anxiety

Callum Featherstone

Worn out

Worn out. What was it all for, now?

Forlorn, forgot about;

a black hole where I did shout.

Gone are days – they’re sieved out;

when I take what they give out.

Worn out;

stretched, tumbled, starched;

a struggle to get clean.

Life has left. Ragged and torn now;

by schemes that pull us apart

at the seams.

Worn out;

mangled on a daily basis.

Squeezed until the lemon is no longer envious.

The nights are what is mourned now;

whilst wearing bitter-tasting faces;

the lemon was so wrong to envy us.

Worn out;

nostalgia is a loose thread

that I’m comfortable pulling until the spool is empty.

The belt and buckle are beaten, scorned, now.

Loose mind, loose mouth; lassoed head.

And, except for moi, the launderette for fool’s is empty.

Worn out;

courage is a pair of shoes I spent my last days cleaning and shining.

And, after all that scrubbing my soles have fallen through.

So very tired of living; in exchange for weaving threadbare dreams of being; perpetually quartered, hung and drawn, out.

And, while I’m, dead, focused on the whining;

I’ve missed the infinite hole I’ve fallen into.

Worn out. Please, no more, now.

Withdrawn, without;

spent all, less discount.

Bon marché is a lived shroud;

when I take what they give out.

Callum Featherstone

When violence came

Once or twice

decisions bite unwise, saying;

unforgiving

are the memories,

unforgettable

are the scars.

Scorch marks

embedded in hands of milk

make volcanic craters;

sat in skins of satin silk.

The crash of flesh

into cigarettes;

lights, ignites and separates us.

Sombrely; in torched dark.

Burns; become words;

impressions.

Slash; abstract, absurd;

expressions.

Lacerations speak, some stutter,

of a blade which wreaked;

silent pain,

on arms which seldom mutter.

It took the opening of a cutter;

violence came,

because of an inability to scream,

an inability to speak or utter.

So, lines had to be drawn; extreme.

In disguised minds, unbelieved

eyes of thrice, say;

this living

isn’t just sensory,

existential

are the stars.

Callum Featherstone

Thirty-three.

Misfortune favoured

by a coward

gets emboldened by

imagined

acts of bravery,

paralleling,

when freedom is

attributed, scoured

then soldered, wry,

universally enshackled,

to the liberty of slavery.

A leaden head

of melancholy

wearing

suffering’s shawl

of crusty grime

became

a body of water’s

shopping trolley,

disappearing,

in that shoal

of rusting time.

Castigating memories

lie deeply

and contorted,

misshapen

inside that meshy box.

Untrustworthy,

this hill of discontent,

rising steeply;

geography unreported,

as the corpse’s lips;

kissed the fleshy rocks.

Callum Featherstone

What? Do you think?

What if

to err is to be human?

But, not universal?

And, we are at best

Elysian mongrels –

in a field –

of wrongful existence;

an inhumane breed

that isn’t meant.

To be?

What? Do you think?

No,

nothing,

not at all.

Despite those Janus

empirical attempts

to civilise – by both

British and otherwise.

Tasking those unfit

with tyrannical wishes

of afternoon tea,

ballroom dances

and decorum

all the while

killing both

domestic and foreign

masses. Making

“civilised” territorial advances;

civilians accosted for the

colonial-cost

of another version of history;

lost;

whitewashed.

What? Do you think?

No,

nothing,

not at all.

An inhumane answer

is cruel enough

to be considered; just.

But,

to care about one another –

is just – too much?

We; this planetary cancer

of uncompassionate

missed chances..

Founded on

beings; lost.

What? Do you think?

No,

nothing,

not at all.

On homeward soil,

does terrafirm suffering

stop?

Outward..

Galactic empathy –

would be what?

Buffering? Double-bluffing.

Never gonna happen?

Watch this space;

amass dispersal.

What if

to forgive; divine

and life’s just a rehearsal

after all?

What do you think?

If all is, really, nothing?

Yes.

Then, there’s really

nothing to lose

at all.

Callum Featherstone

Citric

Alone.

In the clutching arms of

slow dismay,

life’s emptying

embrace becomes

a bitter kiss of zest,

unrest and then,

death.

These unrepentant lips

of fast decay;

helpless.

Drowning sorrows

miss

lasting breath.

Killing time…

or is a lacklustre

seizure of diem,

chilling? Unfitting?

Now, freeze,

frozen; killed.

Begrudgement feeds

from citrus seeds;

fleshy lemon is cut,

callous lime is grazed,

blood orange is spilled.

