poem

Callum Featherstone

puppet mastery 101

the puppeteer; has scaly, reptilious skin,
a charming, colourful, cataclysmic chameleon,
with eyes of, devouring, gluttonous jealousy,
like glowing, bite-sized, emeralds,
the puppet-strings, that are pulled,
are made of, flaccid human backbones,
spineless, and, apathetic, docile, and, weak,
always easy, to bend, shape, and manipulate,

the puppets; are twisted, in a daily spin,
forever unfurling, and, falling from favour; like disgraced comedians,
or, top-storey, tumbling clerics, guilty of heresy,
their shelf-lives, are; fugitive; ephemeral,
the pre-packaged, chicken-y cattle, are; disjointed, culled,
mooing, clucking; moo-ucking; those unrelaxed tones,
soundbites of; tinned laughter, canned speech,
eager to unoffend, a sterile escapade, veiled by a fake-crusader’s cape,

the audience; never looks up, from their, feeding troughs,
staring, ravenous eyes, and, mawing, myopic mouths,
transfixed on; oven-ready propaganda,
an amuse-bouche, of; punch, and, judy politics,
succulent headlines, curried scapegoats,
a diet of; regurgitated news cycles,
each garden-variety brain, is, washed, boiled, and, mashed,
then, cannibalised, and, ingested, by the, frenzied, factory-fed,

the puppeteer’s; plotlines are misleading oft,
making polar norths, into, cancerous tropic souths,
teaching true-falsehoods, that reveal, and, cover, the lingua franca,
with, tongued wands, that cast, polyglottal tricks,
selling ice, to; Inuits, and, Amazigh; Saharan raincoats,
making a play, of religion, and, a cat’s paw; the idol,
the final act is here, box office takings, are; sealed, and, stashed,
as, the audience; counts sheep, daydreaming, of lying in fantasy’s bed,

but, ostensibly…

the outcome is always the same,
the outcome is always the same,
the outcome is always the same,
the outcome is always the same,
the outcome is always the same,
the outcome is always the same,
the outcome is always the same,
the show is, almost, finished,

and,
inevitably, before, the final curtain,
you beg for…

La Fin.

Callum Featherstone

A life well-lived & the perpetual realms of yonder

Inevitably, your moments of; heartache, and, jubilation, sorrow, and, raucous laughter, will be momentary brushstrokes, of humanising colour, on an eternal, universal, canvas. It does not matter, if, post-use, your sapient, vehicular, corpus is; burnt, buried, or, embalmed. Every; thought, behaviour, and, action, made, in all conscience, must be accounted for, on your soul’s departure, from Gaia.

Just as, an ancient, Egyptian heart, must weigh, equal to, or, less than, the sacred feather of Ma’at. And, St. Peter’s keys, will only allow entrance, to the righteous, at the pearly gates, of the kingdom of heaven. The bearer of the soul, has, not only the mystical responsibility, but, the metaphysical obligation, and, duty, to be; morally and intrinsically: good.

Goodness is paramount to a clean conscience, and, more importantly, a clean soul. Spiritual; cleanliness, wholesomeness, and, goodness, are imperative, in order for the soul to continue, peacefully, on it’s supranatural journey, along the Milky Way, and, onto, the perpetual realms of yonder.

And, when, all is said, and, done, as your life, in all it’s ubiquity, magically, propels before you – like a feature film, or, flip-book, composed of; your natural essence, transfigured by, the shifting sands of time – will you be pleased with, how you; formed opinions, treated others, and, lived your life?

Or, will your soul, be burdened by; sin, loathing, and, regret? Forced to recount, every; hateful decision, every misinformed opinion, and, every missed opportunity, to form healthy human, and, spiritual bonds?

Your familial bloodline, and, genetics, may carry forth, or, they may not – that is, ultimately, out of your control. Yet, your opportunity to contribute, as many beautiful brushstrokes, to this; galactic masterpiece, as your life permits, is perfectly, within your grasp. And, in contributing with good; heart, mind, and, conscience, you enable your soul’s interstellar travel, to the stars; smooth, succinct, and, better yet, truly astounding.

All bonds, of virtue, that bind, righteously, will endure armageddon – not only, sororal, and, fraternal.
Your body, will grow, languid, and, old, but, if wholesome, your soul, will spring eternal.
And, while your body, may be, lost at sea, cremated in flames, or buried within Earth’s crust.
Your before, your presence, and, your beyond, are, permanently crafted, by the moulded creation, of life, in stardust.

Callum Featherstone

A Dervish, named; ‘Constantine’.

