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The uncredited, uncared for,
unsung, heroes;
noble, kind, and, unselfish acts.
Fade from sight, and, sound,
into obscurity,
like; a bum-note on Karaoke Night.

Antagonistic fake, plastic, white knight’s,
plume breasts, at round tables,
bedecked, in, platinum-plated,
silver-screened armour,
whilst, counting up, all of the zeroes,
on, starstudded, Hollywood cheques.

A milky, American audience,
cries, for seconds, and, encores.
They, all, scream, and, shout,
collectively, for, ‘More, more, more!!’

False narratives, are made;
tokenistic, faux-ethnic, clichéd,
along with, cult-enamoured attempts,
to; woo culture, by way,
of, condescending amour.

And, reality, is…

Cut.

The irony, has, killed, the protagonist.

Now, pale, sickly, snowy, whitewashed, avalanching; imitations,
slowly die, rebirth, and, infect,
the coffee-coloured plotlines.

And, the precious, Black, woollen yarns,
are, sheared, subjugated, spun, and, then sold. Enslaved, by, a contractual story, untold. From, the embittered, twisted hands, and, lips, of, the corrupt, directing,
Californian farmers.

© poormansdreams

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How big, has, the Phoenix, called; Consumption, grown?

Big enough, to fill, eight-billion caskets.
Plump enough, to fill, every pot.
Wise enough, to answer,
any question, should you, ask it.
Deadly enough, to kill, any myth,
dream, wordsmith, or, naïve romancer.
It smothers, all the people, of the world, with less,
and, their; untold stories, in a vicious, ugly bind,
betwixt; it’s fiery wings, and pluming breast,
and, with a beak of fury, pecks, their eyes out, blind.
Whilst, pecking, gravely, holes in every, single plot.

How far, has, the Phoenix, called; Consumption, flown?

Around, the planet, a multitude of times.
Sprinkling, holidayed tears, in tsunamis, of, €$£¥-shaped, misery,
like, wrathful; albino equines,
or, shipwrecking; Easter, Yule -tides,
from, blinkered eyes, that, roll back, and, forth,
with, undercurrents of currency,
that, lap, and, land upon egg-shaped shores.
And, as, misfortunate souls, are lost,
to, seas of disfavour, what remains tries to remain brave,
as, Consumption, caws, upon a giant, green wave, of, destruction,
and, revels, in, the tsunami’s death-toll, and, it’s, unreported costs.

How high, does, the Phoenix, called; Consumption, fly?

Always, in, upper-echelons,
and, at, eye level, with, ivory towers.
Looking-down, upon, wistful, wretched ones,
whilst, perched on the shoulders, of, those in power,
creating, a landing strip, of, the depressioned ones,
mixing, their, black, and, dogged woe, to make, tarmacadam,
and, alongside the runway, which runs, only one way,
the verges, serve as, a eulogising memorandum,
as, there, planted, are lonesome, bereft Lily flowers.

Why, oh, why, won’t, the Phoenix, called; Consumption, die?

It only, lives as long as, you, let it.
If you, feed it, it, will always, come back.
It only, lives as long as, you, let it.
If you, need it, your spirit, will rot; green
and decay, until, finally; turning to black.
We must, pluck, and, be rid, of, the feathers; golden, and, unabashed,
from, this; bird of prey-ing on the meek,
once, we’ve killed, the Phoenix, called; Consumption,
we, can raise, a dyeing tincture, called; Future’s Freedom, out of, it’s, ash.

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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

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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

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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…..

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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

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