poem

Callum Featherstone

A Universal Truth

Take a pew, and, view;
beyond…

Beyond yourself,
beyond the Earth,
beyond the stars,
beyond the galaxies,
beyond the universe.

Viewing, beyond;
what is material,
beyond;
what is imagined,
beyond;
the conscious and subconscious.

Viewing, beyond; what, is and what, is not.
Viewing, beyond; existence.

In doing so, you will find, that; life as we know it, really, is, all relative. Relative to all. Relative to all matter, and, all, that matters. Relative to all that is spawned, whether as a thought, or, as a conscious being. Relative to the Creator, to all that has been created, to all that has the capability to create and to the creative processes, which allow for creativity to exist.

Imagine;
an incessant, indefinite, prismal hall, adorned and inlaid with, ‘the mirrors of creation’. Each and every looking glass projecting reflections from opposite sides. Deeper and deeper, within, the triangular facing juxtapositions, for all of time and space and realities. Immemorial. All introspections, conjured and displayed, extrospectively, for infinity, like reflective echoes.

Reflective echoes which sense and show; time, space and reality, in every way. Every, single, mind-churning creation. Every originitavely, conceivable and inconceivable, manifestation of life and death, being thrown back, over and over and over again. Reflective echoes prone to making continual, mirrored changes of every variety. Changes that alter the course of existence, instinctively and perpetually. Reflective echoes, that exist to exhibit every crotchet and quaver of existence. Exist to practice, orchestrate and finely tune the never-ending nuances, of; survival and extinction, safety and danger, the procreated and the departed, reasoning and understanding, order and chaos, creation and destruction. Birthing and deceasing; lyrics, ballads and dithyrambs, of hatched esse, based on, anything, everything, and, nothing; for aye.

Please, please, throughout your life, do not sweat the small stuff.

Because in reality; you are the smallest of stuff, sweating, profusely. Picture this, in your mind…

you; are, just… a biological cell.

A cell, hitching a ride, atop a bead of human sweat, that is the equivalent of our planet, the Earth. A bead of Earthly sweat, ensconced, rolling, and orbiting, within the fold of a galactic, rotating human neck. That, human neck, is, The Milky Way. A galactic neck, affixed, within, a human body, that is, this, solitary universe.

Now, relatively speaking, imagine a huge crowd of human bodies (which in this case are being used as a metaphor for multiple universes) running, alongside one another. Human bodies, continously sprinting, amongst a stampeding mass, of; infinitely sprinting human bodies. A mass of infinitely sprinting human bodies, trivially competing, without any purpose other than to simply exist and run, in a never ending race without a finish line, on an undisclosed planet, in an undisclosed galaxy, in an undisclosed universe. That is the multiverse. Rushing, repeating, and changing. Rushing, repeating, and changing. Rushing, repeating and changing. Una in perpetuum, una in perpetuum, una in perpetuum…

Now, remember the biological cell?

That is how small you are in the grand scheme of everything. So, is it really worth, worrying, about, anything, at all?

The answer is; No.

Foolishly, if you feel that you must worry about anything, then, realistically, you should be worrying about everything. Why worry, when you could be admiring the astounding probability that you are even alive and reading, this, right now?

Realistically, the fact that you are living and bearing the opportunity to frivolously exist, is, amazing in it’s; impossibility. It is a miracle; in, and of, itself. The treasured miracle of existence has an infinite probability of equally not existing. So, treasure it dearly and enjoy it while you can clutch it. There are so many creations that never get the chance to experience, cherish and possess existence.

That makes you impossibly lucky!

Enjoy the miracle that is your life, please. Adore it, in its uniquity, for as long as you can.

Incredibly, your energy, your life-force, your soul, can never be destroyed, now that, you, have been; created. Because, existing, is, an imagined notion, within a universe’s dream, that springs to life, for a moment, of; impossibility.

You, are; a universe’s subconscious thought; imagined, cast and realised.

You leave creative markings on the stardust, that you; engage, embody and exude. Your conceptual, existential, starly shapes are never forgotten by the autogenic, empyrean energy, that you; hold, mould and enfold.

You will, always live on, within the folklore of the cosmos, as, an unforgettable, starry story. A cosmological fable; remembered, reworded and re-personified. And, so, within the realms of imagined existence, brought to life, your energy will remain, lived out amongst the stars, forever.

©poormansdreams
Monday, 4th November, 2024.

Callum Featherstone

Proverbs 0:Z

none slept forward
too little sleep back

the setting sun
clocking off early at 4pm
chuckling to himself
knowing the plight
of the insomniac

a bed in the hand
isn’t worth two hours of hush

darkness tarries
inside and outside
from cigarette marred lung
to disbe-lief falling from trees
mourning the loss of lush

don’t judge a bed
by it’s cover

laying sombrely
lower than any shadow
cast out into the wilderness
surrounded by every dream’s
jilted lover

the snore
the merrier

envious glares
at those yawning, stretching cunts
whilst keeping copper coins
on my eyelids – forced shut
for the stygian ferrier

you don’t snooze
you are a loser.

