Tag: identity

the fishy word salad of the day is soup

i.

discount buggers,
sitting too short in the saddle
to catch any light

but, far too tall
to be dead things,
since dead things
don’t sit tall in saddles

not quite full-fledged maniacs,
lacking in the forthright candor
of more honest lunatics

mockeries of invisible garbage

pieces you can’t quite sort
from all the other forgeries

ii.

the easiest lie to tell
is always the one
that was undisputed,
when you told it
to yourself

iii.

broken pieces
of education,
peppered liberally
over a plate of
wishful thinking

half-truths,
fractions of wisdom

chicken scratch cheat sheets
in secret breast pockets

decency spent
far too many wasted evenings
trying to shape a pile of vomit
into a snow angel

but, the toothpaste is already out of
the inner tube

besides, the inner tubes
are all useless now;

the tires were all stolen months ago

there is no sculpting
dour secular emptiness
into glorious, golden cathedrals

one does not simply turn
recidivistic destroyers
into genius inventor candy makers,
acrobatic violinist movie stars,
or unicorn blacksmith ballerinas

thespians of the eternal grift,
they have no thirst or pallet
for love stories,
only tragedy
and horror

it is exceedingly difficult
to shape small piles of
deformed turd nuggets
into the colossus

the thing is…
if you put a hat
over a turd…
no one sees a turd;
they just see a hat

and, god help
the poor bastard who
tries to put it on

sprinkle a big pile of rose petals
right over top of the whole thing,
and you won’t even smell it

but it’s still there

iv.

it’s really not important,
what I’m going on about

probably better if you just
take a nap
through the rest of this

v.

if the impressive would stop
trying to elevate the unimpressive
then, they’d be more impressive

if they’d stop trying to
raise the dead,
it would be very impressed, indeed

if the unimpressive
would stop trying to
decimate the impressive,
they’d already be half the way
towards making a
positive impression

but, none of this
is due to change

vi.

seven in the side pocket?
my ass

there are four in this room
who can make that shot,
and you ain’t one of ’em

like I said, it really doesn’t matter
what I am babbling about

go back to sleep

or better yet…

there’s a small slip of paper,
rolled up around a dull pencil;
it’s not a number two pencil,
but rather, one of those
no-name brands

it’s in the top right drawer
of that bureau over there

it’s held in place on the pencil
by a rubber band

it’s underneath a pile of
old letters and yellowing catalogs

go open the desk drawer,
remove the stacks of papers, and
pick up the pencil

remove the rubber band,
unroll the little slip of paper
from off of the pencil, and unfold it

what’s it say?

that’s right,
it says,

“Fuck you.”

no, that’s okay,
you can keep it;
it’s yours

take it with you,
and share it with
the rest of your kin,

all the other
black holes

the liars, fakers, pretenders,
predators, thieves, naggers,
reality-twisters, dream-stealers,
complainers and haters,
would-be conquerers
of insignificant kingdoms

fighting razor tooth fang nail claw
over the right to wear a crown
made out of rusty wire coat hangers

or, a tiara crafted from zip ties,
and tinsel from
last year’s Christmas tree

two-legged, toothless dogs,
gumming each other to death
over rotten meat

the unintelligent,
masquerading as geniuses

half-geniuses and quarter-geniuses,
unintelligently masquerading as…
well, who really cares?

the impolite, leaning
on the good manners
of those who are too kind
to tell you the hot, vibrant,
fundamental truth

which is,
that you are
fundamentally
without truth,
or heat, or vibrance

I, on the other hand,
have misplaced all of my politesse,
and have no qualms about
sharing these things with you

I don’t recall which drawer
I left my good manners in,
or what I wrapped around them


but, I can tell you,
with great certainty,
that I’ve had
more than my fill
of the full measure
of you

I can
tell you
what you
can go get
wrapped around

vii.

