Author: Callum Featherstone

Callum Featherstone

Fifty-two lightning strikes; deserted.

Escaping,
bitter seas,
of, slippery grips,
betwixt,
waves of gritted,
inhumane hands;
are; ferocious tides,
of, untimely;
porous – reveries,
scattered notions,
of buckets and spades,
abandoned;
castles of sand.

Amongst,
searing footsteps,
of, downtrodden,
Atlas-burdened,
vanishing – caravans;
yearns; a purpose,
however, unlikely;
changing tact,
or, track?
Parting seas, or, ways?
Searching for answers,
or, the truth?
Fearing God, or, man?

Eviscerating,
the pot-bellied,
beach,
with hurled,
long-ranging bolt,
of, Zeus’,
electrifying brand;
galvanis-ing;
crack,
and, crash,
sublime-ly;
exploding;
bashful,
pock-marks,
on the coastline’s;
dusty naval,
then, birthing
mishaps,
of, misshapen,
yet, fierce; fulgurite,
a serendipitous,
by-product,
of a,
vengeful,
God’s
plan.

Callum Featherstone

The purest vengeance of all

To triumph over adversity, is to know, the purest vengeance of all. For, those who doubted, ridiculed, disbelieved, gossiped about and wronged you, are forced to realise, that:
they were wrong.
Nothing needs to be said, nor, interaction had. Yet, there is; a secret, smiling jocund, a humble, solemn joy, a discreet, soulful jubilance = in knowing that; the universal scales are, once more, balanced, and, true justice is restored.

Callum Featherstone

A prophetic fratricide

By flipping 999, urgently,
Babylon is reluctantly uncovered,
the oppressor arises, fervently,
delivered, sealed and signed,
to your doorstep, hurriedly,
by an Amazonian, droning runner.

The online quarry, scurried-ly,
is quietly, quickly mined,
for data, to stone you, brutally,
lapidating mankind in the gutter,
serpents, demons; morph – mutably,
atop infernal; BlackRock, undefined.

Devilish hands, are biting; toothily,
cloven-hoofed and snarling glovers,
stealing and swallowing, with impunity,
every light that longs to shine.

Proxy-wars – created; “legally”,
a Capital design,
the Red Shields, gleam greedily,
in earthly echelons of upper,
when you seek the truth, objectively,
then humbly you will find,
that freedom’s fight is lost, detained, and, unsympathetically, smothered.

The corpse of; Lady Liberty,
lies; unequivocally undermined,
Her death is a lesson, in; futility,
for everyone that suffers.
Mutineers must unshackle, mentally,
from this global garrison;
where ligatured propaganda binds,
before emancipating, gently,
those divided, conquered, agonising;
Others.

So, gouge and remove,
that omnipotent; all-seeing eye,
in an unblinkered revolution;
blind and blur, be raging,
rise up, rebel, intensely.
Cause a prophetic fratricide,
ending ever-gazing, watchful, sight,
by young sibling’s – insurgency,
overseeing the, sovereign fraternities, final supper.

Improve the vision of evolution,
erase those deplored, despotic rulers,
descry a world regime obliterated;
a blazing orbit, cremating,
the incarnate, robotic, abomination, we call our; Bigger Brothers.

Callum Featherstone

Monopolistic Hope

This global villain is invictus,
infinitely oozing “veni, vidi, vici”,
with it’s modus operandi,
of novus ordo seclorum,
clamours of A.I.-based nuclear war, come from the establishment’s deformed Habsburg jaw.

Tenants are immorally and mortally evicted,
the laymen scream, “it’s all Greek to me!!”,
launching uncoordinated attacks with lazy hand-eyes,
spinning webby yarns from a clacking keyboard; to an internetted forum,
even the echo chamber’s bored, tired of the vox pop, and, the dull resonance outpoured.

As, the monopolistic hope,
became; pain’s loving misanthrope.

A thickened plot of Masonic sorcery,
seasons societies, economies, curricula,
whilst Big Brother scopes melting pots,
of citizens bred to earn a crust, be taxed and die,
and, all-knowing; this, for certain, the final debt befalls the final curtain.

