Author: Callum Featherstone

Callum Featherstone

Eulogy from Night-mare’s Wake.

Sleep through, the pain.
Sleep through, the rain.
Sleep through, the bullet-
shaped thoughts,
shooting through,
every, train platform, of my brain.

Sleep through, the dreams.
Sleep through, the nightmarish screams.
Sleep through, the sodden,
bed-shaped linen,
now, see-through,
with blood boiling, sweat, never seen.

Sleep through, the angst.
Sleep through, the anxious pangs.
Sleep through, the gallows,
erected in my mind,
to kill, everything inside,
see swaying, sordid, emotions hanged.

Sleep through, the hatred.
Sleep through, me, rotting naked.
Sleep through, an end to life,
an end, to stress and strife,
in hopes, of reincarnation,
to, a peaceful slumber, sacred.

But, my only dreams, are, daydreams.
My only nights, are, wakes for night-mares.
And, the rest, is, left, feeling cheated, for wanting rest.
Yes, the rest, is left, beleaguered, for ever needing rest.

The rest, never, rests.

Until…



death.

Callum Featherstone

For Name’s Sake.

Tears falling from heartbroken skies;
Hope’s eyes.
“It’s a wonder, she, ever, shows her face around here, anymore.
What with the amount of people she’s let down.”
A meteor-ological frown.
Meets a stagnant, puddled, still view.
“After all, it’s that, neverending, Hope, that kills you!”

Prayers go unanswered in a maze of deception;
A loss of Faith’s redemption.
“You’d expect her to know her way around, and, these hedges could do with a trim, as well.”
A journey into viridian Hell. At first, coloured green, now, covered in blue.
“After all, it’s that, unwavering, Faith, that kills you!”

Soothsayer causes anxious clients;
Destiny’s future winces in defiance.
“She doesn’t have a feckin’ clue that one, I’ve heard dog farts that make more sense.”
Mockery and ridicule are made as recompense.
Mick is taken, along with piss, too.
“After all, it’s that, unbeknownst, Destiny, that kills you!”

Pontoon is played, unluckily, at the age of 22;
Black(eyed)Jack beaten, black and blue.
“He lost the lot down the casino. Wound up getting into debt to some pretty serious lads. Last I saw he was looking for his teeth and spare change at the same time.”
Not long after his body was covered in lime.
And, Jack, the waiter never, even, got chance to spill you.
“After all, it’s that, bedecked, gone missing, Jack, that kills you!”

Thrillseeker takes a tumble;
Max’s wife paid for a shove, unfumbled.
“Did you hear she got the payout from the life insurance. Sure, she’s more minted than a Menthol’s breath.”
Breathing life into jokes, long dead.
Sometimes it’s better not to seek what thrills you.
“After all, it’s that, pushing it to the, Max, that kills you!”

‘God Save The King’ plays like a deaf dragoon;
Victor draped in Union Jack licks his silver spoon.
“Apparently there is this crazy thing called a Republic that they do next door. And next door but one.”
Where you don’t pay taxes to a prodigal family’s son.
Get them royal jobs stacking shelves and on the tills, too.
“After all, it’s that, Victor, of war, death and taxes, that kills you!”

Callum Featherstone

Rise up and rebel.

Rise up and rebel, rebel for your children,
rebel for the hell, that is coming to kill them,
rebel for your mothers, your fathers, grandparents,
for your sisters and brothers, for paupers and peasants.

Rise up and rebel, for the modern day slaves,
for the el-, derly pensioners forced to dig their own graves,
for the missing children, for their lost adolescence,
for the secrets still hidden, for our antidepressants.

Rise up and rebel, for lost dreams and ambitions,
for those falling or fell, to the bottomless system,
rebel for your past, rebel for their futures,
for the data amassed on govern-mental computers.

Rise up and rebel, for the times that you’ve struggled,
rise up and do tell, of pain and sorrow redoubled,
purposely pummeled, of a world befuddled,
of a clown-run-circus, where we’re constantly juggled.

Rise up and rebel, start it over again,
make it fair and repel, those bastards that ken,
where misery dwells, hoping that it extends,
the only rightful revenge? Cut off their heads.

