evil

Callum Featherstone

Where are ye, Robin Hoods?

Where are ye, rebels?

Ye, Robin Hoods?

Who robs the rich to feed the poor?

Who traverses the bleak, uneven levels,

to rid the bad and keep the good?

Cap of Lincoln green,

a sight long unseen,

Nottingham archer’s

bow,

and, steely arrow.

The poor man’s dream

of outlaw heroes seem,

broken, from the

bone,

unto the marrow.

Who dares be rebels?

Be Robin Hoods?

To replace, replenish, restore?

To reverse the cycle of Avarice’s pedals,

and, stand up for the misunderstood?

Marian, like life, is no longer fair.

There are no merry men.

John has all but been destroyed,

he’s;

bereft, bemused, belittled.

Enduring strife with every breath of air,

should you suffer it again?

When will our children’s simple joys,

bequeath;

retribution in every giggle?

We are the rebels!

We, Robin Hoods!!

We must rise, revolt, make war!!!

Dampen the spirits of those greedy devils,

who bathe in pauper’s bloods.

Robin Hood statue outside of Nottingham Castle
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

Babylonian Cheeks

Cheesy moon at midnight pings

it’s beams down

upon a colourful commonplace town

pavement shimmering with blood and teeth

policemen oinking hearty.

Slipping

upon ripe banana skin

the fall – opens the flesh

fracturing bone

but, also, opening minds

coincidentally

courage

could never before

see our age

unified and advantageous.

– black and yellow meets red and white –

A wasp with great insight stings

a shrieking clown

his big lipstick smile made into a deathly frown

pass the parcel and the EpiPen, please,

at a child’s birthday party.

Foraging the dark arts

bold and free; golden,

exiting the mental metal cage

with toughened knuckles

and white-hot sharpened senses

ready to redden

Babylonian cheeks

angrily

in a manner

most outrageous.

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

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

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

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.”