Author: Callum Featherstone

Callum Featherstone

IIWIIAINWIW

It is what it is,
and, it’s not what it was.
You live how you live,
and, you live it, just, because,
the world keeps on spinning,
no matter what you’ve got,
irrespective of your innings,
or, the leopard’s, unchanging, spots.

It is what it is,
and, it’s not what it was.
You relish all of your gains,
until, you’ve really earned a loss.
Your frown envies their grinning,
and, the hunger yearns for the pot.
A good hiding spurns a skinning,
and, the fur coat, slyly, smiles at the fox.

It is what it is,
and, it’s not what it was.
The worker resents building pyramids,
until, he clambers to the very top.
And, while overseeing the underpinning,
loses, a sandy thread, at a deserted cost.
Now, parched, he searches for a cup, thats brimming,
but, all the oases, have long dried up, forever lost.

It is what it is,
and, it’s not what it was.
Your finite time, atop a blue ball,
will leave you, out of pocket, in more ways, than one.
Your loss, and, their loss, outweigh the winning,
you’ll only, ever, know, you’re here, until, someone you love is gone.
As, those echoes of the past, keep on, dinning,
and, you reminisce, on, how, their voices shone.

©poormansdreams

Callum Featherstone

And, it’s all, just, a little bit of misery, repeating

The faces,
of, both,
bad, and, good;
have, all been; painted red.

Now, that,
the world, has begun,
to, be spun,
in, an entrenched, deepfaked,
forward-motion, tethered; backwards.

The paint,
is, innocent’s;
apathetic blood,
mixed, with; a hue of dread.

You’ll taste;
the metallic gun,
and; the setting sun,
in, seasoned, incensed, photographed;
before, and, ever-afters.

And, in, the final,
scarlet rotation,
as, the splattered gore,
befouls; oceans, forests,
and, old mines,
the enfleshed vinyl’s,
last quotation,
will be, “We grovelled; to gold.
So, we bored, we trowelled,
we became hollowed,
for; plastic, and, mankind.”

Over, and, over, and, over, and, over, and…..

Callum Featherstone

Under > Over

It’s better, to be, the undertrained, underdog.
Than jumping; over, jinxed hurdles,
through, fiery hoops, and, rings.

Or, unfounded, in a metallic maze,
of untruths, and, lost,
like, a lonely, bereft, missing link.

It’s better, to be, underrated,
than, in-over-your-head.
Under, the ever-watchful eye,
of, the overseers;
it’s better, to be, an underling.

It’s better to smell, with your eyes,
those fragrant, delectable stars,
looking up, from under,
that, kitchen table, of, a midnight sky.
Than, to have to clamber, over,
your toileting ego, and, get over yourself,
when, pretending, that your shit,
doesn’t stink.

It’s better, to be, under, than, over.
Just shy of greatness,
yet, unpoured down the sink.

It’s better, to be, under, than, over.
Better to be underappreciated,
than bent-over, ignorant, mentally-dead,
a zombie between the ears.
Extinct.

It’s better, to be, under, than, over.
Unless, you’re overcoming,
the undercurrent,
of those, torrential tears, of pain,
that will soothe you,
long after, the deluge’s sting.

And, when you’ve, finally,
counted, all the missing fingers,
lost, all the stacked decks,
and, dealt hands.
When the wind,
has, all, but, gone, from your sails,
when you’ve kicked, punched, head-butted,
and, fought every demand.
When, you’ve searched, your innerly desert,
to find, that, evasive, elusive, grain of sand.
When, you’ve been, knocked down,
time-after-time, but, every time,
you’ve gotten, back to your feet…

…that’s when;
your courage, your grit, your resilience,
rises up,
and, the real rebel,
within you, arises.

That, comrade,
is, when, you, truly; understand.

©poormansdreams

Callum Featherstone

An Ode to Heart

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,
and, punctured, by, the
blade of wickedness.
A chest, buried, by, the weir
-y, encumbered. Wreaths are
laid, by, Triffid’s Bliss.
Sounds of stress, fierce,
and, repugnant, line, the
glades, of, Inner Wist.
As, the Rest, rely on tears,
while, torn asunder, cutting
their way, through, thicker mist.

