dreams

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

Persona non grata

Requiem

“will that make me look sexy, then?”

A pubescent teen

with nothing, not even self-esteem.

“Will that make them accept me, then?”

Acquiesce

to the authority of stress

of adulthood’s cold compromise;

the coatless blizzard of the wise,

final kiss by blue lipped death.

Ad astra

far away from a living disaster.

Breaking fleshed cocoon of rust

and becoming a star; stardust.

Intergalactic; invoked forever-after.

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.

Callum Featherstone

King Kindness

Seclusion said to

Sadness

“Why the glum face?”

Sadness solemnly replies,

“I’d ask you the same question

if I could only get out of this

place…”

Memory meddled with Anger

asking,

“Did it really happen like that?”

Anger incandescently answers,

“How dare you question me?!

You fool!!

You’ve forgotten the facts!!”

Ignorance skipped along vacant

swinging hand in hand with

their friend Bliss when,

they spurted out,

“Knowledge is dead;

we don’t know them and

won’t miss them.”

Fortune bowed

at the feet of Bravery

and it’s achievements.

Fortune grovelled,

“Please take me but be careful.

My attendance

brings with it malfeasance.”

King Kindness watched over

offered to help them all out;

managed to find friends for Seclusion

showed Sadness what Happiness was all about

bought a diary for Memory

and helped Anger get some stress relief

Ignorance was made to see

how Knowledge when brought back to life

helps improve self-belief

and that (unsurprisingly) made Bliss even more happy

Bravery was taught humility

and Fortune thanked King Kindness

because that meant wealth was spread equally

between the lowly Pauper and those called ‘Your Highness’.

If only we took that bit of guidance!!

Callum Featherstone

To be understood

If within your lifetime

you can use a clock, digit or a hand

to count this life’s time

objectively

when you truly understand…

You haven’t lived,

only breathed.

To live racily in life’s slower moments

is a prize that is totally unrivalled;

Neigh-sayers. Those jockeying opponents

are trampled

under hoof, when you ride unbridled.

In the future there will be others

passing eyes over; your words,

your offspring, your pictures, your lovers.

Voyeurism

through the abstract lens of the absurd.

In the cave of your existence

lives your depths, your thoughts, your mud

a gift of solitary, temporary presence

that is you.

And, what isn’t;

to be understood.