Callum Featherstone

An Ode to Triton

To be, within,
the, effervescent;
feminine, phantom grip.
Of; Neptune’s aerated,
overhanging, fists. So,
steep.

Cascading, satellitic columns,
of, wintry sediment,
that, can only, pray, to one day;
bless with wet,
those rectangular, ninety-degree,
vistas.

The; Neptunian duress, on; Triton-
ite; spousal, symbiotic, yet, seperate;
stress. Create, angular, plumed L’s.
Of, frozen gas,
and, dust; that, dryly;
weep.

Causing; cosmic, cupped,
cloying waves, of, crested ice.
And, entombing, ferocious tides.
Betwixt her, turquoise knuckles,
and, her; cerulean-shadow-
fingers.

A frozen, and, gelid,
atmosphere, of the; unruly,
and, the unruled. Immovable fixtures;
unpondered, unthought of.
And, without-sound;
asleep.

Shifting backwards, in orbit,
twirling, as though; an iced-dream.
In the, pitch-black, twilight.
Above; unabashed hues of blue. Before;
a bitterly-vexed, desolate, and, lonely; ice-
mistress.

© poormansdreams

Callum Featherstone

Turning Grey

The ubiquity – the binary,
the ones, the zeros,
the good, the bad…

The heroes, the villains,
the black, the white,
the yin, the yang…

All commit,
to knit,
together.

To explain,
the sharp magnolia;
pleasures,
of, a collaged existence,
by, comparatively,
interlacing;
obsidian, blunting; pain.

But, life on Earth, is…

A rich tapestry;
woven darkly,
by the Unseen’s,
sons and daughters.

Hung, from,
the bountiful, terror-
cotta halls, of, vast,
avocado continents,
that lay.

It conceals,
the sodden, famished,
fabric prism,
of; the drowning,
and, the starved,
the unprincely, and, the paupers.

And, obscures,
those – rooted to,
the blue, depressed,
weeping bedrock.

Beneath, a global mosaic;
of grey.

Callum Featherstone

Awakening from Egypt

Listening,
to the droning,
lullaby, of a,
heathen’s speech.

Tuning his billowed, whistled,
preachy, presence out.

I mimic,
the closing lids,
of Tutankhamen’s,
shutting eyes.

I turn over,
now, under.

Pyramids,
and, pharaohs,
dance by the Nile,
underneath, my feet.

Fluting, willowed kisses,
sweeten, desert drought.

Soaring. I’m attempting,
to catch,
stomach entombed,
butterflies.

I fall slower,
from unfound, slumber.

Crashing.
Into, a sarcophagus,
of, unforgiving dreams,
and, bequeathed unsleep.

Spooning, pillowed rivers,
and, streams, of, unweathered doubt.

© poormansdreams

Callum Featherstone

The Sin-Eater

A crust o’ bread. Pastries o’ lead. Any’hin’, tae line the coffin; I call’t a stomach. Fae a brimmin’, ale-filled tankard cup. And, nae longer cawin’ crows in me hands be worth twa, and, sixpence, flush.

Eatin’ sins, before the Lord,
frae a sinist’r, smorgasbord.
Me gnashin’ gams, offer, bless’d relief.
Tae the dearly, and, sometimes,
nearly, depart’d. Distasteful reminders, o’ the ugliest natures, we be seldom confessin’, tae tak part in.

It’s a piece o’ cakie!

Ev’ry morsel, I have nestled,
in me decayin’ spaghetti-faced beard,
is givin’ solace, to the pious, and, unholy,
the kind-heart’d, and, fear’d.

Fae each, flagon o’ hate, I imbibe,
each, transgression, I consume,
a burden rises, like a baker’s loaf, frae inside, them. And, descends deep in tae me graveyard guts; a Hadean plume.

Shunned, and, sheemed, by those bitin’ begrudg’rs, sco’ned, and, defamed. Doon, Hansel, and, Gretel Lane, I’m trudgin’. Followin’ that doomed crumb-age. Me heart’s in me mooth, each mournin’, bludgeon’d, as I chews the fat o’ those snarlin’ judges.

Ye tho’ I warks, and, stalks,
ca’ throu’ the valley,
o’ the scarrow o’ death.
Youse ken the smell,
o’ each fall, frae grace,
ev’ry vice, on me rott’n,
rank, reekin’ vagabond breath.

© poormansdreams

Callum Featherstone

The callus’t one

The rough, and, scarring,
bodily scourges,
are no comparison,
to being forever burdened,
by the torment of,
a scabrous, jagged mind.
That’s the living abstraction;
of being; a callus’t one.
Knowing the thin,
and, fickle nature of life,
whilst, saying, “It’s okay. I’ll be fine.”

Holding on, to a grip of things,
in the present,
juxtaposed,
with, sharp memories; incessant,
cuts deep, into physical,
and, metaphysical flesh.
That’s the piercing knife;
you wield; as a callus’t one.
Keeping wounds open enough,
to prise, pain; permanent, and, fresh.

