anxiety

Callum Featherstone

Delicate Essence

You are only as old as you feel.
And, also, somewhat, making a meal,
when fashionable disguises, are, unpalatably real.
An all too familiar; appetite for deception,
or, destruction; boiling down to mutton, dressed as veal.

A diseased droplet of poisonous, septic bile,
will contaminate the entire, antidoted vial.
As the Janus’ faces; wear smiling frowns of guile.
A frothing dribble at, each corner, of their mouths.
Ready to kiss naïveté’s; unknowing, apathetic child.

The cancerous bacon rashers flash their cache of rinds.
Whilst the purveyor, and, punters talk; porky pies.
The subject of the, price of peace, creates porcupines;
of prickly words. That make religion; a sin.
The spieler’s prayers are; devilshly; delivered, sealed, and, signed.

Nightmares of vomit ridden delicatessens;
regurgitating the meek, and, innocent’s; delicate essence.
A force fed; growing up, for the poor, adolescents.
“You can’t miss what you never knew.”
A shallow consolation from maternal lessons.

Bursting guts of gluttonous swine; litter the landscape.
Amid the landfill site where shifty, crooked, hands shake.
Rats, bugs, gadflies, wasps, vermin, and, snakes.
All feasting upon the remnants of the good.
Meanwhile, ‘the future’, confesses sins; for the damned’s sake.

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

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

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

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

Fantasies of “soundly asleep“

If I dissolved the universe

for a cup of joy,

or, a sip of worth,

would your own thirst; desert, destroy?

Waive away wet debtor’s curse?

If I had wings; angelic and divine,

to float across

this great divide,

would the final approach be a gainful loss?

Pinion clipped and cropped;

by fortune’s perennial pain inside.

If I weaved you fabric journeys

from my textile dreams,

could you knit me back together?

Fix these broken seams?

If those silk and satin sojourns

of vivid;

reds, blues, yellows, greens,

became moth eaten

by their endeavour,

or, no longer serene,

could you fill the gaps

of what goes in between?

Or, would you crumble and crack,

like my fantasies of “soundly asleep”?

Living through a nightmare’s lens;

of perpetual black,

soundtrack; my innermost screams.

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.