poetry and writing

Callum Featherstone

Rise up and rebel.

Rise up and rebel, rebel for your children,
rebel for the hell, that is coming to kill them,
rebel for your mothers, your fathers, grandparents,
for your sisters and brothers, for paupers and peasants.

Rise up and rebel, for the modern day slaves,
for the el-, derly pensioners forced to dig their own graves,
for the missing children, for their lost adolescence,
for the secrets still hidden, for our antidepressants.

Rise up and rebel, for lost dreams and ambitions,
for those falling or fell, to the bottomless system,
rebel for your past, rebel for their futures,
for the data amassed on govern-mental computers.

Rise up and rebel, for the times that you’ve struggled,
rise up and do tell, of pain and sorrow redoubled,
purposely pummeled, of a world befuddled,
of a clown-run-circus, where we’re constantly juggled.

Rise up and rebel, start it over again,
make it fair and repel, those bastards that ken,
where misery dwells, hoping that it extends,
the only rightful revenge? Cut off their heads.

So, rise up and rebel, rise up and rebel,
rise up and rebel, and give them back hell.

Callum Featherstone

Blink, blink.

Lampshades turn,
into, lumps of mashed,
potatoes. Then, alien spacecrafts.
Now, lips for making love.
When, I close my eyes.

White,
turbulent,
ceilings turn,
into, treks; off the,
beaten path. Then, far-
reaching ridges, looking-
over, past; hair-risen sojourns.
Now, insurmountable; Everest-peaky thrills.
When, I close my eyes.

Future possibilities;
fade into forced – syringed, surpassing fate.
An unhinged – not-so-green-grassing gate.
Then, cringed – lassoeing, everlasting hate.
Now, a stinged – passing date. Stung; past.
Now, my eyes are closed.

Blink, blink.

Now, I am stung. Passed away.

Callum Featherstone

modern Pontius Pilates

to be amongst multitudes
of melting, red, swelling, estuating

snowflakes
dripping off a burning crucifix

causing a gory deluge
from a bloody river, women and men-

struating, flowed hate-
ful, awokened lunatics

the apocalyptic book of Enoch
never prepared us
for racist, vitriolic Enoch Powell

internet commentar-ies got
no self-awareness
a dot com shit from the bowels

of hell, the smell, of sentimental fecal sediment, the trolling, tolling bell-never-ends

cancelled, freedom-stealing
anchored wankers, are revealing
the unconscious bias
of modern Pon-tius Pilates

What would Jesus do?
Probably, log out, and, log off?
Possibly.


World-wide-webbed, dogmas, say;
Ask God… or, Google it…
Doggedly.

Callum Featherstone

Slumber’s death-throes

Sleeplessness,
that; unmistakable,
unavoidable, unaware, off-key,
flat, unmelodic, petulant, spiteful, pest.

Unsleep,
that; unwholesome, unwelcome, unwanted,
out-of-tune, torturous, off-kilter,
flower wiltering, bitch.

Insomnia,
that; wicked, silent, jarring, noisy, tenored-
siren from the deep. In not-so short-ish; a deranged, depriving, depraving, depressing, CUNT.

Nightened, are; Slumber’s death-throes.
Frightened, is; Wonder’s; outstretched nose.
Unenlightened; Thor’s thunderous; head blows.

And, all I want, from the Gods, is;
a piece, a morsel, a crumb, a second…
…of peace.

As the unlit hours slip, slip, slip.
Slide away, into obscurity.
The hypothetical tears,
non-existently drip, drip, drip.
The anger fades,
for a viewable eternity.
Sounds escape, my cloying ears,
and, my daydreams of nightmares,
like, turning pages,
can only rip, rip & R.I.P.

The epitaph reads…

‘Here lies sleep; an untruth laid to rest.
Succeeded by nothing, but, nothingness;
only slept with second-best.‘

Callum Featherstone

Blood… hair… silicone.

I never knew that they could live solely on land.
In such great, huge, applauding numbers.
Now… I… Tilikum,
am gonna torture and kill, the next one to stand,
over my depressed, drooping dorsal; encumbered.
Blood… hair… silicone.

I can still remember the day I was caught.
In a purse seine net, webbed with regret.
Never… to… return.
They lured our parents away, they wailed, they fought.
But, our black and white futures, had already been beset.
Tears… still… burn.

I’d heard about them from my mother.
Telling h(a)unting stories after she broke her fasts.
Hunting… to… survive.
She said that eating ‘Otary’ kept us from eating one another.
And, how the circle of life, turned, to keep the future ahead of the past.
A death… for… a life.

The circle stopped turning, the day I was entombed.
The Land-Otary filled it with water, making an aqua-prison.
Round… and… round.
With my flippers and flukes they make me beg for food.
I sing nightly for my supper, my freedom, but only the circle, listens.
Round… and… round.

So, today, I’m gonna do it. I’ve finally squared my circle.
I’m taking no prisoners, no shit, just a scalp.
Nap… the… kid?
I dare, no, double dare, anyone, to rival this berserker.
Staying alive? There’s more chance of me crossing the Alps.
Flip… the… lid.

Blood… hair… silicone…
Blood… hair… silicone…
Blood… hair… silicone…

…I felt awful after killing; Keltie, Daniel and Dawn.

I sang for forgiveness. My dorsal, my depression, sunk even further.

But, they won’t be the last ones to endure a drowning sunset. Rise, then, fall. Rise, then, fall.

This walking, talking, clapping, looped torment, caused by, the Land-Otary.

Is, a stagnant, non-stop, waterwheeled ovation. Lunacy. That makes an Orca, resort to murder.

Callum Featherstone

Multitudes of “being”…

“Being blessed”,

with a grasp of what’s fake,

but, a misfortunate face.