So, rise up and rebel, rise up and rebel,
rise up and rebel, and give them back hell.

Callum Featherstone

old man; withered.

An, out-of-season,
old man; withered.
Like, a malnourished tree.
His thoughts,
on a life poorly lived,
are sucked,
unwillingly, up
by his, deep-rooted,
bigoted, jaundiced,
ideology.

His, unseasoned feet,
are, unwaveringly, planted –
recalcitrant –
never moving,
never bending,
never change.
A walking reminder,
that, when you neglect,
to leave,
or, elect, to burn, over,
a new leaf,
that doesn’t,
necessarily, mean,
you’re ‘of age’.

The seasons mock him, quarterly;
with spring chickens,
and, unsucked eggs,
with, summer suns,
and, daughters fled,
with, an all-consuming-
sense, of falling down,
until, fallen dead,
and, as autumn, turns,
to winter, with a blizzard,
snowstorm, avalanche,
covering his tombstone,
white bone, blanketed,
by, white foam. Covering
a withered body, and, withered thoughts,
within, a withered, buried head.

Callum Featherstone

Green milk.

To wait and bathe; vainly. In green milk.

From pastures new.

Pasteurised after drawn, milked heartily, from teat, of old.

A soured expectation is a travesty.
A moving travesty, still, compliant
to, and, of, gravity.

Many mighty bumps,
have been heard, thump,
after the quelling, of a drying udder.
Which had offered, gilded milk,
to own. To drink. To suffer.
An imbecile left sodden, in gallon
after gallon, of liquid fool’s gold.

And, yet, greener around the gills,
while the teat is tickled pink, laughing-sick,
what was meant to be, bullion,
turned a curdled, viridian.

The essence of what
was meant to be glittery, be golden.
But, instead, it is not.
It is new, pastoral and novel –
making a rich man all the poorer,
making a man of great-
standing; kneel and grovel.

Don’t let dreams,
of the plumpest,
bovine,
make your keratin grow thin,
or, nightmares,
of unquenchable justice,
lead you to barren,
vinyards, yielding,
no wine –
remember; the cherubim know Him.

Callum Featherstone

Blink, blink.

Lampshades turn,
into, lumps of mashed,
potatoes. Then, alien spacecrafts.
Now, lips for making love.
When, I close my eyes.

White,
turbulent,
ceilings turn,
into, treks; off the,
beaten path. Then, far-
reaching ridges, looking-
over, past; hair-risen sojourns.
Now, insurmountable; Everest-peaky thrills.
When, I close my eyes.

Future possibilities;
fade into forced – syringed, surpassing fate.
An unhinged – not-so-green-grassing gate.
Then, cringed – lassoeing, everlasting hate.
Now, a stinged – passing date. Stung; past.
Now, my eyes are closed.

Blink, blink.

Now, I am stung. Passed away.

Callum Featherstone

modern Pontius Pilates

to be amongst multitudes
of melting, red, swelling, estuating

snowflakes
dripping off a burning crucifix

causing a gory deluge
from a bloody river, women and men-

struating, flowed hate-
ful, awokened lunatics

the apocalyptic book of Enoch
never prepared us
for racist, vitriolic Enoch Powell

internet commentar-ies got
no self-awareness
a dot com shit from the bowels

of hell, the smell, of sentimental fecal sediment, the trolling, tolling bell-never-ends

cancelled, freedom-stealing
anchored wankers, are revealing
the unconscious bias
of modern Pon-tius Pilates

What would Jesus do?
Probably, log out, and, log off?
Possibly.


World-wide-webbed, dogmas, say;
Ask God… or, Google it…
Doggedly.

Callum Featherstone

Slumber’s death-throes

Sleeplessness,
that; unmistakable,
unavoidable, unaware, off-key,
flat, unmelodic, petulant, spiteful, pest.

Unsleep,
that; unwholesome, unwelcome, unwanted,
out-of-tune, torturous, off-kilter,
flower wiltering, bitch.