the steely, red-hot poker of murder
in your eyes
is only a compliment to me

I would be perturbed, ashamed,
if you approved of me

I have no love for your kind

the secret whisperers, rumor starters,
terminally restless luddites
who shun such newfangled,
diabolical technologies as
empathy and dedication
to things other than self

nonconsensual emotional sadists,
pullers of wings from houseflies,
slayers of fierce dragons, or rather
harmless dragonflies

you are all that is ugly
in a world that was already
teeming with ugliness

busybody breakers of
other people’s toys,
ensnarers of time,
ambuscaders,
ambushers of vitality

there isn’t a pencil
on the whole planet
that’s dull enough
to write your little
shit story

there aren’t enough
rubber bands, twist ties, handcuffs,
thumb cuffs, shoestrings, or nets
on Earth to bind you

there aren’t enough
iron chains, piano strings,
or Mardi Gras beads made out of
concertina razor wire
to wrap around your neck
and throttle you with

nor is there a steamer trunk
heavy enough and sturdy enough
to fit you into, weight it down
with all the barbells in the gym,
wrap the whole thing in chains, and
toss it off the backside of the ferry,
just like Houdini, except,
hopefully less skilled
at the art of escape

you, who have such a knack for
finding beautiful things,
and shattering them
or, at least, doing your damndest to try

you will find
no welcome here

as if you
thought any more
of yourself,
honestly

which of course,
you would
never be

viii.

news anchor
spin games

rewriting history
playing both
the victim
and the hero

convince us,
once again,
explain to us,
what a paragon of virtue
you are

I’ll wait.

you are the weeds,
choking out beautiful flowers,
because you envy them

but, you wouldn’t be happy
being a rose

not even if all the work
of being a rose
was done for you

the moment you actually
became a rose,
you would instantly
become jealous of the orchids

you’d swear that you were
being cheated
by all those selfish petunias

you’d be
stabbing marigolds in the back,
shanking them with
a bundle of thorns
you made in your
unlocked prison cell

stealing their soil and their sunlight,
telling all the dandelions,
honeysuckles, and carnations
what terrible, awful creatures
the petunias and orchids are

and, all the joy
of being a rose
would perish

somewhere in the dark,
shaded corner
of a dry bed of dust
where nothing
ever grows

go on,
be as angry
as you like

I tried to
warn you

I told you
to go take
a nap

©2024 Kevin Trent Boswell 

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The poetry and music of Kevin Trent Boswell

roads

once, the roads all lay
wide open before us,
turning in hundreds of
different directions,
taking people on magical journeys
to numberless destinations,
along magnificent trails
of gorgeous scenery

yes, there were always
a few dead ends, here and there, but
one could always
turn around

you could backtrack,
without experiencing
too much anxiety
over lost time

you’d happen upon
interesting choices,
unmarked intersections,
where there was
no signage
to help you navigate
your way

it was all
up to you

choose your own adventure,
twist-a-plot, flip a coin,
“eeny, meanie, miney, moe;
my mother told me this way…
and you… are… not… it”

and so, you’d set down a path,
with guesses, hopes, and fears,
but no real way of knowing
what was up ahead

it was all an exciting gamble

you might meet your death
but, you might find treasure,
fame, or perhaps,
unravel a mystery

“once there was a way
to get back homeward.”

see? Paul knew the deal.

but now,
the roads have all
narrowed

many of them,
if not most,
are blocked off |||||
completely impassible

storms have knocked down trees,
barring the way

some roads are blocked by protesters

many streets are just
too full of potholes

you can’t drive down them without
wrecking your vehicle

all the roads,
even the dirt ones,
are littered with toll booths,
every half a mile

insane fees extracted like teeth

the “protection money”
extortions of gangsters
looks like chump change
in comparison;
third-graders,
threatening to beat you up
for your milk money

half the available highways
have fallen too far into disrepair;
you can’t walk down them,
for fear of stepping in a hole,
breaking your ankle

of the remaining roads,
those still open and drivable,
the traffic is maddening

each thoroughfare
congested with vehicles,
all belching exhaust, and
piloted by madmen,
caught up in the throes of
full blown road rage

too many cars,
even though the travelers
on all of these roads
already know…

there’s nothing
at the end
of any of these highways;
nothing they’d actually want,
anyway

the obsession is no longer
“where are we going?”

it’s now
“how long can we keep driving,
before we run out of gas?”

