Written by Callum Featherstone 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, […]
An Ode to Heart
poetry and writing
Swansong
so-
A mb-
re,
Sw-
a-
n’s,
cu-
rl-
ing,
ne- Rarely,
ck. takes, the time, to, longingly,
straighten out. If, it, took, a honking
step, toward; a banal, straight line. Wo-
uld, Lir, hear, his children’s; swansong?
Or, pinion feathers, flip, on breezes, as, they,
flap, about?
© poormansdreams
Apex’s Pique
Sojou-
rning, sco-
rnfully, to J-
upiter’s red s-
pot. The circu-
lar, scarlet rage,
it, roundly, and, r-
ubily, rotates, into
whirlwinds, of ste-
aming, magma, hot.
The firef-lies, lay, t-
heir eggs, in; truth,
and, hope, that, d-
eceptions, hatch.
The batches, fl-
y, never, brou-
ght to, light.
Oppressi-
vely, the-
y, stay.
© poormansdreams
Skins of Adder
Is, it, really, worth,
luxuriously, spending,
any, of, the time, thinking about,
a laborious, zig-zag, evolution,
when, we’ve, all, gro-
und, to a halt, and,
the neverending story,
has, fallen down, tumbling…
tragically, then,
…drowned, in, sobbing,
bottomless puddles,
keen for; restitution.
Be careful, when, slither-
ing up, the greasy ladder,
to, pole position, when,
it’s, a long way down.
The slippery slopes, moult
and, slough, most,
like, the skins of add-er.
Poisoned with rage,
they; take-away,
every, soul cast, equalling;
the loss, of, much more,
than, is, ever,
found.
© poormansdreams
“…we’ll be back after these messages.”
Advertising, and, selling; avarice.
From, a soap box, of; loving hate.
When, it’s, screens, are, turned-off,
the blackened, square hole, is; cavernous.
When, it’s, viewership, is, turned-on,
the captor’s, uncleanly; reel in the bait.
Once, steeled, and, mettled, imaginations.
Welded, into; cerebral shackles.
Worn by, zombies; the meaty prisoners,
in, solitary cells, of; fabrication.
Webbed, lied-to, wrists; impressed upon,
misunderstand, their; upped hackles.
Furring clasps, around; synapses.
The servitude, of, stroke-ing, lost selves.
Capital flesh, is, imprisoned, in, the
cholesterol, of, shop aisles. It collapses.
“There’s, MORE, in the back… Hurry up!!
Stop thinking… Stock the shelves!!”
Want’s desires; outlived hope, and, outlast,
any, notion, or, sense, of, mind.
Audienced memories, are; captured,
by; dredged, forgetful, enmeshed; pasts.
‘Compatriots of Togetherness’, are;
canned myth; unlaughed. Re-runs; resigned
© poormansdreams
Speculum
The pills don’t
make me any better
anyway. It’s all just another
person’s scheme.
They just leave
a bitter taste…
…leave me bitter…
…without a mirror to save
face. And without a self
or even it’s esteem.
Without a saving grace.
Just simply without.
insomnia is just,/,tsuj si ainmosni
a word,/,drow a
these days,/,syad eseht
it all blurs into a,/,a otni srulb lla ti
breathless scream,/,maercs sselhtaerb
I wish upon some stars but they don’t
hear me calling.
Maybe because we are both too busy
lovelessly falling
from our broken skies and dreams.
I used to be so sure that these indignant
days would pass. That I’d reach a peak
up high above the flat. Made in my honour.
And peer into joy through a looking glass.
but, that, too, fell…
cracked,/,dekcarc
broke,/,ekorb
and, shattered,/,derettahs into morose,
just, like, everything else.
The apologies don’t reach this far down.
Sor-./.-roS
© poormansdreams
Midwinter’s Lamentation
Midwinter,
is, an unsleeping, corpse bride, unwed.
Who’s tormented grief, permeates,
the ether. She’s, permanently, entombed
in, every; glistening, sorrowful, cracked,
mirror, that seems to, impress upon,
the pitch, the brick, and, the grass,
the forested branch, and, tarmac…
reflecting Her open caskets of bitter hatred.
Runaway lover,
uncaught. Jilted, by a luminary, of
the day. Which, means, no light, can, ever,
comfort Her. There, can be, no other.
Not even, His, night-time adversary.
