Author: Callum Featherstone

Callum Featherstone

A Voyage to the Impossible.

What matters the most to you shouldn’t be able to be experienced from your bodily senses. It should come from deep within your inner most depths and be intangible. Far away from the noise of this world and way into the realms of the impossible.

Transforming physical possession and perception into transcendental prosperity.

Despite the wonders of our minds and their ability to perceive so many things, we are taught in a blinkered, binary, positive/negative fashion from a very young age – good/bad, right/wrong, happy/sad.

But, we are all of these things at all times throughout our lives. Think about it;

An evil man can make a just law.

A good man can follow an unjust cause.

Both could be the same man;

of a different sort,

on different days too

and in different lives.

So, before you judge; pause.

Remember;

A journey’s map isn’t always to hand.

True wisdom is always food for thought.

Ignorance within your mind betrays you.

And, your everlasting infinite soul survives…

Always.

Your very existence is an impossible journey and, yet, here you are…

Life is the swelling sea, your mind is the swinging ship and your soul is the ripple of every wave which laps up against both life and mind, sea and ship, on a voyage to the impossible.

Callum Featherstone

Pink.

In this;

beguiled reality

avarice makes mincemeat of charity

and conceit fucks vanity.

The sick and the needy

die at the hands of the greedy.

Death by hate filled hearts;

scolding via network

scaffolding.

All the while, living in

wholly

indecent matrimony;

wedded by insanity.

“History always repeats itself.

History always repeats itself.”

A war of roses; red and white

without their heads

soon lost sight.

And stem of green then realised;

roses without petals

aren’t needed

nor recognised.

Angry is the blood.

Broken is the bone.

Nothing good can come from

a world wide webbed

throne

where lies are spun from.

And when all is said and done

it seems even odd to; think?

Before your actions

become

the difference between warring factions

and your essence becomes

on the brink

of existing.

Is this;

existence masquerading as extinct?

Or is this,

really;

extinction pretending

to be

in the pink?

Callum Featherstone

Apathy Inc. ©

Short memories that forsake us

are noxious gas, that pervade us.

They make Masochists of the Sadist –

you’ve beaten yourselves without invaders.

Asylum, refuge, economic migration – those aren’t invasions

or an excuse to hate Africans or Asians.

Your eyes aren’t on the real enemies prize or pages

that have STRIPPED AWAY your HUMAN RIGHTS.

How courageous? No longer able

to protest or demonstrate against governmental changes?

Now, are we; Robin Red Breast

cage-d?

Or Robin Hood expatriated?

Now, every law Power vies to make is

intended to monetise and break us,

manipulate the mush it makes us;

fodder for the rich and famous.

In those jaws – we learn – how greed

is made by profiteering freaks,

who gnarl and gnash their hungry teeth,

fill their stomachs with you, me

– their egos –

and the emptiness they preach.

They prey

on the timid and the weak.

We pray for

a tomorrow that isn’t bleak.

It’s hard to turn the other cheek –

when they’re already swollen, bruised;

and apologétique.

Sucked upon by humungous fucking leeches

until the echo of, ‘Once more unto the breach!!’,

becomes impossible to teach.

A hollow sound.

After all, it’s, “Just another speech.”

“If you can’t beat them join them.”

As a thought – has me – recoiling,

because you can’t actually join in

or even pretend you’re enjoying

¿living?

– surviving is more fitting –

when the whole system’s poison.

Now, we are; Robin Red Breast

cage-d

and Robin Hood expatriated.

What was once our bright and illustrious future – fated

is now a brand called;

‘Faded’,

Founded by

CorporateGreed.co.uk

a.k.a.

Apathy Incorporated ©

Callum Featherstone

Cosmonaught

Arrogance of present answers

on past tech and advances,

history’s cerebral romances

laid in the dirt asleep,

by far frog-leaped;

and also out-enhanced us.

Commonplace it justly saddens –

common faces become assassins.

As Julius imbibed Manhattans

the death-toll sparked egregious.

The space in between us

became

chasms;

intercontinental planetary spasms.

It all matters; dark and light.

It all matters; wrong or right.

What’s the matter?

Bhagavad Gita? Quoting chapters?

Nuclear war hindsight…

Science, not before but after;

made sure of atomic plight.

You are birth, life and death;

in a universal breath.

