white

Callum Featherstone

Away

I was away.

When I became
a blazing iconoclast
of innocence.

Aside Swan’s azul canal
serenely passing
by.

Shards collated
like cerise husks of
glass feathers.

Falling wholly from Her
eye.

The falling pieces
they scar the surface.

Marring my purpose
along the stretch.

As stalling features
were caught in cursus.

Barred & berthless.

A thronging wretch.

Piercing crimson crunches;

Let me —

down.

Whilst the Swan’s
unfolded wings
steal Her, white, away.

On silver plumaged
gown.

Away from;
my shattered scarlet sting.

Away from;

a jilted rufous thing.

A part of me
it went away that day.

I watched unstayed
whilst I stood & list.

Never to return.

Under Swan’s glassy lee
my pinion virtue fades;

skypaths white, now, lain
ichor chimney mists.

Dishonour’s furnace burns;

away.

© poormansdreams

Callum Featherstone

Babylonian Cheeks

Cheesy moon at midnight pings

it’s beams down

upon a colourful commonplace town

pavement shimmering with blood and teeth

policemen oinking hearty.

Slipping

upon ripe banana skin

the fall – opens the flesh

fracturing bone

but, also, opening minds

coincidentally

courage

could never before

see our age

unified and advantageous.

– black and yellow meets red and white –

A wasp with great insight stings

a shrieking clown

his big lipstick smile made into a deathly frown

pass the parcel and the EpiPen, please,

at a child’s birthday party.

Foraging the dark arts

bold and free; golden,

exiting the mental metal cage

with toughened knuckles

and white-hot sharpened senses

ready to redden

Babylonian cheeks

angrily

in a manner

most outrageous.

Callum Featherstone

Pink.

In this;

beguiled reality

avarice makes mincemeat of charity

and conceit fucks vanity.

The sick and the needy

die at the hands of the greedy.

Death by hate filled hearts;

scolding via network

scaffolding.

All the while, living in

wholly

indecent matrimony;

wedded by insanity.

“History always repeats itself.

History always repeats itself.”

A war of roses; red and white

without their heads

soon lost sight.

And stem of green then realised;

roses without petals

aren’t needed

nor recognised.

Angry is the blood.

Broken is the bone.

Nothing good can come from

a world wide webbed

throne

where lies are spun from.

And when all is said and done

it seems even odd to; think?

Before your actions

become

the difference between warring factions

and your essence becomes

on the brink

of existing.

Is this;

existence masquerading as extinct?

Or is this,

really;

extinction pretending

to be

in the pink?