writing

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.

Callum Featherstone

(Un)fair to middling

In, an anaemic, ashen, Midlands’ city.

Iron skies, are filled, with;
grey buildings, grey faces, grey office(r)s.

Bluely lit.

Grey tarmacadam, is, trampled,
by, restricted, infantile strides. Chased,
by, those porcine protractors,
with truncheons.

Peel-ing away, at, schoolchildren’s,
stunted development. Stunned, flinching youth, is;
tasered, arrested, killed – inside.

On a street, called; Sorrow
Road…

…short-lived, and, long-gone,
stroll, hand-in-hand; synonymous.

None, are reimbursed, for, their fugitive time invested. Except, Charon.
His payment; a poor man’s shilling,
atop, each eyelid.

Wreaths of lies, are laid,
on, a graveside curb of pity.

Enthusiastically.

Alongside, the strewn, bygone,
neglected:
wishes, dreams, and, promises…

…of, a, faux delighted,
blue skied, rosy nighted; tomorrow.

Which, became,
our; missed, and, leaden today.

Our; misled, kidnapped, unquickening fate.

Our; hopeless, picketed, shade of Pale, beyond.