Propaganda polices, pigs out and purports to be,
the hoi polloi’s mouth-piece; in particular,
to be frank, the lingua franca tastes of colonial, malevolent monoglots,
Babel’ing in their ivory towers, consuming all under the sky,
plebeian thought-filled food is forsaken, unfound, and famished, the third estate is starved, malnourished, their main course of action remains revolting, yet, vanished.

And, finally, the monopolistic hope,
dearly departs; a wholly poisoned antidote.

Callum Featherstone

The lamb and the fox

All the sheep have been pacified;
penned in, pinned down, passed out,
as their coats are roughly shorn.
The wool is pulled over; passive eyes,
skewing views, from amassing doubt,
preventing a herd from being warned.

The foxes’ cunning; salivates,
at the very thought of consuming;
a lamb, without a wary flock.
A sly, auld plan, to isolate,
with shorn coat, ‘put on’; for grooming,
makes a veiled ovine, of the fox.

Though the lamb, naively trusts,
this shape-shifting, deceptive, con,
there’s an unsettled feeling within,
an inkling, a notion, that revolts, disgusts,
whenever this Reynard, speaks upon,
their analogy, and, how they’re akin.

The fox, lured the lamb, into the woods,
the Merino, extended fox’s journey,
ridiculing Reynard’s valor; lost,
across the road the yearling trudged,
being followed; by crushing mercy,
as, crimson lorry wheel, and, sheepish precocity,
had alas, finally, outfoxed the fox.

Callum Featherstone

Step into the Light

To stand. In the shadows.
Of greater men
-talities;
opaquely.
Unbeknownst of the burden.
Carried; within a silhouette;
of gleaned knowledge.

Dusky, sagely tonnage,
makes cerebra; camel-shaped. Combusting broken, humpy backs.
Ignited; under straw, sewn, skins.
By matchsticks, of sparked duress.

A fire then, lifts, in a burning rage,
courtesy of, camel’s corpse;
showing; Death, is only the beginning; of enlightenment.
And, from; great tribulation, great pain, great loss. Cometh; infinite wisdom.

The miles travelled, within a, fleshed vessel, are;
a measure of;
insignificance…
Within; the Creator’s multiverse.
Just as, the bacterium’s rotating filament is;
unnoticeable, trivial, paltry,
to mankind’s eye.

A soul has no need to walk,
only, to be, an impetus,
for, the light, or, the dark.
A journey to the realms of infinity, beckons.
And, a destination;
unknowingly preordained.
Leaving; an unbeaten path; of universal footprints.

Callum Featherstone

Love’s perilous shallows

Those sunken…

relationships,
cause wrecks,
when love is perilously shallow.
Reluctant and scorned, the captains,
dive into their slippery,
ill-gotten, untitled, reckonings.

A backpedalling pool,
of thick, cementing gruel,
turning stomachs,
into, trodden, broken,
ceramics,
and, once, placid waters,
into, viscous, panics.

“King Cnut was awash,
with humility, and, a gut-wrenching knot, in his defeat, to the seas,
and, deemed them; majestic,
Godly, and, hallowed.
For, he knew, then, that his reign,
could not stop, the rains of April,
nor, reverse the ocean tides,
despite his courtiers’ love,
being perilously shallow.”

The salty waves,
of harpoon-shaped tears,
submit to sandy cheeks of forlorn,
creating crestfallen beach tides.
Memories resurface; embittered,
and, resentful,
as, sodden spite, is beckoning.

Frostbitten, arctic remarks,
chisel those, once, bleeding hearts,
into cold, scuppered; currachs.
Punctured, and, capsized,
from, ice-veined, blue-blood, it freezes, and, attacks;
subverting, and, destroying the voyage; of doomed solicitude;
when love is perilously shallow.

Callum Featherstone

A message from Gaia.

Where did all the compassion go?
Is it lost; in the Sun’s, ashen glow?
Is it locked; in hearts, that unfasten, slow?
Please, find it, and, return it to Me.