An infinite respirator

expressed;

by heavy traffic – stars and planets.

A cosmos complete yet

bereft.

Callum Featherstone

Making sense

When the eyes are opened

By Pineal once closed

A cerebral token

Of belief takes hold.

When their mouth’s deceitful

Don’t eat from chaos’ hand

Keep your diet peaceful

So that your mind expands.

When the scent overpowers

To cover their tracks

Be aware that some flowers

Set deadly traps.

When your hearing’s confused

Locked down in a prism

Paint thoughts colourful hues

Canvass yourself and listen.

And if you’re feeling out of touch

Take a moment to remember;

Our light burns out

by smothering clutch

And there is no fire

without an ember.

Callum Featherstone

The Poisoned Note

Your mind is the pen.

It’s razor sharp. It’s poignant. It’s a tipped point dipped in poison and from it the words which you write inside your mind stain every nerve with sorrow and despair.

Your body is the paper.

Paper which is cut from the original tree that all knowledge and sense first grew from. From deepest root to budding leaf the cursed, bubbling venom courses through each bodily cell and ruptures and dissolves all that is decent and good.

This is depression.

A poisoned note.

A note which throughout your life becomes volumes of lethargy, melancholy and pain.

And, a note from which you discover the true reality of existence.

And, to think, without this note, would you have ever truly existed at all?

For, it is better to have felt that poisoned ink blemish your body and mind than to have left a blank note.

Your note defines you.

Your note is one worth sharing because we are all noteworthy.

The greatest gift you will ever have is to have written a poisoned note so long and live to tell the tale.

Callum Featherstone

Gules, argent and azure

Gules, argent and azure;

Is it really worth fighting for?

A folded flag on your coffin door;

Is it really worth dying for?

If you took the troops & civilians

Who were murdered by war

They’d measure in millions

They rest in peace?! Or at all?!

Cause the peaces don’t match

And the peace is a puzzle

War’s an itch you can’t scratch

A rabid dog you can’t muzzle

They’re inextricably linked

Dead civilian, dead soldier

Both should be extinct

But grow older and older

And younger and younger

There’s no ageism in bloodshed

But the greedy warmonger

Sees £ signs coloured blood-red

War is a game of power

99 percent of us lose in

Don’t choose graveside flowers

Cannon fodder’s not for chews-ing

Gules, argent and azure;

Is it really worth fighting for?

A folded flag on your coffin door;

Is it really worth dying for?

Callum Featherstone

Blinkered

That thawing within the heart

From the hearth of humanity;

Oozing compassion…

Has all but stopped. Can we start

Again? Make sense of this insanity?

Rediscover. Our thoughts & losses.

Instead of perpetually

Using distraction;

In a game of noughts & crosses

Forever played ineffectually.

Make amends with our essence

Without bitterness or shame.

Fusing-futile-factions

Recuperate. Via moral convalescence.

And, make freedom of the tame.

We’ve lost sight of our own being.

Pride cements our eyes wide shut.

Abusive are our actions…

Always looking and never seeing

When the truth lies under foot.

Callum Featherstone

Hibernum

Summers sudden sun is shattered

All and sundry’s forced to listen

To the winter cymbal clatter

Hill and valleys crack and glisten.

Casting coldness from it’s cauldron

Winter’s witchy wand is waved

Not a new spell but an old one

Only water knows it’s age.

Whipping wind is now a weapon

Slashing through the lowly laughter

Bruising with a blowy beckon

Chilling bones that follow after.

The tree was bare

And dreamt of leaves

The bear was left; unaware

Succumbed to hibernation’s squeeze.

Callum Featherstone

Remember the Peace

On Armistice Day I’ll ask of you this

With the poppy you’ll wear

To commemorate the long list

Of young men dead – with care.

Of those we have mourned

Yearly, since nineteen-forty-five

Other pieces of Peace we have scorned

Saving countless peoples lives.

War in proximity that always relates

Is that Troubled area over the strait.

What else could we do? Celebrate?

A peace process since nineteen-ninety-eight.

And there is a list over there

Long and left without.

No clover? Nor poppy? Or something altogether more fair.

Still, Peace worth remembering without a doubt.

So when you wear a poppy.

To remember.

Or choose not to.

To remember.

Try to remember.

Those slain and lost.

In the bitterness of November.

Remember the Peace and what it cost.