The end,
much like, the start,
starts with,
a flashing in the pan.
As, the friend-
ship sunk, apart,
embarks, for Unhappiness,
with, Sad.
Send your dogged
embittered bark,
hearts hear no sorries,
in a lost, unlistened land.
And, you can’t mend
a broken heart,
when broken hearts
is all we’ve had.

© poormansdreams

Callum Featherstone

A Bedtime Tale of Horses and Tapirs

The Baku’s,
outstretched,
snout, rises,
nightly, in the East,
consuming, nightmarish
novel surprises,
like, a,
bargain bucket,
twilight feast.

The Nuckelavee crashes
against Orcadian rock, vehemently,
full of neighing, nostril-burning,
acrid, whale-boned, salty water,
drowning; joyous cheer,
hopeful dreams, and, love aplenty,
along with; tossing, turning
sons, and, daughters.

Elephantine tusks, and, trunk,
Rhinoceros-esque ears,
Cow’s tail, Bear’s body, and, Tigerly, protective, compassioned paws,
Baku, is, never, knowingly, unpronounced,
until, the worldly children’s fears,
give it, a rousing reason, to grab a meal,
of unsleeping dreams, betwixt, it’s claws.

The crop-wilting,
breath, of the Nuckelavee,
leaves, eyes; badly harvested,
as, it, tramples, at full sprint,
young ambitions, thoughts, and, visions,
bringing down, all, upper-trajectory,
and, chasing, fear, by the scent,
of, terrestrial islanders; cumbersome, teary, slumbering footprints.

All the way, from, West to East,
Baku, catches whiff,
of, the Nucklavee’s, despicable,
despotic, demonic plan.
So, Baku, cleans, it’s teeth, and, paws,
with, eyes; wide, and, wildly, yellow, like, lemon pith,
steels, it’s gaze, on, an aquatic equine’s, face,
for, all, to see; Gods, angels, demons, all creatures, and, this man.

What happened next,
was not, of, this world.
They clashed, so mightily,
that, they, even, made Titan’s blush.
A menagerie of; horse, whale, tiger, rhino,
elephant, bear and cow, unfurled,
all; teeth, eyes, manes, and, limbs, ablaze.
But, brilliant Baku, had, the cutting edge, on, ne’erdowell’ing, Nuckelavee, and, the Nuckelavee, was, crushed.

As, the waking world, awoke, and, sneezed,
with, an Achoo!,
fears passed, we were no longer afraid,
the dreaming disease,
had been crunched, swallowed, and, consumed, by, Baku,
leaving, the Nuckelavee; ‘je suis désolé!’,
and, in, it’s heart; destroyed, devoured,
decayed.

So, we pledge, this day,
as; Baku Day.
We travel,
we fight,
we feast.
And, we drink,
good health, to the Nuckelavee,
lying dead,
on the ocean bed,
fed-up, bested, beaten,
and, drowning,
it’s sorrows,
in defeat.

© poormansdreams

Callum Featherstone

In Dreams Aflame

Surrounded, by wet,
sycophantic blankets,
and, lettuces,
that, forever,
call, each, and, all,
of, your names,
slipping, sliding, but, set,
pernicious gambits,
that, play apart,
whilst together,
in, capricious dreams aflame.

The current,
flies, and, pulls,
at, your sleeves, and, collar,
waves, of, ennuied electricity,
from, a powerplant, of, shame,
overhead, the,
screeching gulls,
bribed with, seafaring dollars,
and, kinetosis-carried-ambiguity,
in, surreptitious dreams aflame.

‘Your words,
are, all that matter.’
‘Your worth,
is, the only thing at stake.’
You’re diving,
headfirst through a cliché,
ducking, and, dodging,
a world of superstition,
repeating,
“things will never be the same”
but, as, bursting bone, and, blood,
do, splatter,
and, your soul takes leave,
for, it’s own, sardonic, sake,
you’ll, be “glad”, you prayed,
every, and, each day,
as, you, set light,
to, Gods, fear, and, religion,
in, transcendental dreams aflame.