we no longer worry about
how long it will take us
to get there, because
we know…

there’s nowhere to go

now, we just try to lose ourselves
in the experience of the drive,
desperately trying to forget
why we ever got into the vehicle
in the first place

we no longer
ask ourselves why we
even have a vehicle

such questions would only
cause us to think about
what is at the end of these
endless roundabouts, and
dirt paths, running through
fruitless orchards,
as far as the eye can see

asphalt and concrete
conveyor belts,
mindlessly herding us
through the turnstiles
and metal guide-rails
of urban slaughterhouses

what was so important?
that we had to build these
heartless machines?

pay all these tolls?

deal with all these
crazy people,
rudely plowing ahead
in all these ugly boxes?

and, more importantly,
if whatever it was…

isn’t even there,
anymore…

then,
why the hell
are we still
out here?

why are we
still on
these

tacky footpaths,
made of gauche steppingstones,
leading only to the madhouses

these dry, dead riverbeds
where five out of every ten tankers
are beached, or rudderless

three more of them are sinking

and one more has been pulled over,
by the police

only one out of every ten vessels
on our peculiar, asphalt rivers
is in good working condition,
and sailing on nicely

and, even that one
still lacks any sense of
where it’s headed

what fever is this,
that overtakes us,
compelling us to pursue these

godforsaken
freeways
of the damned

infinite trails of
tamed wilderness
that lead to
absolutely
nowhere

©2024 Kevin Trent Boswell

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The music and poetry of Kevin Trent Boswell
remission, poetry by Kevin Trent Boswell

The music and poetry of Kevin Trent Boswell

powder dogs

powder dogs,
inching rhythmically toward
the frenzied maelstrom

ill-advised foam trousers,
impudent stompers,
gnashing after the vortex

pink-toothed sweater demons,
toasting indolence
by the infernal mantelpiece,
roasting chestnuts
in the red hot mantle
of infamy and infancy

all about those clawless,
flat, green pry-bars

window un-zippers;
instant view makers,
just add saliva

chocolate-melters,
fondue honey pots
in the deserted catacombs
of the future

it’s looking more and more
like it’s going to be
a very good year, boys

then again,
maybe

not so much

©️2023 Kevin Trent Boswell

The music and poetry of Kevin Trent Boswell
The music and poetry of Kevin Trent Boswell

Chaos Comes Apart:

Next:

Out On The Killing Floor:

Time for Nothing:

portland, december

outside the building where i work,
the wind whips and wails

it raises holy hell in a way
that you just wouldn’t believe,
not unless you heard it for yourself

it moans and cries,
bawls, screeches, and shrieks,
as if this was the set of an old,
black and white movie

i shit you not, it got even louder,
louder than it’s been in hours,
just as i typed those last few lines

it’s as if the bad director
of this old, 1940s horror film
(or maybe it’s film noir)
was really hamming it up,
failing to understand the intrinsic value
of restraint and moderation;
not realizing that less is often more

if you’re caught out in it,
in all that wind,
it slices straight through you,
like a gangster’s switchblade

aside from the wind, it’s so
oddly quiet,
here, on the inside

that’s why the wind is so obvious,
there’s nothing
to compete with it

there’s only the sound of the heater,
and occasional fragments of conversation

but, that wind is so strong
and so ridiculously loud
because it’s coming
right in off the train tracks,
up a smooth hill with nothing on it,
and then, it smashes up against
the corner of this building

and that’s where i sit,
right near that corner

this wind, it produces
the caterwauling music of lonely banshees,
raging quietly o’er the moors,
weeping for lost loves,
ready to punish anyone
for their unconquerable sadness

i sit here and read my book of
dark, lonely poetry

i know the frustration of this poet,
i understand why he settled for
booze and prostitutes,
why he gave up on the idea of love,
altogether

i understand it, but
i don’t drink,
and the women i chased,
they didn’t charge
for their madness

they just scooped it out
from five-gallon buckets,
the way shark fishermen deal out chum

they served their love
on platters made of quicksilver,
adorned with rubies, emeralds,
bits of gravel, and chunks of broken glass

the whole soupy mess just
floated through their veins, and dripped out
from between their legs,
with that cosmic wine of ether and arsenic
on their breath

it slapped you in the face,
like that cold, december wind,
coming in off the train tracks

i hear that mournful banshee wind
and i know, that i too
will always be alone

not because i wasn’t
good enough

but, because
everyone these days
is just too broken
to know how to
love anyone

or to love themselves

instead, it’s
an unending parade
of impossible tasks

herculean shit-tests,
and promethean tortures
for imagined wrongdoings

it’s always,
“if you really loved me…

then, you’d endure
this bit of bullshit

and this one

and, a thousand more
just like them.