All, that was, uplifting, became, vacuumed,
icy dunes of hope; dead, unshifting,
through, limp, wet fingers, sifting…
solar grins outshone moonlit passes made.
Hearken to, Her.
She, embodies; a silent, keening chorus.
It grips, all, it touches, far, or, near,
with, unmoving, silent decibels.
Freezing, on impact, with; clear, dulcet, spiked, nothingness. Please, my dear,
be careful, not to crush, Her, underfoot…
air rues another year of Her spinsterhood.
A, lament, seizes.
Each, day, and, night, as Her, immortal,
enemy. Making them; rigid, uptight,
uneasy. Immovable, except, of course,
for the eyes. She, has; Her reasons. He,
always, used to, compliment, Her features.
Now, She longs, for a love, that, unfreezes…
pray to propose, thaw’d, do; Neptune, Pluto.
© poormansdreams
Who, are, ‘They’?
They’re selling,
themselves, short,
of, a; just ’cause.
Please, stop. The presses.
A paper-cut,
for, every, curved bend,
and, every, fold.
A cut-throat,
razorblade,
to, the otherside,
at, a cut-price.
Spiritual strains, and, stresses,
for, every, cut-throat,
and, every, soul, sold.
They’re shelling,
in, the news report,
on foreign wars,
screaming caresses,
open, and, shut,
wounds/words unmend,
in, a story told.
A scuttled boat,
tailor-made,
refuge denied,
death’ll suffice.
Hitherto, drowned, ashamed debtors,
for, every scuttled boat,
dinghy, or, raft, unafloat.
They’re, felling,
the amazon, for sport.
Trunks, chafed, and, sore.
The shaman’s lore, confesses;
“A bedraggled hut,
can’t comprehend,
jungle embraces, cold.”
Forest floors, remote,
now, displayed,
deluge inside,
and, out, cries.
The, unnatural, mother of all messes.
History, is, rewritten, rewrote,
on, the best, cut-price, paper notes.
They’re frozen hell’ing,
the devil’s day, in-caught,
ice, blue flames, of, ‘the law’.
Red-horned, thin blue lines, arrest us.
A Tophet trained mut,
sent, to snap at, your end.
“Do as you are told!”
A law-abiding dote,
awoken, dismayed,
cancelling minds,
laying down, lies…
…lest we forget, the protesters.
A blank cheque, puts on, its coat,
and, off, into the sunset, it rode…
…time, and, again…
…for, every, cut-throat…
…and, every, soul, sold.
Yes, a blank cheque, puts on, its coat,
and, off, into the sunset, it rode…
…time, and, again…
…for, every, cut-throat…
…and, every, soul, sold.
© poormansdreams
Words from Water
After a time, of
trial, underwater, I,
have been, made a trial,
of, for, my green naïveté.
By, blue judges, sojourning,
atop; seabeds, oceanbeds, and,
riverbeds, all, whom, convey. That,
it takes,
only, seconds,
to be; jettisoned,
or, cast, or, swept; away.
Even, less, of a while, to dive in,
or, to get wet, and, be carried, upon,
hooligan-ed waves,
without, a single, sorry,
soaken, word to say. But, it,
takes, an untidal age, of eclipsed,
moonlit eons, for a river-, or, ocean-
mouth, to speak. In shock. When, their,
jolting undercurrents, are yet, to ever, state;
change.
© poormansdreams
I am the Ocean. I am wrecked.
Once upon a notion,
I warred,
against, an Ocean,
of uncried tears.
They coalesced,
on the battlefield,
of my Soul,
rigid, reticulated,
frozen.
I gunned down,
the last of the emotion,
with, shattered shells,
of me, broken,
cannons fired,
on fears,
at my behest,
a forked feeling,
on every axed pole,
insides, ended,
by implosion.
The waves, of,
my innermost,
sanctum,
are consumed,
like Whales,
swallowing Plankton.
I’m left, just,
about,
alright,
alive,
trapped,
between,
the deep,
blue teeth.
All remedies,
are, corked,
and, I sank them,
the puddled spite,
serves as,
memorandum.
The unsurfaced truth,
is, what, lies beneath.
I am an inky blot,
a hydro-error,
an oxy-thief.
A misshapen,
lost sole, a forgotten footprint,
on the Seas.
Ego Oceanum sum.
Ego naufragus sum.
In aeternum;
erratum.
© poormansdreams
poorman'sdreams 