© poormansdreams

Callum Featherstone

Tales of Wonderment

To win,
at this, early, age,
agrin,
waving, embryonic banners,
akin,
new, on this, worldly, stage,
a limb,
times-ed by, October’s, gauge,
minus – two,
equals,
twins,
fresh, from a, primordial, manor…

…I wonder – double, you?

To lose,
in, the middle,
be, empty,
a bowel, twisted, sick,
dysentery,
an, unheated, griddle,
paucities – aplenty,
a cat, with, no fiddle,
under, the moon,
sun, set,
blue envy,
a, marital link, lost, unquick…

…I wonder – ex.

To draw,
be square, with, the House,
of lore,
a yarn, now, fully, spun,
galore,
experienced, by, the ounce,
above the law,
looking down, on, all, espoused,
a chromosome’s,
final – breath,
of, alphabeted, awe,

and, a question, of, beginnings, and, ends, undone…

…I wonder – why?…

…Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

Callum Featherstone

The Missing House

There’s a house missing,
on the road, you paved,
in this, bustling city,
that is, my heart.

It was home, to all, our reminiscing,
on the misty, cul-de-sac, I’d wave,
with knees, grazed, and, gritty,
as you, smiled, like an arc.

The beloved bricks, and, mortar, that held,
your house, and, our familial bonds,
together;
are, now, used, in the future homes,
of your children, and, grandchildren.

Those bricks, will be grouted, and meld,
with water, from, a familial pond,
forever;
so, impressions, you made, on your stones,
will, eternally, house your kin.

We miss you daily,
and, remember, mainly,
the way, you helped; shape, build, and, bring love, into, our lives.

And, sometimes, maybe,
we cry, and, smile, bravely,
knowing, that; we are your building blocks, and; in us, you, survive.

#EchoesOfAbsence

© poormansdreams

Callum Featherstone

Dinner and a Show.

Is the pain, deserved?
Or, delectable desserts?
After gut-bursting meals,
of, vain & swallowing, self-pity.

Does it taste, of, verve?
Or, dystopian, Earth?
Are tantalising screams,
atop a tongue, tasting, so, so, pretty?

Do you wish, for, nerve?
Steeled, mettled back, uncurved?
Or, just a chance, to feel?
In an unlit room, at the centre, of the city.

Or, would you, rather, serve?
See war, across, the universe?
The devil’s making, deals,
at every, checkpoint Charlie’ing, committee.

Do you look within?
Or, know, you’re without sin?
At the beginning, of, the end.

Do you even, care, at all?
Considering, just, how small,
our impact, leaves, a dent.

If you started, over,
would, your coldest shoulder,
be there, to meet, plastic, family & friends?

Or would, you, always, make,
those, silly, same mistakes?
The ones, you could, never, comprehend.

So, I’ll ask again, is, the pain deserved?
Or, delectable desserts?
After, meals, of vain & swallowing, self-pity.
The answer, you’ll never find,
and, probably, nevermind,
until, you’re called, to play, your final ditty.

© poormansdreams

Callum Featherstone

The Box

There’s a box, I keep a lid on,
at the centre of my soul.
It’s got several locks, of, division,
to keep it full, and, whole.

It’s not Pandora’s, or, a goalkeeper’s,
it is mine, and, mine, alone.
It once, got porous, and, holier,
so, I rebuilt it, out of stone.

The box, holds all, my pain,
all my sorrow, all my fears.
All the times, I’ve tried in vain,
to only borrow, Grief’s own tears.

The box, is very, weary now.
I must admit, that, I am too.
And the locks, are worn, and, weathered.
Just like, my other soles, and, shoes.

To hide, my box, I wear, a smiling frown.
Inside-out scowls, plastered on, with glue.
So, that nasty thoughts, are severed.
From, skies outside, and, my insides, turning blue.

I would love, to find, the keys, somewhere.
To my box’s locks, so long, unlatched.
But, every time, I find a locksmith, here.
Everything, inside my box, is, snatched.

I hope, to one day, come to peace,
with everything, inside my box.
To, simply, shake the hand, of, dreaded Grief.
And, tell him; he’s not the only one, who’s lost.