I, Myself. Constantine.
A trailblazer. Making my mark,
until tremors, quaking, and, a long lived aftershock. Got trapped, got sick, now,
making my way home; to Torment.
Manifested;
off-track, lost, unfound, raging, bitter, twisted.
And, sick. Obviously.

Disorientated, tranquil tornadoes,
of, marauding memories,
revolve statically;
sarcastically whirling,
with the sincerest, of all, ironies;
like a Dervish, riding a languid carousel,
a Dervish, named;
‘Constantine’.
The inert twisters,
carry, and, cast –
concealed emotions,
that are; born to seek death,
that are; created to destroy.

The camouflaged
saliences, are;

re -visited,
re -worn,
re -vealed;

‘In the stitching –
a khirqa of shame, whispers, “guilt survives, long after, the dead, have been mourned.” As sorrow seeps, from, a blood-soaked; hood, cuffs, and, sleeves – where cloying, bloodthirsty tarmac, bore it’s teeth, causing shudders. Devouring all escapes, to salvation.
And, after grasping, deep-down,
in those, endless, cloak pockets, Mercy, was found slain. Smothered, by iniquity, concrete, rocks and rubble, as compassion is, demolished by dark, anguished,
traumatic silences.’

Uncontrollable
obedience – stagnantly spins,
and, turns, soothing provocations,
into, a, swooner’s consciousness.
Hushed screeches vomit, teasing and tormenting; to mutilate…
To massacre;
a begging, bruised, exhausted, inner-sanctum.

A colourless draining.
The colour is fading,
from psyche’s cheeks,
a liquidating; of shady pulp,
of soft, once radiant,
rainbow spattered, but, now, only;
grey matters.

I, Myself. Constantine.
A soggy, battered, quivering, hasbeen. An already; blazed trail.
Long forgotten.
Lying beneath,
a superego’s ocean-jungle undergrowth, where there, once was, a long, plumed, dove-white robe.
Overgrown, crestfallen, and, un-phren-dly;
lying beneath,
the forsaken waves, of; lost seas, past shocks and, cruel, convulsive, inclemencies.

Callum Featherstone

Fifty-two lightning strikes; deserted.

Escaping,
bitter seas,
of, slippery grips,
betwixt,
waves of gritted,
inhumane hands;
are; ferocious tides,
of, untimely;
porous – reveries,
scattered notions,
of buckets and spades,
abandoned;
castles of sand.

Amongst,
searing footsteps,
of, downtrodden,
Atlas-burdened,
vanishing – caravans;
yearns; a purpose,
however, unlikely;
changing tact,
or, track?
Parting seas, or, ways?
Searching for answers,
or, the truth?
Fearing God, or, man?

Eviscerating,
the pot-bellied,
beach,
with hurled,
long-ranging bolt,
of, Zeus’,
electrifying brand;
galvanis-ing;
crack,
and, crash,
sublime-ly;
exploding;
bashful,
pock-marks,
on the coastline’s;
dusty naval,
then, birthing
mishaps,
of, misshapen,
yet, fierce; fulgurite,
a serendipitous,
by-product,
of a,
vengeful,
God’s
plan.

Callum Featherstone

A prophetic fratricide

By flipping 999, urgently,
Babylon is reluctantly uncovered,
the oppressor arises, fervently,
delivered, sealed and signed,
to your doorstep, hurriedly,
by an Amazonian, droning runner.

The online quarry, scurried-ly,
is quietly, quickly mined,
for data, to stone you, brutally,
lapidating mankind in the gutter,
serpents, demons; morph – mutably,
atop infernal; BlackRock, undefined.

Devilish hands, are biting; toothily,
cloven-hoofed and snarling glovers,
stealing and swallowing, with impunity,
every light that longs to shine.

Proxy-wars – created; “legally”,
a Capital design,
the Red Shields, gleam greedily,
in earthly echelons of upper,
when you seek the truth, objectively,
then humbly you will find,
that freedom’s fight is lost, detained, and, unsympathetically, smothered.

The corpse of; Lady Liberty,
lies; unequivocally undermined,
Her death is a lesson, in; futility,
for everyone that suffers.
Mutineers must unshackle, mentally,
from this global garrison;
where ligatured propaganda binds,
before emancipating, gently,
those divided, conquered, agonising;
Others.

So, gouge and remove,
that omnipotent; all-seeing eye,
in an unblinkered revolution;
blind and blur, be raging,
rise up, rebel, intensely.
Cause a prophetic fratricide,
ending ever-gazing, watchful, sight,
by young sibling’s – insurgency,
overseeing the, sovereign fraternities, final supper.