Sour citric expressions

of conceptual fruits;

in labour –

are squeezed;

oozing destiny unfulfilled.

Callum Featherstone

Abridged

A body transformed by fight and flight;

becomes planes and pugilists –

how can it be winged and have insight

when blindly flies it’s fists?

A mind so awash with emotion;

those inner thoughts drown in the swell –

how can you find a teardrop in the ocean

when your bucket has been lost down the well?

A spirit hell-bent on remaining uncrushed;

riding the rubble of a landslide –

how can it stay calm when it gets pushed?

It takes a peace in all that collides.

A solution we angrily overlook

when rising tides make us falter –

how can the rubble change our luck?

Build a bridge across the water.

Callum Featherstone

Not for the faint-hearted

Life is not

for the faint-hearted

just ask

those dearly departed –

they know all too well

that the water of life

when drunk

can buffet and swell

make a storm

of a stomach

that was lead-lined

as though

forged in the fiery

bowels of hell.

Life is not

for the faint-hearted,

it never stops

or gets restarted,

whether you begged

for

a

slower

pace

or a race that

wasn’t three legged;

your trips;

over and abroad,

your falls;

flat on your face

and in love,

will be packed,

bandaged and

suit-cased;

every act

in mind, at hand

held in a Brahman grip.

Life is not

for the faint-hearted

because it’s

simply; unrelenting –

to be alive

is to be martyred

and to survive

without resenting

takes the truest

of heart;

no matter where

you started

or where you end up

once departed.

Callum Featherstone

Tenebrous Crow

“You haven’t done anything with your life.”

grasping once more

at bedecked self-worth

but the grip

slips

oil slicks

betwixt

mental palm and moral fingertips;

should i show my hand?

stick or twist?

“What is wrong with you?”

dark matter

is my only ally

when faced with terror

because

i can’t do anything else

can i?

hollow laughter

leaves enough space

to crawl inside and wear;

a straitjacket of cajolery

sad eyes

“You could have done so much better.”

this tenebrous crow

a constant reminder

cawing – slow

perched atop

my shoulder

peering deep into my soul;

cavernous hole

to cavernous hole

“Such a waste.”

Callum Featherstone

Burning Gratuities

Catastrophe

strikes – once, twice?

Thrice and out of here.

A bomb masquerading as a bowling ball;

this heavy burden of

duplicity.

In a race to get hot

the pot is calling the kettle…

“Boiling?”

“No, just lit.”

“And, half-full?”

“No, half-empty.”

Sigh.

“Okay. Thanks a lot.”

Now, stand back and watch the fireworks.

Tick, tick… broom.

Embarrassed;

fallen Ash is swept aside;

a remnant of explosive outbursts.

Burning gratuities of rage

make the face

of a clock

that time

could not change

nor cataclysm

erase.

Counting down to

dinner-time.

But, no just desserts

just yet.

Repeatedly,

primordial soup

is forcefully ingested

and teary-eyed child is

degraded.

Erupting memories;

simmer

indelible scars;

resurface.

Unfaded.

Callum Featherstone

Red Letters

Paint an imperfect picture

from a red letter’s scripture…

In blood

splattered rooms

you will find

grey, pink, claret

matters and whom

was left behind

in the catacombs

of once upon a time

in a grand Creator’s mind

foolish by design

capable of fooling you.

Paint an imperfect picture

from a red letter’s scripture…

The bills are past due

so Bill passed away

swinging by the neck

in a Navy suit of blue.

His eyes used to shine

a glint of due respect

now his eyes are scuffed

and all that shines

are his shoes.

Hanging tough.

Paint an imperfect picture

from a red letter’s scripture…

You reap what you sow – and reap what you don’t – often when you owe – cause when debt alone – is what you reap;

how many secrets can you keep?

Who holds the key

to locked lips

and promises?

Paint an imperfect picture

from a red letter’s scripture…

Currently the only way to make ends meet – at wits end – encourage me to comprehend;

how numbers on a computer screen can be the difference between

rejection and lend

poverty and wealth

livelihood and death

wake me up when it ends.

Paint an imperfect picture

from a red letter’s scripture…

Misleading

unknowing investors

Us;

to a hidden

land of milk

and honey

that is derelict,

drought ridden

and smells distinctly

sick and forbidden

because this land of death;

makes money.

Paint an imperfect picture

from a red letter’s scripture…

Imperfections

are what keeps it

made…

this deathbed of currency;

funeral pyre

of red letters

unlit

crimson spite

enveloping.