waiting wishing waiting wishing wishing waiting wishing waiting waiting wishing waiting wishing waiting wishing waiting wishing wishing waiting for the down- fall of my de- tested enemy was…. well…. the best invest- ment of time spent I will ev- er know.
to put yourself in another’s shoes imagining their choice, their health even their views to move their way each stride and tread patterning the words they say or where they’ve fled to reach checkpoints in their footprints travelling within connected joints being shedded skins to chew with their teeth feel the broken bones shattering sense what lies beneath see through cover, blown to focus on their scars both visible and not inhabiting their sweaty palms a body, mind, uncalm to watch their sorry eyes reflect, a mirror smashed fragmenting to understand their lies and shards of broken pasts to sniff a chancing nose of losses, draws and wins gambling scent their highs and lows as fetid wheels spin to try to understand what has always been happening like a tailor’s hand immersed in their seam to kiss with their lips discern their taste of love fastening to be a doting fit like, fingers in a glove to stroke their coiled hair wrap around their spiel flattering to be their lung-filled air for you to really feel to sail riverly hearts navigate their brains staggering…
Those, three little words, from, a father, to son. Take flight, like, the birds, in, the broad, midday sun. Sprint, like, limbs, so absurd, after, starter pistol’s gun. Like, Achillean heels, undeterred, tragedy kills them, for fun.
Those, three little words, from, a father, to son. Crushed, by, hooves darkly furred, the words, cower when shun. Fade into obscurity, unheard, like, unjocular puns. Are lost, and, never return, like, miscarried orphans, or, runts.
Those, three little words, from, a father, to son. Become, unspoken, reserved, weighing down, like, a ton. The weight, weighs heavy, and, hurts, the shoulders, of, spiritual ones. Creates, heads, bent, and, curved, as horizoned eyes, look, over yon. For, blue sky, but, grey has emerged, now, the grey skies, are fading, to none.
An echoing remainder, leaves heart-shaped, “I love you”s, beset, in wrinkles, on a face.
And, those, three little words, are, like, the stubborn, fatherly stone, that’s unbled.
They whisper, “There’s, no peace, future, or, solace, in, loving words, to a son, left, unsaid.”
Sometimes, I go, wander. In worlds, of yesterday’s, yonder. I fly, in the skies, under water. I swim, in the clouds. Above, lofty men, proud. They look down, while we’re given, no quarter.
Sometimes, I retreat. From the rain, snow, and, sleet. In the hopes, I’ll be, no longer sodden. I keep, a kerchief, close by. For mankind’s, wept eye. To wipe, the lonely tears, of the downtrodden.
Sometimes, I am, lost. My compass, in frost. The coldness in me, makes, a blizzard. When, charting my course. Winds rage, to storm force. Casting fore, like, an Antarctic wizard.
Sometimes, I am, found. Dulcet. Feeling, so sound. My mind, dances. On, crotchets, and, quavers. Underneath, my mind’s feet. An audible seat. To sit, and, sample, bold, rhythmical flavours.
Sometimes, I am, weary. Sullen, sad-eyed, and, teary. At, the thought, of mankind’s, destruction. Wondering, where, it went wrong. A lamentable song. Plays on, through Compassion’s, abduction.
Sometimes, I am, jolly. Happy, joyful, in folly. When, my life, greets, mellifluous smiles. Time, hearkens, unquickened. Alive, ever-listened. As, the worth, is resound, for that, while.
Sometimes, I’m aghast. At, overcoming, what’s passed. The stories, make, for bone-chilling, reading. The graves, left, unmarked. Make, my gravely, bones, stark. And, a broken expression, all-revealing.
Sometimes, I do, wish. For, a time, to flourish. Where, we yearn, for one another, to grow. So, the purposes, sown. And, the wings, that have, flown. All, can rise, to long-gloried, plateaus.
To have, your etheral, heavenly, final-shot; miss. At, an, otherworldly, eternal-beckoning, bliss. Only, to; foolishly, unforgettably, flounder, in, the all-pervading, mist. Is, an, outstretched, grasping, hand, with, a broken; wrist.
To hold, someone, you love, for, the final; time. As, they, slowly, succumb, to, a flattened- line. Hardens, a heart, in, outpoured, ugly, concreting-grief’s; bind. And, makes, what, was, a good-heart, egregious; emboldened, italicised, and; underlined.
To yearn, for, richer-knowledge, of, the spirit; realm. By, riding, bullet-trains, with, the devil, at, the helm. Creates, caustic, combusting, bonfires, and, kindling, of, yourinner Elm. As, the sorried, buffeting, scattered-ashes, become, ubiquitously, able, to; overwhelm.
To trap, for poorer, thirsting-souls, by, wanton; ignorance. Builds, bars, cages, prisons, upon, a land, of, deliverance. And, causes, a drought, in, paradise‘s, bountiful, and, oasis-like, wilderness. While, lonesome-tears, provide, the lubricant. For, apathy, begetting; indifference.
In sickness, mortality, becomes, wizened; pictures. Screwed-up, and, crumpled, like, the pages, from, scriptures. An inability, to find, the balance, between, apothecary, and, apocalyptic, mixtures. Pluming-smoke, in, rapturous-potions, obliterates, all, longstanding; fixtures.