Is, an ill-fitting, masking glove,

poisonous, contorted, laced…

 

…worn atop a horrid, yet, wholesome hand-i-cap…

 

…in a solitary, futile, expressionless game.

 

A trumphant sip, of, the water of life.

Burning; it’s glassy, broken voiced, self-esteam; at the stake.

 

 

“Being encouraged”,

to cope, to carry on regardless.

Without hope, or, good standing.

Is, a floating, mushroomed shroud,

dragging along, leggy hands: demanding…

 

…the outreaching vestiges of pained, bad-luck…

 

…like; seven years of broken mirrors; long, threaded, and, tense, yet, shardless.

 

That everlasting, tentacled sting,

of; a warking; talking jellyfish; heartless.

 

 

“Being contrite”,

for, a forced upon disposition.

Parented by inter-generational headlocks.

Wrestling with future trauma, shaped, like; behemoth-ed head-lice…

 

…as the scythes, of ancestral suffering, shear the infected, obligated dreadlocks…

 

…hatred is embalmed in polychromatic; sapped, shallow, skin-deep ideologies…

 

…and the child wrestler, turned adult combatant, is, now, solely controlled, by; submission.

 

The inability to reach the moment’s height. Passed. Past. 

Due to growth stunted, by; yesterday’s bondaged, shackled partition.

Callum Featherstone

Seeing the wood ‘fore the trees…

I’ve wistfully, cried tears, of perpetual wander…

…with the,
surliest Faeries,
the even-tempered,
ghoulish ghosts, and,
the Merriest,
Men of Olde.

I’ve sweetly dreamed, nightmared, woke and slumbered…

…in the long-
enchanted, bewitched,
Sherwooded Forests,
sung and, danced,
with the sycamored,
groves of Tír na nÓg.

I’ve hurt, delighted, sated and hungered…

…by the Banshees wail,
along the forgotten gleann,
and, finally, hunt and caught,
squirrel cloaked,
and Robin Hooded,
treasure troves.

I’ve hidden and found, disguised and revealed, scaled and bunkered…

…in the fabricated hollows,
of yesterday’s,
great achievements,
in the snugly fitting memoried,
jumpers, in the ever-weaving,
tapestries that life has wove.

I’ve been a rogue, a rover, a drunkard, a redeemer…

in snug, in pub, in person,
in love, at home, to betterment, to worsten,
without a care, with consideration,
caused loss, caused gain, caused hate, caused love, caused devastation,
took hold, and, to myself, wholly shook,
repented – in the presence of Friary Tuck,
and, now, am able,
to not just reach, but be, at heavenly home.

I’ve seen the wood ‘fore the trees.
I’ve seen what was, what would, before me.
I’ve traversed; past, present, future, wood, would, and whatever will be.

But, the real question, is, to which…

…wood, would, or will…

…you, go?

Callum Featherstone

How to turn a warm heart; bitter

Cold hands wink sarcastically
to a warm heart as they chuckle
awkwardly at a – once too many
times repeated – cliché of a joke

Grazed knees, and, palms – still sore –
encounter a slip, trip, and, fall
from getting ahead of themselves

A furrowed brow delves and burrows
millimeter by millimeter into the skin
that left it so helplessly on show

Cold feet cuddle a cold shoulder
all three stand huddled by the smouldering
embers of what once; was

A wry smile remembers where it all went
awry
At the soup kitchen And, hardens
at the thought of soft, toasty kisses
like freshly baked bread
No longer capable of being culinarily
conjured
No longer able to taste
No longer on the menu

That, warm heart, is, now, poor
penniless, broke Back out into the
unrelenting cold
Broken
As it sits cross-legged getting-ever-colder
and, homeless – sleeping rough

This, now, bitter heart, is
mostly; not sleeping at all
Begging for change
But, really it is begging for things to go
back to the way they were
Begging to be whole; again

 

Begging for you.

Callum Featherstone

Most of the time…

Most of the time, I’m lost.
Most of the time, unfound.
Most of the time;
I’m wishing,
well,
to be 100 leagues,
underground.

Most of the time, I’m stuck, thinking.
Most of the time, vanished, sinking.
Most of the time;
to depths deeper,
than the Mariana Trench,
where light has never,
been seen, blinking.

Most of the time, unweeping, hurts.
Most of the time, trapped, inside.
Most of the time;
I feel ashamed, and, upset,
that, oceanic tears,
will never make, a risen tide,
of these long, deserted eyes.

Most of the time, pain flirts.
Most of the time, teased, all over.
Most of the time;
on dates, unmedicated,
in dated, conversations,
on dates, wide-awake,
and, inundated, when sober.

Most of the time, I dream of freedom.
Most of the time, I dream of peace.
Most of the time;
the dove I am, flies high, away,
to escape the closed-eyed, cag-ed fact,
that, eternal slumber’s, reaping,
will be, when I’m, finally, released.

Callum Featherstone

The Great Hungerhill Road

There’s a river between us.
Because of Cromwellian features.

Not the Trent,
nor, the Shannon,
but, the Styx.

There’s an ocean between us.
Because of how far Cromwell, still, reaches.

Not the Pacific,
or, even, the Atlantic,
but, the briny depths of my dreams.

This insatiable thirst for the water of life.
This famishment for the salmon of knowledge.
This yearning, and, longing to know the refugee struggle.
Of, an, escaped to Mapled land, fleeing brother.

Causes painful strife, coloured; red, white, green, and, orange.

Living at the bottom of the great Hungerhill Road,
my solemn footprints become late, hunger-killed souls.

Underfoot;
the drying puddles are the dregs,
of colonial bloodlust never sated,
the littered grain is the leftovers,
of a famine fed on hatred.

Tiocfaidh ár lá, brother, and, bonne nuit,
until our souls meet again, full, and, free.