Written by Callum Featherstone There’s a house missing, on the road you paved, in this bustling city, that is my heart. It was home to all our reminiscing, on the misty cul-de-sac, I’d wave, with knees, grazed, and, gritty, as you smiled, like an arc. The beloved bricks and mortar, that held […]
The Missing House
Written by Callum Featherstone The dying embers, of the summer-sun, lay, like barbecue coals, underfoot. It’s been one hell – of a season, peppered; with grief-stricken – condiments, and, gruesome – herbs. Parties, and, meetings, where sapient meat, became disturbed. Flame flashes rashers, shanks, loins, and, many rarer cuts. Heart-shaped burgers; bitten, burning, and, […]
One Hell Of A summer
Living…
…in a world, gone west-
wardly warped.
So west,
that we, had to, create our own.
Digital downloads,
of, final cuts, so sharp,
from keyboards,
to TV screens,
to mobile phones.
The blind mice…
…are wired,
twenty-four-seven,
and, the cheese, fills,
every rectangular box.
The WiFi speed, denotes,
your strata of heaven,
and, the text message,
has, fallen,
angelically, to usurp, the vox.
But, why, would we want,
to view screens,
over one another’s,
broken-hearted frowns?
It’s the same reason, the only time,
anybody, dares to dream,
is, with, a pillow beneath them,
to, cushion; coming down.
Generational Trauma,
is, a video-game, played out,
“In Real Life”,
since, nineteen-eighty-three.
And, we, are,
“virtually”,
all, virtually connected, now.
But, have, never been, further apart,
in, this; Internetted allegory.
© poormansdreams
It is what it is,
and, it’s not what it was.
You live how you live,
and, you live it, just, because,
the world keeps on spinning,
no matter what you’ve got,
irrespective of your innings,
or, the leopard’s, unchanging, spots.
It is what it is,
and, it’s not what it was.
You relish all of your gains,
until, you’ve really earned a loss.
Your frown envies their grinning,
and, the hunger yearns for the pot.
A good hiding spurns a skinning,
and, the fur coat, slyly, smiles at the fox.
It is what it is,
and, it’s not what it was.
The worker resents building pyramids,
until, he clambers to the very top.
And, while overseeing the underpinning,
loses, a sandy thread, at a deserted cost.
Now, parched, he searches for a cup, thats brimming,
but, all the oases, have long dried up, forever lost.
It is what it is,
and, it’s not what it was.
Your finite time, atop a blue ball,
will leave you, out of pocket, in more ways, than one.
Your loss, and, their loss, outweigh the winning,
you’ll only, ever, know, you’re here, until, someone you love is gone.
As, those echoes of the past, keep on, dinning,
and, you reminisce, on, how, their voices shone.
©poormansdreams
The faces,
of, both,
bad, and, good;
have, all been; painted red.
Now, that,
the world, has begun,
to, be spun,
in, an entrenched, deepfaked,
forward-motion, tethered; backwards.
The paint,
is, innocent’s;
apathetic blood,
mixed, with; a hue of dread.
You’ll taste;
the metallic gun,
and; the setting sun,
in, seasoned, incensed, photographed;
before, and, ever-afters.
And, in, the final,
scarlet rotation,
as, the splattered gore,
befouls; oceans, forests,
and, old mines,
the enfleshed vinyl’s,
last quotation,
will be, “We grovelled; to gold.
So, we bored, we trowelled,
we became hollowed,
for; plastic, and, mankind.”
Over, and, over, and, over, and, over, and…..
It’s better, to be, the undertrained, underdog.
Than jumping; over, jinxed hurdles,
through, fiery hoops, and, rings.
Or, unfounded, in a metallic maze,
of untruths, and, lost,
like, a lonely, bereft, missing link.
It’s better, to be, underrated,
than, in-over-your-head.
Under, the ever-watchful eye,
of, the overseers;
it’s better, to be, an underling.
It’s better to smell, with your eyes,
those fragrant, delectable stars,
looking up, from under,
that, kitchen table, of, a midnight sky.
Than, to have to clamber, over,
your toileting ego, and, get over yourself,
when, pretending, that your shit,
doesn’t stink.
It’s better, to be, under, than, over.
Just shy of greatness,
yet, unpoured down the sink.
It’s better, to be, under, than, over.
Better to be underappreciated,
than bent-over, ignorant, mentally-dead,
a zombie between the ears.
Extinct.
It’s better, to be, under, than, over.
Unless, you’re overcoming,
the undercurrent,
of those, torrential tears, of pain,
that will soothe you,
long after, the deluge’s sting.
And, when you’ve, finally,
counted, all the missing fingers,
lost, all the stacked decks,
and, dealt hands.
When the wind,
has, all, but, gone, from your sails,
when you’ve kicked, punched, head-butted,
and, fought every demand.
When, you’ve searched, your innerly desert,
to find, that, evasive, elusive, grain of sand.
When, you’ve been, knocked down,
time-after-time, but, every time,
you’ve gotten, back to your feet…
…that’s when;
your courage, your grit, your resilience,
rises up,
and, the real rebel,
within you, arises.
That, comrade,
is, when, you, truly; understand.
©poormansdreams
To capture, nurse, and, hold,
the unfairness of it all.
The rapturous, coal-
heartedness, of Hellish
snares, beneath, the Mall.
When, afterwards, those
cauldrons, spout nightly
mares, of, bridled gall.