Insomnia,
that; wicked, silent, jarring, noisy, tenored-
siren from the deep. In not-so short-ish; a deranged, depriving, depraving, depressing, CUNT.

Nightened, are; Slumber’s death-throes.
Frightened, is; Wonder’s; outstretched nose.
Unenlightened; Thor’s thunderous; head blows.

And, all I want, from the Gods, is;
a piece, a morsel, a crumb, a second…
…of peace.

As the unlit hours slip, slip, slip.
Slide away, into obscurity.
The hypothetical tears,
non-existently drip, drip, drip.
The anger fades,
for a viewable eternity.
Sounds escape, my cloying ears,
and, my daydreams of nightmares,
like, turning pages,
can only rip, rip & R.I.P.

The epitaph reads…

‘Here lies sleep; an untruth laid to rest.
Succeeded by nothing, but, nothingness;
only slept with second-best.‘

Callum Featherstone

Blood… hair… silicone.

I never knew that they could live solely on land.
In such great, huge, applauding numbers.
Now… I… Tilikum,
am gonna torture and kill, the next one to stand,
over my depressed, drooping dorsal; encumbered.
Blood… hair… silicone.

I can still remember the day I was caught.
In a purse seine net, webbed with regret.
Never… to… return.
They lured our parents away, they wailed, they fought.
But, our black and white futures, had already been beset.
Tears… still… burn.

I’d heard about them from my mother.
Telling h(a)unting stories after she broke her fasts.
Hunting… to… survive.
She said that eating ‘Otary’ kept us from eating one another.
And, how the circle of life, turned, to keep the future ahead of the past.
A death… for… a life.

The circle stopped turning, the day I was entombed.
The Land-Otary filled it with water, making an aqua-prison.
Round… and… round.
With my flippers and flukes they make me beg for food.
I sing nightly for my supper, my freedom, but only the circle, listens.
Round… and… round.

So, today, I’m gonna do it. I’ve finally squared my circle.
I’m taking no prisoners, no shit, just a scalp.
Nap… the… kid?
I dare, no, double dare, anyone, to rival this berserker.
Staying alive? There’s more chance of me crossing the Alps.
Flip… the… lid.

Blood… hair… silicone…
Blood… hair… silicone…
Blood… hair… silicone…

…I felt awful after killing; Keltie, Daniel and Dawn.

I sang for forgiveness. My dorsal, my depression, sunk even further.

But, they won’t be the last ones to endure a drowning sunset. Rise, then, fall. Rise, then, fall.

This walking, talking, clapping, looped torment, caused by, the Land-Otary.

Is, a stagnant, non-stop, waterwheeled ovation. Lunacy. That makes an Orca, resort to murder.

Callum Featherstone

Multitudes of “being”…

“Being blessed”,

with a grasp of what’s fake,

but, a misfortunate face.

Is, an ill-fitting, masking glove,

poisonous, contorted, laced…

 

…worn atop a horrid, yet, wholesome hand-i-cap…

 

…in a solitary, futile, expressionless game.

 

A trumphant sip, of, the water of life.

Burning; it’s glassy, broken voiced, self-esteam; at the stake.

 

 

“Being encouraged”,

to cope, to carry on regardless.

Without hope, or, good standing.

Is, a floating, mushroomed shroud,

dragging along, leggy hands: demanding…

 

…the outreaching vestiges of pained, bad-luck…

 

…like; seven years of broken mirrors; long, threaded, and, tense, yet, shardless.

 

That everlasting, tentacled sting,

of; a warking; talking jellyfish; heartless.

 

 

“Being contrite”,

for, a forced upon disposition.

Parented by inter-generational headlocks.

Wrestling with future trauma, shaped, like; behemoth-ed head-lice…

 

…as the scythes, of ancestral suffering, shear the infected, obligated dreadlocks…

 

…hatred is embalmed in polychromatic; sapped, shallow, skin-deep ideologies…

 

…and the child wrestler, turned adult combatant, is, now, solely controlled, by; submission.

 

The inability to reach the moment’s height. Passed. Past. 

Due to growth stunted, by; yesterday’s bondaged, shackled partition.