dystopian

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

Monopolistic Hope

This global villain is invictus,
infinitely oozing “veni, vidi, vici”,
with it’s modus operandi,
of novus ordo seclorum,
clamours of A.I.-based nuclear war, come from the establishment’s deformed Habsburg jaw.

Tenants are immorally and mortally evicted,
the laymen scream, “it’s all Greek to me!!”,
launching uncoordinated attacks with lazy hand-eyes,
spinning webby yarns from a clacking keyboard; to an internetted forum,
even the echo chamber’s bored, tired of the vox pop, and, the dull resonance outpoured.

As, the monopolistic hope,
became; pain’s loving misanthrope.

A thickened plot of Masonic sorcery,
seasons societies, economies, curricula,
whilst Big Brother scopes melting pots,
of citizens bred to earn a crust, be taxed and die,
and, all-knowing; this, for certain, the final debt befalls the final curtain.

Propaganda polices, pigs out and purports to be,
the hoi polloi’s mouth-piece; in particular,
to be frank, the lingua franca tastes of colonial, malevolent monoglots,
Babel’ing in their ivory towers, consuming all under the sky,
plebeian thought-filled food is forsaken, unfound, and famished, the third estate is starved, malnourished, their main course of action remains revolting, yet, vanished.

And, finally, the monopolistic hope,
dearly departs; a wholly poisoned antidote.