The captor cursed, his embold-
ened heir, is, a;
hairless toupee,
sheared, and, effortlessly, shorn.
The flesh, is, pierced,
and, punctured, by, the
blade of wickedness.
A chest, buried, by, the weir
-y, encumbered. Wreaths are
laid, by, Triffid’s Bliss.
Sounds of stress, fierce,
and, repugnant, line, the
glades, of, Inner Wist.
As, the Rest, rely on tears,
while, torn asunder, cutting
their way, through, thicker mist.
The end,
much like, the start,
starts with,
a flashing in the pan.
As, the friend-
ship sunk, apart,
embarks, for Unhappiness,
with, Sad.
Send your dogged
embittered bark,
hearts hear no sorries,
in a lost, unlistened land.
And, you can’t mend
a broken heart,
when broken hearts
is all we’ve had.
© poormansdreams
The Baku’s,
outstretched,
snout, rises,
nightly, in the East,
consuming, nightmarish
novel surprises,
like, a,
bargain bucket,
twilight feast.
The Nuckelavee crashes
against Orcadian rock, vehemently,
full of neighing, nostril-burning,
acrid, whale-boned, salty water,
drowning; joyous cheer,
hopeful dreams, and, love aplenty,
along with; tossing, turning
sons, and, daughters.
Elephantine tusks, and, trunk,
Rhinoceros-esque ears,
Cow’s tail, Bear’s body, and, Tigerly, protective, compassioned paws,
Baku, is, never, knowingly, unpronounced,
until, the worldly children’s fears,
give it, a rousing reason, to grab a meal,
of unsleeping dreams, betwixt, it’s claws.
The crop-wilting,
breath, of the Nuckelavee,
leaves, eyes; badly harvested,
as, it, tramples, at full sprint,
young ambitions, thoughts, and, visions,
bringing down, all, upper-trajectory,
and, chasing, fear, by the scent,
of, terrestrial islanders; cumbersome, teary, slumbering footprints.
All the way, from, West to East,
Baku, catches whiff,
of, the Nucklavee’s, despicable,
despotic, demonic plan.
So, Baku, cleans, it’s teeth, and, paws,
with, eyes; wide, and, wildly, yellow, like, lemon pith,
steels, it’s gaze, on, an aquatic equine’s, face,
for, all, to see; Gods, angels, demons, all creatures, and, this man.
What happened next,
was not, of, this world.
They clashed, so mightily,
that, they, even, made Titan’s blush.
A menagerie of; horse, whale, tiger, rhino,
elephant, bear and cow, unfurled,
all; teeth, eyes, manes, and, limbs, ablaze.
But, brilliant Baku, had, the cutting edge, on, ne’erdowell’ing, Nuckelavee, and, the Nuckelavee, was, crushed.
As, the waking world, awoke, and, sneezed,
with, an Achoo!,
fears passed, we were no longer afraid,
the dreaming disease,
had been crunched, swallowed, and, consumed, by, Baku,
leaving, the Nuckelavee; ‘je suis désolé!’,
and, in, it’s heart; destroyed, devoured,
decayed.
So, we pledge, this day,
as; Baku Day.
We travel,
we fight,
we feast.
And, we drink,
good health, to the Nuckelavee,
lying dead,
on the ocean bed,
fed-up, bested, beaten,
and, drowning,
it’s sorrows,
in defeat.
© poormansdreams
Surrounded, by wet,
sycophantic blankets,
and, lettuces,
that, forever,
call, each, and, all,
of, your names,
slipping, sliding, but, set,
pernicious gambits,
that, play apart,
whilst together,
in, capricious dreams aflame.
The current,
flies, and, pulls,
at, your sleeves, and, collar,
waves, of, ennuied electricity,
from, a powerplant, of, shame,
overhead, the,
screeching gulls,
bribed with, seafaring dollars,
and, kinetosis-carried-ambiguity,
in, surreptitious dreams aflame.
‘Your words,
are, all that matter.’
‘Your worth,
is, the only thing at stake.’
You’re diving,
headfirst through a cliché,
ducking, and, dodging,
a world of superstition,
repeating,
“things will never be the same”
but, as, bursting bone, and, blood,
do, splatter,
and, your soul takes leave,
for, it’s own, sardonic, sake,
you’ll, be “glad”, you prayed,
every, and, each day,
as, you, set light,
to, Gods, fear, and, religion,
in, transcendental dreams aflame.
© poormansdreams
To win,
at this, early, age,
agrin,
waving, embryonic banners,
akin,
new, on this, worldly, stage,
a limb,
times-ed by, October’s, gauge,
minus – two,
equals,
twins,
fresh, from a, primordial, manor…
…I wonder – double, you?
To lose,
in, the middle,
be, empty,
a bowel, twisted, sick,
dysentery,
an, unheated, griddle,
paucities – aplenty,
a cat, with, no fiddle,
under, the moon,
sun, set,
blue envy,
a, marital link, lost, unquick…
…I wonder – ex.
To draw,
be square, with, the House,
of lore,
a yarn, now, fully, spun,
galore,
experienced, by, the ounce,
above the law,
looking down, on, all, espoused,
a chromosome’s,
final – breath,
of, alphabeted, awe,
and, a question, of, beginnings, and, ends, undone…
…I wonder – why?…
…Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.
poorman'sdreams 