Improve the vision of evolution,
erase those deplored, despotic rulers,
descry a world regime obliterated;
a blazing orbit, cremating,
the incarnate, robotic, abomination, we call our; Bigger Brothers.

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.

Callum Featherstone

The lamb and the fox

All the sheep have been pacified;
penned in, pinned down, passed out,
as their coats are roughly shorn.
The wool is pulled over; passive eyes,
skewing views, from amassing doubt,
preventing a herd from being warned.

The foxes’ cunning; salivates,
at the very thought of consuming;
a lamb, without a wary flock.
A sly, auld plan, to isolate,
with shorn coat, ‘put on’; for grooming,
makes a veiled ovine, of the fox.

Though the lamb, naively trusts,
this shape-shifting, deceptive, con,
there’s an unsettled feeling within,
an inkling, a notion, that revolts, disgusts,
whenever this Reynard, speaks upon,
their analogy, and, how they’re akin.

The fox, lured the lamb, into the woods,
the Merino, extended fox’s journey,
ridiculing Reynard’s valor; lost,
across the road the yearling trudged,
being followed; by crushing mercy,
as, crimson lorry wheel, and, sheepish precocity,
had alas, finally, outfoxed the fox.

Callum Featherstone

Step into the Light

To stand. In the shadows.
Of greater men
-talities;
opaquely.
Unbeknownst of the burden.
Carried; within a silhouette;
of gleaned knowledge.

Dusky, sagely tonnage,
makes cerebra; camel-shaped. Combusting broken, humpy backs.
Ignited; under straw, sewn, skins.
By matchsticks, of sparked duress.

A fire then, lifts, in a burning rage,
courtesy of, camel’s corpse;
showing; Death, is only the beginning; of enlightenment.
And, from; great tribulation, great pain, great loss. Cometh; infinite wisdom.

The miles travelled, within a, fleshed vessel, are;
a measure of;
insignificance…
Within; the Creator’s multiverse.
Just as, the bacterium’s rotating filament is;
unnoticeable, trivial, paltry,
to mankind’s eye.

A soul has no need to walk,
only, to be, an impetus,
for, the light, or, the dark.
A journey to the realms of infinity, beckons.
And, a destination;
unknowingly preordained.
Leaving; an unbeaten path; of universal footprints.

Callum Featherstone

Love’s perilous shallows

Those sunken…

relationships,
cause wrecks,
when love is perilously shallow.
Reluctant and scorned, the captains,
dive into their slippery,
ill-gotten, untitled, reckonings.

A backpedalling pool,
of thick, cementing gruel,
turning stomachs,
into, trodden, broken,
ceramics,
and, once, placid waters,
into, viscous, panics.

“King Cnut was awash,
with humility, and, a gut-wrenching knot, in his defeat, to the seas,
and, deemed them; majestic,
Godly, and, hallowed.
For, he knew, then, that his reign,
could not stop, the rains of April,
nor, reverse the ocean tides,
despite his courtiers’ love,
being perilously shallow.”

The salty waves,
of harpoon-shaped tears,
submit to sandy cheeks of forlorn,
creating crestfallen beach tides.
Memories resurface; embittered,
and, resentful,
as, sodden spite, is beckoning.

Frostbitten, arctic remarks,
chisel those, once, bleeding hearts,
into cold, scuppered; currachs.
Punctured, and, capsized,
from, ice-veined, blue-blood, it freezes, and, attacks;
subverting, and, destroying the voyage; of doomed solicitude;
when love is perilously shallow.

Callum Featherstone

A message from Gaia.

Where did all the compassion go?
Is it lost; in the Sun’s, ashen glow?
Is it locked; in hearts, that unfasten, slow?
Please, find it, and, return it to Me.

I talked to My Brother;
testy Ares,
His rage spoke of Him watching,
Me burn, convulse and freeze.
He saw those smothering,
fleshy fairies,
self-caged, hate-soaked, plotting,
with yearned pulse, for Me, to seize.

My Sister; loving Aphrodite, too,
cried, agonised,
weeping, at human destruction,
Her dusty tears, made clouds of ash.
Her vista turning, grey, from blue,
My blackened eyes,
from bloody knuckles, of consumption.
Unjust; I fear; gnawing fists, unabashed.

I heard My Siblings, both, and vowed,
never again,
to become, abused and broken,
enduring an insane plight, scared,
and, rid Myself, of this parasite.
This poison growth, is overproud,
severing Men,
will leave Me bruised, yet, awoken,
from an inhumane nightmare,
and, back, to health, and joy, and light.

Where did all the compassion go?
Is it lost; in the Sun’s, ashen glow?
Is it locked; in hearts, that unfasten, slow?
Please, find it, and, return it to Me.