Broken-ringed, vows, and, promises,
littering the circular streets,
I’ve walked around, alone,
in annular defeat.
Unable to cry; blue-discs,
of rotating grief.
That’s the circus clown smile;
you show; as a callus’t one.
Hoping a risen moon, soon,
opens a gloomy throat;
in the ground; swallowing…
mortal relief.

That’s what it takes; to be forgiven;
and, finally;
a callus’t none.

© poormansdreams

Callum Featherstone

The torture, death, and, resurrection of Gaia.

The black, bloody, treacly,
substance,
oozed out, of Gaia’s back, like liquid gold.

Always held, in sweaty,
greed-fuelled hands,
strikings were commonplace,
by the cat o’ nine.

But, it wasn’t multiple lives,
She was losing,
it was – a total loss,
of respect.

Eventually, Her spiritual resources,
would be totally depleted.
Her caregiving nature defeated.

Leaving Gaia begging for death.

Sporadic sores,
opened,
in the middle-eastern,
portion of her body.
The surface of her skin,
became a pus-filled warzone,
raging, on, and, on.

Her rooted,
oxygen-emanating hairs,
were cut, chopped,
planed, and, burned away.
Leaving large areas,
of Her body, unprotected.

This torture meant,
that, even, as Gaia’s moral fibre,
tried to replenish Her,
there was never enough time,
for Her to properly heal.

The thick cloudy smog, She inhaled,
was relentless,
leaving Her gasping for air.
She, desperately, tried to breath.
Just, to be able to think clearly.
As clear as, Her, azure eyes,
and, Her salubrious aura of old.

However, the cancerous torture,
riddling Her, very, essence,
had other ideas.

The viral parasite was too bright.
Too bright for it’s own good.
Culminating in dark.

Each microbe,
was self-serving.
And, believed itself,
far more important, than Gaia.
Their bacteria-laden,
all consuming,
teeth – gnashed.

Gaia, was being consumed.

Alone, and, deserted,
She could stand – no more,
Leaving Her collapsed,
no pulse,
unresponsive.

Her empty shell,
gradually decomposed.
Turning from vivid shades,
of, blue, and, green,
to, a repugnant shade,
of grey.

Her spirit was already long gone. Seeking halcyon pastures new.
A fresh start.
Away from torture and ridicule.

Her soul shot out,
toward the stars.
To serve,
Her cosmic purpose.
To serve, celestial bodies,
suns, and, planets.
To serve a species,
both virtuous, and, deserving.

Just, to serve, and, be deserving;
of respect.

© poormansdreams

Callum Featherstone

An aquatic attraction

Vast new monstrosities,
lined-up,
aside old architecture,
stood in the shadows,
as am I – beneath,
the ancient high-rise.

It’s had a facelift,
since I saw it last,
refurbished –
it brings down,
hidden memories,
from stagnant trauma,
violent infantile time,
spent,
in an abode of old.

Rusted cycle,
on the banks of the lean canal,
flanked by the crack of alabaster,
and, the grimace of limestone.
Flowers rotten,
and, forgotten,
aside, a brooding statue.

All the while I’m drawn toward the snake-like, slippery skin of a shimmering cascade.

There’s an aquatic attraction,
to plumes of smoky water,
atop the lily pads,
which rival those chest armours, protecting the geese, and, mallard’s.
Each plumage; hugs the water,
in a natural, symbiotic embrace.

There’s beauty;
in the simple things,
the forgotten things.

The things you don’t see,
when you’re engulfed by;
an awful, ugly, world.

A world captained by;
the financially rich,
the gloaters,
the not even wearing a coat-ers,
the ritually unaware boaters,
and, the willfully ignorant,
remaining; ignorant.
Must be blissful.

While;
the on-edge, the thinkers,
the unlucky, the brave,
the jumpers, the bloaters,
the sinkers, the all out at sea,
the floaters,
the ones that want the pain to end, the ones who just need a friend,
the ones who need to know we care, and,
the ones who have a minute spare.

Are left to flounder…

When, all, each, of us, needs;
is someone;

Someone to talk to, and; not be judged.

Just to talk…

And, be;
here; on dry land.
Not there; walking the plank.

© poormansdreams

Callum Featherstone

You’re asking too many questions

Do the feelings;
born of frustration;
conceive,
of their eventual,
mortality?

Do the pontificating,
hypocrites,
suppress,
their wicked tears,
when, laughing,
at, someone else’s;
tragedy?

Does the crooked judge,
have any right,
to, condemn the criminal;
on questions,
of morality?

Does the man of the hour;
know –
when his time;
is up,
whilst he’s counting,
down;
every, eventuality?

Doesn’t it torment, and, pain,
the young, fit, and, healthy,
to, disregard,
the older, wiser sage;
in, favour of; virtual vitality?

Doesn’t the universe,
relish, heartily,
the unmerciless irony,
of existing, black, tubular;
non-existence,
at the epicentre,
of, every galaxy?

Do you care? Does it matter??

No. It doesn’t.

It never did.