writing

Callum Featherstone

Don’t, just, be a star. Become a galaxy.

I’m often, mentally, brought to my knees, with melancholy, when I think, of, the utter callousness, of, the human species.

My cerebellum’s, figurative, grey, grazed patellae are; a metaphor, which compound the pleading, within my mind, for mankind to stop, and, think.

Think about our selfish, greedy, unflinching nature.

Think about our incredible lack of foresight. Foresight, for not only our fellow genus, but, the wider amalgam, of; wildlife, biodiversity, planetary ecology, and, ultimately, our world, and, universe.

Our arrogance, and, sense of self, have become, our own baited, foolish, avaricious universes.
Solitary, loathsome universes, filled with;
galaxies of material wishes,
solar systems of Internet based gratification,
constellations of exploitation,
and, nebulae that beckon fruitless, divisive competition.

All in the hope of ‘getting ahead’ and/or ‘becoming a star’.

Ironically, we are all composed, of; stardust.

And, on that basis, I believe that we should do everything, humanly possible, to create our own; galaxy of justice – here on Earth.

A galaxy, where, instead of compete for monetary wealth, (a practice which has long seen; each, and, every genius star, capable of contributing any egalitarian offering to humanity – “miraculously” being snuffed out by the establishment e.g. Nikolai Tesla etc.) we, lift one another up, amasse, and, unite – within our; ninety-nine-percent nebula.

By eradicating, the elitist; Black Hole, we, together; can create real, monumental change. The kind of change, which will, echo, throughout; the generations, heavens, realms, and, multiverses.

Whilst standing idly by, the so-called ‘elites’ will continue to;
imbibe our misery,
bathe in our systematic poverty,
mop up any hope of our revolution,
and, spew propaganda, via every form of media, to poison the minds of; every generation, it has the manical pleasure of tainting.

The time is now to; expand our minds, gravitate to one another’s plight, and, escape, revolt, and destroy; the elitist Black Hole, which delights in our unchained servitude.

Don’t, just, be a star. Become a galaxy.

Callum Featherstone

Covered in shit.

I see a multitude
of civilisations
numbering millions.

All succumbing
to the human condition.

The ignorant bliss
of futile competition.

And the want for nothing
of the conquering
“Williams”.

The powerful knowledge
desiring
only it’s passing.

Hedonistic idolatry
rooted in poisonous soil.

Blood, sweat, and, tears
of proletariat toil.

A glorious revolution
never to happen.

Propaganda posited
in the national curriculum.

Bonfires burnt
laden with gunpowder.

Squaddies sent to die
while officers cower.

Bees upturned
in their graveyard capitulum.

Vox populi turned
by demagogue’s spit.

Creed, race, and, religion
used to divide.

Subtraction of heroes
dying inside.

And, at the very bottom
of the mountain,

ninety-nine per cent of us; covered in shit.

Callum Featherstone

marching worlds, january’s faces.

stuck
betwixt the tread,
of;

two marching worlds.

weathered, weary brows.
eclipsed grimaces,
curled.

the gravity,
en-masse –
renders souls stomped.

drudging.

unequal, obtuse gaits.
hateful, stubborn heels;

dug in.

taking steps,
to alleviate;

the-ever-climbing-stress.

fallen
– on deafened ears.
forsaken, and, too inwardly –
obsessed.

obsessed –
by the trampling hoof,
of;

right, and,
wrong.

right, left, right, left.

foot on the neck
of a swan’s;

final song.

and, the two jaded faces of
january;

cry,

down to their single-file –
soles
of white.

measuring
irreparable ill-treament
in feet, and, inches;

dark, and, light.

Callum Featherstone

A half-forgotten song

Time is a half-forgotten song.


Each softly sung,
then,

disappearing

note;

is an alarming, eternal reminder
of being secondary
to a larger symphony.

Errors made in haste
din short like catchy,
hooking choruses.

Whilst unmade amends
become musical lessons
that echo;

lengthy, lecturing, lifelong – laments.

Yes, time is a half-f…

Callum Featherstone

A cross to bear that bore a hole.

Innocence violently
punctured;
penetrated,
by the seemingly;
pious,
“preacher-teacher”.

