living

Callum Featherstone

the Dark.

Searching —
in;
the Dark.

Behind closed
eyelids.
Where silhouettes
become
equine arced
horizon’s
wide bids.
To dressage
unforgets.
Canter shadows
in
the moments
of our syne.
Incantations
of the
kin
we left
behind.
Coalescencing
with
the patterns
come
the night.
Inconspicuous
are guises
called, ‘the Dark’.
Behind those
closing, tired
eyes.
I gallop
towards a blink
in
ever’s memory.
I shall not
cower
at pinks, greys, and blacks
linked together;
emery.
When I brush
and tangle
with my thoughts
in
the mane
I charge on forth.
To the lushing
greenly meadow
of our
reverie.
This is
happening.
Yet, has already
happened.
From the start.
And, too, will happen.
At the end.

This is, truly, seeing.
This is, truly, being.

Searching —
in;
the Dark.

© poormansdreams

Callum Featherstone

the amputee

he’s sewn up,

sore.

and, missing;

something?

some things?

or,

somewhere?

missing.

missing; somewhat?

or, is it, someone?

a jigsaw piece;

minus it’s edge.

a garden hose;

but no hedge.

a windowsill;

without a ledge.

this fascination

with forbidden lust

is an –

amputee –

both arms;

taken;

forsaken.

and, with that being said,

he’s; still;

besotted

with a pair of gloves.

but, nevertheless,

trustily supported

by two good legs.

epiphany;

disregarded.

for, what one lacks,

sore,

one doesn’t

necessarily know

not to need

in these

matters of amour.

and,

regrettably,

one should never

overlook;

what’s beneath,

when able

to take a ride

on

romance’s

intimate see-saw.

nor,

turn their backs

on

true love’s

magnificent stampede;

in boots;

inconsiderately worn.

Callum Featherstone

Lost, properly

Another

night lost –

to this infernal game

of sleep. Another light lost –

to this internal

flaming

heap.

Another day, found; wanting,

ever-seeking, left

behind. Suffer

darkness;

unfounded: daunting,

ever-creeping, when in mind.

Another time or another place,

Another line on another face,

Another calm before the storm,

Another baby to be born.

Another life is another death,

Another fight for another breath,

Another want, another need,

Another plot – for which to bleed.

Another jab, another hook,

Another play – not by the book,

Another lie becomes the truth,

Another, “why?” crushed under boot.

Another step in lands of Hinter,

Yet, another long, bleak winter,

One more liberty carelessly lost,

Bitterly frozen by piercing frost.

Another

toll cost – to

the extending tarmac

adam. Another soul lost – to

the never-ending

blackened

chasm.

Another scarlet debtor, found;

humanity is justly,

repossessed.

Smothered faces

turn raging red, thrusting,

brutality; into Robin’s breast.

Callum Featherstone

Don’t mind me

Saturated emptiness;

oozing – pickled defeat. Dripping in lamentation.

The brain became an anciently soiled kitchen sponge,

bedecked in grimy morose, and, greased dismay,

each hollow ostia – a den of distress,

forgotten chutes, where legends and ideas should spark creation.

Instead, the tale of the springy, squashing grapple with grunge;

grew into asphyxiation, at the dirt encrusted hands of Grey.

Sucking joy, from every cushioned orifice, until the overflowing

bowl became, just, dregs of despairing.

And, the dried dregs turned to a black, tarry residue; unknowing,

they are scraped – into the brimming kegs of uncaring.

But, don’t mind me;

I am the disappearing, desolate dishwater;

uncontrollably cascading down the punishing plughole of inhumanity.

And,

I was almost, nearly…

never, really…

here.

Flagellated unfriendliness;

kind words are pushed down, beaten back, whipped away.

Each harshly inspected smile – considered a smirk of contempt,

enamelled grins of violence, lipped beams of ill-will.

Wishing nothing but dental uncleanliness,

to every lip, tongue, jaw and fang on demonic display,

and, all the pains of brutal, bruising discontent

to be swallowed – by their owners, in a tiny, bitter pill.

Crushing victory in the maws of defeat; crunched bliss

is chewed and broken – into meaty, cakey pieces; devoured.

Each digested morsel a reminder of a sweet, yet, deadly kiss

from the lips and teeth of a cloying, carnivorous coward.

No, don’t mind me;

I am the forsaken crumbs; wiped away.

Wiped away from a mouth that relishes consuming the hearts and souls of those unseen, unacceptable, unfortunate ones.

And,

I was almost, nearly…

never, really…

there.

Callum Featherstone

Soliloquy culled

He removed the toque

and bowed his head,

shamefully,

as though every secret,

lie and misdeed were

engraved

upon his mottled cranial tablet;

‘the writing is on the bald,

auld Apache.’

I think she meant ‘alopecia’.

She exuded smoke,

he cowed, coughed and left,

painfully,

it was the first time she’d cut

him to the core, yet, deeper,

impaled

by barbed words from her palate,

a mouth aghast, appalled,

alas, he,

never intended to aggrieve her.

Words can be weaponry, inflicting damage lasting eons.

Words can be incendiary, turning cherubs into demons.

His body, indiscreet,

every scar, mark and blemish

obtained from this unwanted life,

were, classified documents; leaked,

Sorrow’s woodpecker had been peckish,

boring holes deep, into his desperate skin of strife.

The story finished in defeat,

soliloquy culled, forced to perish,

machete thrust, from tonguing knife,

made edgy points; too sharp for cheeks,

an empty vessel, bereft, unable to replenish,

no sleep, nor soul to keep, ‘This is the end’, spoke his eyes.

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

The storm of I

Staring out into naked abyss,

optics wander in twilight’s wonder,

stardust gleaning sacred bliss,

vision listens to silent thunder.

The universal rains lash down;

they make vast waterfalls among the heavens.

Open tear ducts; eternal, splashing down,

closed lids crashing…

down, still, always – Catch; fifteen. Then, adding seven.

The black cascade envelops all it touches,

no matter the presentation,

the make-up plumes from scarlet brushes,

have a bird’s eye view; their final destination.

This pupil set within the storm of I,

is not enlightened nor insightful.

It couldn’t see the worlds bore inside,

it’s maker, yet, remained open minded.

Until, a benevolent outlook was razored,

gouged, clawed, blinded,

at the hands of human-nature.

Behold, this glaringly undelightful,

this epidemic Myopia,

deceptive, cruel and spiteful,

this future unforeseen,

presently; apathetic and obscene,

this, ‘Forlornucopia’,

held aloft for all to see;

perpetually consuming glee;

consuming all… of you, and them, and me.

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.