mental health

Callum Featherstone

A Dervish, named; ‘Constantine’.

I, Myself. Constantine.
A trailblazer. Making my mark,
until tremors, quaking, and, a long lived aftershock. Got trapped, got sick, now,
making my way home; to Torment.
Manifested;
off-track, lost, unfound, raging, bitter, twisted.
And, sick. Obviously.

Disorientated, tranquil tornadoes,
of, marauding memories,
revolve statically;
sarcastically whirling,
with the sincerest, of all, ironies;
like a Dervish, riding a languid carousel,
a Dervish, named;
‘Constantine’.
The inert twisters,
carry, and, cast –
concealed emotions,
that are; born to seek death,
that are; created to destroy.

The camouflaged
saliences, are;

re -visited,
re -worn,
re -vealed;

‘In the stitching –
a khirqa of shame, whispers, “guilt survives, long after, the dead, have been mourned.” As sorrow seeps, from, a blood-soaked; hood, cuffs, and, sleeves – where cloying, bloodthirsty tarmac, bore it’s teeth, causing shudders. Devouring all escapes, to salvation.
And, after grasping, deep-down,
in those, endless, cloak pockets, Mercy, was found slain. Smothered, by iniquity, concrete, rocks and rubble, as compassion is, demolished by dark, anguished,
traumatic silences.’

Uncontrollable
obedience – stagnantly spins,
and, turns, soothing provocations,
into, a, swooner’s consciousness.
Hushed screeches vomit, teasing and tormenting; to mutilate…
To massacre;
a begging, bruised, exhausted, inner-sanctum.

A colourless draining.
The colour is fading,
from psyche’s cheeks,
a liquidating; of shady pulp,
of soft, once radiant,
rainbow spattered, but, now, only;
grey matters.

I, Myself. Constantine.
A soggy, battered, quivering, hasbeen. An already; blazed trail.
Long forgotten.
Lying beneath,
a superego’s ocean-jungle undergrowth, where there, once was, a long, plumed, dove-white robe.
Overgrown, crestfallen, and, un-phren-dly;
lying beneath,
the forsaken waves, of; lost seas, past shocks and, cruel, convulsive, inclemencies.

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.

Callum Featherstone

Something within

They said,

“well, at least, you don’t miss

something

that you never knew.”

this pater-shaped hole

began to impress;

began to exceed excess.

And, once begun,

it couldn’t be undone,

it made both

beginning, and, ending;

without gravitas. Gone.

A filicidal forecast looming

within,

gloomy;

whether he reigned or son shone

“A victim of cruel circumstance?”

this pater-shaped hole

became a grave of discontent,

deep.

So, very, deeply;

without.

No heaped shovel or search

within

could ever uncover it,

nor, taste of stark reality

– stomach it

“A by-product of uncertain romance?”

this pater-shaped hole

has a

dangerous potential

to permeate

generations,

going from keyhole;

within, to black-hole;

exhuming –

gravity without fixture,

irrevocably vacuuming;

sons of Mars,

Venus’ daughters,

zodiac stars, suns, moons,

and all of their explorers,

solar systems, nebulae,

and, galactic formations

of future paterfamilias,

of all things familial,

intergenerational idioms,

inscriptions and incantations

“I didn’t miss what I had never known.

I just knew that something within was missing.

Half the time I felt apart, alone.

Half of my history in absentia whilst existing.”

Callum Featherstone

Happiness, wisdom and foolish tragédies

Happiness is a forbidden fruit

when your soul consumes such grief,

the smiling, juicy, joyous flesh

makes Temptation a willing thief,

it’s often sought in seas of excess

leaving wrecks at Dependence Reef,

it can turn the sinning, wicked brutes

into patron saints of belief.

The taste of Happiness is absolute

without eating branch and leaf,

and, a tangle with despair’s wiry mesh

makes the taste that much more sweet.

Wisdom is an unwanted gift

when you think you know it all,

it hides in spirit’s plane of sight

foreseen under Sage’s shawl,

it can make ignorance feel like bliss

and, learning truth – a bloody brawl,

but, nevertheless, a worthy fight,

one worth every scarring maul.