The irony is never
missing;
when finding out,
for real,
the encountered
misery;
in the book of Job,
im-
maturely.

Keeping the faith;
through gritted,
infant
mandible.

A cross to bear
that bore a hole.
Apart – lost from
a heart, and, soul.

The day you came;
to geld a foal.
Invaded deep;
with devil’s goal.

You tried to break
my spirit
by taking away
my virtue.
Lucifer rendered
you complicit;
knowing I would
never hurt you.

And, through all the
hardship, fear, and, pain.
All the anguish
that I live through.
All the times I could have
given up, and, gone insane.

I should hate you, and, want you;

dead.

But, better yet,

I forgive you.

Callum Featherstone

Painting the frown; Dread.

Shifting the gear,
clutching at nostrils.
Eight hours;
of undulating, pedalled pleasure.
Communally imbibing Christ’s
blood, like, twelve apostles.
Resurrection; found in a spirit’s –
double measure…

A snifter of hope –
blown into a smoky bottle.
Three graveyard shifts later,
the zombie’s bottleneck is throttled.
Followed by –
three days of manic, forsaken terror.
The fear imprisoned mind;
crucified; by pedantic Aristotle…

Painting the frown;
Dread.
A beer-goggled gaze –
locks onto a clown’s ruby-red smile.
Brushstrokes of panic,
turn the landscape;
a greyer shade of lead.
Judah’s lion, and, lioness;
have already been defiled.
The fledgling doves;
have found heavenly peace –
as; vertically, they have fled…

But, for, we – desolate few;
escape is futile.
Eden has gone.
From, ethereal garden, to, shed.
All trees, plants,
flowers, bushes,
and, wooden panels,
have been collectively burnt, and, shred.
By pasty, secateur-ing devils – that beguile.
Who ask for details,
to stop, and, search,
the saintly, for a while…

Cuff, beat, confine, and, brutalise,
without proving need; the “lowerbred”.
In their eyes,
a twinkling morning star,
cast us down.
But, righteous children; always rise.
Ascending high above –
Babylon’s screaming, burning lies.
Losing blueish, busied noses,
to spite;
in the face of systematic –
destruction, and, denial.

Callum Featherstone

A life well-lived & the perpetual realms of yonder

Inevitably, your moments of; heartache, and, jubilation, sorrow, and, raucous laughter, will be momentary brushstrokes, of humanising colour, on an eternal, universal, canvas. It does not matter, if, post-use, your sapient, vehicular, corpus is; burnt, buried, or, embalmed. Every; thought, behaviour, and, action, made, in all conscience, must be accounted for, on your soul’s departure, from Gaia.

Just as, an ancient, Egyptian heart, must weigh, equal to, or, less than, the sacred feather of Ma’at. And, St. Peter’s keys, will only allow entrance, to the righteous, at the pearly gates, of the kingdom of heaven. The bearer of the soul, has, not only the mystical responsibility, but, the metaphysical obligation, and, duty, to be; morally and intrinsically: good.

Goodness is paramount to a clean conscience, and, more importantly, a clean soul. Spiritual; cleanliness, wholesomeness, and, goodness, are imperative, in order for the soul to continue, peacefully, on it’s supranatural journey, along the Milky Way, and, onto, the perpetual realms of yonder.

And, when, all is said, and, done, as your life, in all it’s ubiquity, magically, propels before you – like a feature film, or, flip-book, composed of; your natural essence, transfigured by, the shifting sands of time – will you be pleased with, how you; formed opinions, treated others, and, lived your life?

Or, will your soul, be burdened by; sin, loathing, and, regret? Forced to recount, every; hateful decision, every misinformed opinion, and, every missed opportunity, to form healthy human, and, spiritual bonds?

Your familial bloodline, and, genetics, may carry forth, or, they may not – that is, ultimately, out of your control. Yet, your opportunity to contribute, as many beautiful brushstrokes, to this; galactic masterpiece, as your life permits, is perfectly, within your grasp. And, in contributing with good; heart, mind, and, conscience, you enable your soul’s interstellar travel, to the stars; smooth, succinct, and, better yet, truly astounding.

