; away. Even, less, of a while, to dive in, or, to get wet, and, be carried, upon, hooligan-ed waves, without, a single, sorry, soaken, word to say. But, it, takes, an untidal age, of eclipsed, moonlit eons, for a river-, or, ocean- mouth, to speak. In shock. When, their, jolting undercurrents, are yet, to ever, state; change.
poorman'sdreams 