Humility provides the lift

when pride tumbles as it falls,

and compassion reconstructs might

building bridges from crumbled walls.

This experience of all, which pervades us,

from cradle to grave and beyond,

can be unremarkable, perplexing and outrageous

once spawned in primordial pond,

this human condition exists to enslave us,

catching feelings that try to abscond,

a state which makes fallen angels our saviours,

and, breaks the chains of sacred bonds.

So, until selfish, greedy, loathsome behaviours

become unworthy, unkept, unfond,

there’ll be no happiness found in wisdom’s favours

while foolish tragédies eclipse le monde.

Callum Featherstone

The storm of I

Staring out into naked abyss,

optics wander in twilight’s wonder,

stardust gleaning sacred bliss,

vision listens to silent thunder.

The universal rains lash down;

they make vast waterfalls among the heavens.

Open tear ducts; eternal, splashing down,

closed lids crashing…

down, still, always – Catch; fifteen. Then, adding seven.

The black cascade envelops all it touches,

no matter the presentation,

the make-up plumes from scarlet brushes,

have a bird’s eye view; their final destination.

This pupil set within the storm of I,

is not enlightened nor insightful.

It couldn’t see the worlds bore inside,

it’s maker, yet, remained open minded.

Until, a benevolent outlook was razored,

gouged, clawed, blinded,

at the hands of human-nature.

Behold, this glaringly undelightful,

this epidemic Myopia,

deceptive, cruel and spiteful,

this future unforeseen,

presently; apathetic and obscene,

this, ‘Forlornucopia’,

held aloft for all to see;

perpetually consuming glee;

consuming all… of you, and them, and me.

Callum Featherstone

Panderer’s Box

With uppercut and jab and hook,

a heavy wait, a title took,

each ring-ed bell

the blows were struck,

the nip and tuck, each step and duck…

Deeper and deeper into Hell.

Valiant defeat makes prideful gain

when they bayed for blood,

bawled and cried his name.

And on the spot the gladiator stood,

unsteady to decide again…

A moment wished it stayed for good

to cut the loss and shy the shame.

For, a panderer’s box once opened

leaves the politicians all unscathed

and the pugilist a hero; lonesome –

our punching bag, body, face.

Yes, a panderer’s box once opened

leaves the one percent much richer

and the common man – betokened –

with recipes for ailing, bitter.

Callum Featherstone

Pontoon

Adrenaline shots,

supersonic; glum superstitions,

reverberating – hot

sweating bullets inside a Tommy gun

firing dumb decisions.

Blurred memories,

smudged names, smeared faces.

Obscurity; a putrid mask,

masquerading, rot-

ting insides, sordid capers.

Sunken expressions – unbothered,

bleeding into a stony face;

red rock inhales dusty space;

coffin dodger,

deprived of breath, being distress, making sense? more or less?

Eyebrows cliffhang disgraced.

Loss and win

a holy sin.

These fat nothings

are wholly thin.

Callum Featherstone

Shell shock

My sword, my shield, are heavy now,

the battles rage, my neck feels bowed.

Once more;

my head’s above the parapet,

princely darkness; devil silhouette.

Rancour,

blood and fire, steel and death,

cling to the air; grasping breath.

Encore,

there is no time for plaudits’ sorrow;

every ‘moment’ had – scorned by tomorrow.

This suit of armour wears a chink,

whenever the owner bears to think,

deeply;

in ocean beds; discomfort lurking,

from the pearl of wisdom; I’m undeserving .

Discreetly,

these battled wits within my mind,

devise painfulness, a brand new kind;

obliquely.

This ever present convalescence

makes; funeral pyres of my presence.

Callum Featherstone

A prison of another’s design

Caged birds dream of tasting clouds

and soaring above hasting crowds.

Magnolia walls trap Southern promise

I’ll clip my wings for another’s solace.

Metal struts; horizontal sorrow,

beaming the echo of glottal morose.

The rise and fall of neck and seed;

the emptiness, the peck and plead.

A flighty notion hungers inside;

a prison of another’s design.

Resistance unfed; futility;

no fight, bereft, flightless.

Brain dead, drained, lifeless;

for we bred in captivity.

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.