All bonds, of virtue, that bind, righteously, will endure armageddon – not only, sororal, and, fraternal.
Your body, will grow, languid, and, old, but, if wholesome, your soul, will spring eternal.
And, while your body, may be, lost at sea, cremated in flames, or buried within Earth’s crust.
Your before, your presence, and, your beyond, are, permanently crafted, by the moulded creation, of life, in stardust.

Callum Featherstone

A Dervish, named; ‘Constantine’.

I, Myself. Constantine.
A trailblazer. Making my mark,
until tremors, quaking, and, a long lived aftershock. Got trapped, got sick, now,
making my way home; to Torment.
Manifested;
off-track, lost, unfound, raging, bitter, twisted.
And, sick. Obviously.

Disorientated, tranquil tornadoes,
of, marauding memories,
revolve statically;
sarcastically whirling,
with the sincerest, of all, ironies;
like a Dervish, riding a languid carousel,
a Dervish, named;
‘Constantine’.
The inert twisters,
carry, and, cast –
concealed emotions,
that are; born to seek death,
that are; created to destroy.

The camouflaged
saliences, are;

re -visited,
re -worn,
re -vealed;

‘In the stitching –
a khirqa of shame, whispers, “guilt survives, long after, the dead, have been mourned.” As sorrow seeps, from, a blood-soaked; hood, cuffs, and, sleeves – where cloying, bloodthirsty tarmac, bore it’s teeth, causing shudders. Devouring all escapes, to salvation.
And, after grasping, deep-down,
in those, endless, cloak pockets, Mercy, was found slain. Smothered, by iniquity, concrete, rocks and rubble, as compassion is, demolished by dark, anguished,
traumatic silences.’

Uncontrollable
obedience – stagnantly spins,
and, turns, soothing provocations,
into, a, swooner’s consciousness.
Hushed screeches vomit, teasing and tormenting; to mutilate…
To massacre;
a begging, bruised, exhausted, inner-sanctum.

A colourless draining.
The colour is fading,
from psyche’s cheeks,
a liquidating; of shady pulp,
of soft, once radiant,
rainbow spattered, but, now, only;
grey matters.

I, Myself. Constantine.
A soggy, battered, quivering, hasbeen. An already; blazed trail.
Long forgotten.
Lying beneath,
a superego’s ocean-jungle undergrowth, where there, once was, a long, plumed, dove-white robe.
Overgrown, crestfallen, and, un-phren-dly;
lying beneath,
the forsaken waves, of; lost seas, past shocks and, cruel, convulsive, inclemencies.

Callum Featherstone

A prison of another’s design

Caged birds dream of tasting clouds

and soaring above hasting crowds.

Magnolia walls trap Southern promise

I’ll clip my wings for another’s solace.

Metal struts; horizontal sorrow,

beaming the echo of glottal morose.

The rise and fall of neck and seed;

the emptiness, the peck and plead.

A flighty notion hungers inside;

a prison of another’s design.

Resistance unfed; futility;

no fight, bereft, flightless.

Brain dead, drained, lifeless;

for we bred in captivity.

Callum Featherstone

Worn out

Worn out. What was it all for, now?

Forlorn, forgot about;

a black hole where I did shout.

Gone are days – they’re sieved out;

when I take what they give out.

Worn out;

stretched, tumbled, starched;

a struggle to get clean.

Life has left. Ragged and torn now;

by schemes that pull us apart

at the seams.

Worn out;

mangled on a daily basis.

Squeezed until the lemon is no longer envious.

The nights are what is mourned now;

whilst wearing bitter-tasting faces;

the lemon was so wrong to envy us.

Worn out;

nostalgia is a loose thread

that I’m comfortable pulling until the spool is empty.

The belt and buckle are beaten, scorned, now.

Loose mind, loose mouth; lassoed head.

And, except for moi, the launderette for fool’s is empty.

Worn out;

courage is a pair of shoes I spent my last days cleaning and shining.

And, after all that scrubbing my soles have fallen through.

So very tired of living; in exchange for weaving threadbare dreams of being; perpetually quartered, hung and drawn, out.

And, while I’m, dead, focused on the whining;

I’ve missed the infinite hole I’ve fallen into.

Worn out. Please, no more, now.

Withdrawn, without;

spent all, less discount.

Bon marché is a lived shroud;

when I take what they give out.