And, in health, the prism’s, guiding-lights, are; overlooked. Like, the wise-words, of, holiness, spoken, by, a; crook. When, the crook, of, a neck, is, swinging, like, a pendulum, from, a fisherman’s, hook. Welfare, cast, didn’t-fare-well, and, thefarewell note, quivers, on delivery, as, it’s read, and; shook.
…has, many colours, from; fuschia pink, to, undulating, mammoth-mountained, hills of green, to, shimmering, chasms of gold, and, all hues, in-between.
A fortune, wisely owned? Or, lent…
…to dullards, won’t stop, to think, while masquerading, that, it hasn’t counted, every bean, and, hidden in, those eyes, of old, the coins, on lids, imbued, unfareness seen.
A fortune, buried, long ago…
…made by; currency, inheritance, or, everything, you’d want to know, are, all kept, under, lock, and, key, but, none, are found, under, haloes, or, in secrets, left untold.
A fortune, scuppers, flooded souls…
…wrecked, by money, the ring-ed fence, bullion bars, that glow, are, woefully inept, to swim, in; cosmic seas, they begin, to drown, under, they go, as, fortunes told, ken, sinking, slow.
And, in; sparkly, shiny, final breaths. They realise, the ugly truth…
…What proved; invaluable, until death. Has; no value, in; universal sooth.
The poor man’s dream, had, wealthy fields, at night, but, nightmares, unserene, flashed, their toothy bite. The wealthy field of green, silkwormed notions white, and golden rays that gleam, are trapped, in horseshoes, tight, glued, under, farrier’s seam, they yearn, for a rasp, of light.
The luscious grass, turned, hay, is chewed, and, swallowed down, by equine guts; decayed, that, delect in poor men’s frowns. The neigh-saying, nagging, bray, is heard, for miles around, the dark sky, cried, “Mayday!” Rains lashed, the colour brown, and, with nothing left to say, dreams, in fawn puddles, drowned.
The nightmares, let loose, come from, a deviled stable, and, the farriers, in use, sit at, the highest table, looking down, at all, produced, they smith, each, and, every, fable, to fit, losing, and, winning shoes, to hooves, that trample, and, disable. Until, they finally, wrap the noose, to necks, that succumb, to cable.
With no wealth, of which to speak, to dream, or ponder, now, in death, his body lay barren, like, the field of dreams, his soul has no need, for worldly wealth, farriers, and, nightmares, trot, and, creep, to find, the poor man’s, hidden self, he ascends, to paradise’s foggy breach, climbs lion’s, cloudy manes, there, met, with a roar, to farrier, and, nightmare, each, now, free, he howls,
“Your devilish search beset, for unbridled wealth,
The uncredited, uncared for, unsung, heroes; noble, kind, and, unselfish acts. Fade from sight, and, sound, into obscurity, like; a bum-note on Karaoke Night.
Antagonistic fake, plastic, white knight’s, plume breasts, at round tables, bedecked, in, platinum-plated, silver-screened armour, whilst, counting up, all of the zeroes, on, starstudded, Hollywood cheques.
A milky, American audience, cries, for seconds, and, encores. They, all, scream, and, shout, collectively, for, ‘More, more, more!!’
False narratives, are made; tokenistic, faux-ethnic, clichéd, along with, cult-enamoured attempts, to; woo culture, by way, of, condescending amour.
How big, has, the Phoenix, called; Consumption, grown?
Big enough, to fill, eight-billion caskets. Plump enough, to fill, every pot. Wise enough, to answer, any question, should you, ask it. Deadly enough, to kill, any myth, dream, wordsmith, or, naïve romancer. It smothers, all the people, of the world, with less, and, their; untold stories, in a vicious, ugly bind, betwixt; it’s fiery wings, and pluming breast, and, with a beak of fury, pecks, their eyes out, blind. Whilst, pecking, gravely, holes in every, single plot.
How far, has, the Phoenix, called; Consumption, flown?
Around, the planet, a multitude of times. Sprinkling, holidayed tears, in tsunamis, of, €$£¥-shaped, misery, like, wrathful; albino equines, or, shipwrecking; Easter, Yule -tides, from, blinkered eyes, that, roll back, and, forth, with, undercurrents of currency, that, lap, and, land upon egg-shaped shores. And, as, misfortunate souls, are lost, to, seas of disfavour, what remains tries to remain brave, as, Consumption, caws, upon a giant, green wave, of, destruction, and, revels, in, the tsunami’s death-toll, and, it’s, unreported costs.
How high, does, the Phoenix, called; Consumption, fly?
Always, in, upper-echelons, and, at, eye level, with, ivory towers. Looking-down, upon, wistful, wretched ones, whilst, perched on the shoulders, of, those in power, creating, a landing strip, of, the depressioned ones, mixing, their, black, and, dogged woe, to make, tarmacadam, and, alongside the runway, which runs, only one way, the verges, serve as, a eulogising memorandum, as, there, planted, are lonesome, bereft Lily flowers.
Why, oh, why, won’t, the Phoenix, called; Consumption, die?
It only, lives as long as, you, let it. If you, feed it, it, will always, come back. It only, lives as long as, you, let it. If you, need it, your spirit, will rot; green and decay, until, finally; turning to black. We must, pluck, and, be rid, of, the feathers; golden, and, unabashed, from, this; bird of prey-ing on the meek, once, we’ve killed, the Phoenix, called; Consumption, we, can raise, a dyeing tincture, called; Future’s Freedom, out of, it’s, ash.
Written by Callum Featherstone 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 […]
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