I talked to My Brother;
testy Ares,
His rage spoke of Him watching,
Me burn, convulse and freeze.
He saw those smothering,
fleshy fairies,
self-caged, hate-soaked, plotting,
with yearned pulse, for Me, to seize.

My Sister; loving Aphrodite, too,
cried, agonised,
weeping, at human destruction,
Her dusty tears, made clouds of ash.
Her vista turning, grey, from blue,
My blackened eyes,
from bloody knuckles, of consumption.
Unjust; I fear; gnawing fists, unabashed.

I heard My Siblings, both, and vowed,
never again,
to become, abused and broken,
enduring an insane plight, scared,
and, rid Myself, of this parasite.
This poison growth, is overproud,
severing Men,
will leave Me bruised, yet, awoken,
from an inhumane nightmare,
and, back, to health, and joy, and light.

Where did all the compassion go?
Is it lost; in the Sun’s, ashen glow?
Is it locked; in hearts, that unfasten, slow?
Please, find it, and, return it to Me.

Callum Featherstone

Relief, awaited.

When dodecahedron bombs fall;
will you be my buried and sturdy shelter?
When cohesion is trodden to asphalt;
would you wage pitched and bloody welter?

Breakfast,
served at his majesty’s pleasure, often ladles out food for thought…
The menu – provides;
convicts, politicians, businesspeople, and, royalty,
with plenty to discuss…
Such as, ‘do the high and mighty ever dream of tasting prison porridge, as they commit high crimes, whilst they starve and cull the poor?’
And, ‘can beggared worms chew through royal lead-lined coffins from a dead beggar’s ulcered stomach sores?’ Yet, what lies in the unasked? The public inquiry into corrupt power, like lunch, awaits.

Relief without a branch
to cling to. Bare, shaken,
but, also, beyond agonising
disbelief. Avalanche met Alpine
Firs; a collage of bitter viridescence – often mistaken,
as, not life, but, death, imitating art.

What a relief!!
That’s the “good stuff”;
the pinprick and the poison-pill…
The Medicine Men have long traded in shady deals,
of jabs and hooks,
wearing labcoats lined with vaccined, pain-killing schemes.
Patiently making case studies of us all,
all the while,
toasting, our declining health,
along with silent, complicit and sickly governments.
Sláinte!

Encrypted night;
puzzling and studious, awaits
us all,
along with an unshrinking denial,
a half-blinked eye,
a non-thinked; why?
And, a nihilistic sigh. It is all, so…
insalubrious.

Awaited relief of a final breath when no more lies can be proferred no more lines can be crossed or excuses offered no more questions unanswered no more victims no more cancers no more derision and pain due to another’s conceited vision and gain no more losers no more winners no more abusers or willers of forgiveness.

Just peace; unreplicated.

And, relief, no longer, awaited.

When dodecahedron bombs fall;
will you be my buried and sturdy shelter?
When cohesion is trodden to asphalt;
would you wage pitched and bloody welter?

Callum Featherstone

Lost, properly

Another

night lost –

to this infernal game

of sleep. Another light lost –

to this internal

flaming

heap.

Another day, found; wanting,

ever-seeking, left

behind. Suffer

darkness;

unfounded: daunting,

ever-creeping, when in mind.

Another time or another place,

Another line on another face,

Another calm before the storm,

Another baby to be born.

Another life is another death,

Another fight for another breath,

Another want, another need,

Another plot – for which to bleed.

Another jab, another hook,

Another play – not by the book,

Another lie becomes the truth,

Another, “why?” crushed under boot.

Another step in lands of Hinter,

Yet, another long, bleak winter,

One more liberty carelessly lost,

Bitterly frozen by piercing frost.

Another

toll cost – to

the extending tarmac

adam. Another soul lost – to

the never-ending

blackened

chasm.

Another scarlet debtor, found;

humanity is justly,

repossessed.

Smothered faces

turn raging red, thrusting,

brutality; into Robin’s breast.