and, you’d thank me
for the privilege.”

it never stops,
the goddamned shit-testing

it just never stops coming

it’s just like
that goddamn wind
outside

always wailing

only,
more full of tragedy

more imbued with a primal rage

and, full of an
over-the-top
loneliness

the type of effluvial, melodramatic sadness
that pumps straight out of old
black and white movies,
dripping bombastic sentimentality
all over the celluloid

i would step outside,
shake my fists at the sky,
and yell, “stella!”

but, nobody’d hear it

and, they wouldn’t get the joke,
even if they did

people these days,
they don’t know shit about streetcars,
or any kind of desire
that isn’t a fleeting whim

their desires are all
easily forgotten
beneath the next,
pointless distraction

they wouldn’t know a maltese falcon,
if it fell on their heads

they can’t sit still for classic films
they can’t sit still in a dark theater
they can’t take the wailing cold
of the cutting wind

and, they certainly can’t stand
to be alone

the wind whips,
stinging like a shapeless jellyfish,
zapping you with a high voltage charge,
like a downed power line

it cuts,
like the edge of a
cheap gimmick

cuts
right thro
ugh you

cuts you right
in half

©2023 Kevin Trent Boswell

usurper

fractional, piecemeal

tattered royal robes
of a child sovereign

dancing monkey courtiers
in dance floor flights of fancy

the throne,
a perpetual game of
“duck, duck, goose”

title of monarchy
changes as swiftly
as the second hand
of the reviled and feared
grandfather clock;
always chiming
on the unsuspecting head
of what might well be
the last hour

a masquerade waltz
parades of ever-changing partners
turnstiles at each end
of the ballroom

cardboard cutouts holding hands

ladles of wine,
party favors strewn about the floors,
a punchbowl full of suite keys

the night never ends,
but the sun is always rising;
it’s busy chasing ghosts,
the ephemeral fears
of revelation,

a glass onion caricature
of something referred to as
plainly obvious

the hand strikes midnight,
and midnight slashes its throat,
severing its artery,
just as the reveal
portion of the soirée
climaxes in a
feeding frenzy

the czar must feed
its myriad children,
with their thousand faces,
and their insatiable armada
of ten thousand mouths,
and their infinite rows
of sharpened teeth

a hydra-headed babe,
sprawling out of
a catacomb of cribs

all of the palace,
and all of its occupants,
are laid upon the banquet table,
or simply devoured whole,
right where they stand

the crown smiles upon itself,
having satisfied the appetites
of its innumerable infant rouges,
the task is announced as completed,
finis, coup de grâce,
“Tetelestai… it is finished.”

everyone walks away,
down the grand hallways,
elaborately ornamented,
hiding beneath the curved eaves

much hustling and bustling,
out through the facades

mad, naked revelers,
drunkenly climbing
the spires and bannisters,
and scrambling up the entablatures

some leaping desperately
from the nearest fenestrations

all are in the most superb hurry,
since the next affair
begins in but a moment

and each attendee
does so desire
to make their
grand entrance

each attendee does
desire so

the mandatory attendance
of these bacchanalias
is everything,
all that is
known

to be seen
is to exist

to be missed
is to be forgotten

to be forgotten
is to be cast
into the outer
darkness
of oblivion

dance with
whoever you like,
but dance

for to stop the twirling play
of flirtation and primping,
to cease the endless arabesque
of changing hands,
and switching costumes,
swooning and sweeping
across the dance floor

is to find oneself
face to face
with the mirror

and that,
is where
the death
of childhood
hides,

waiting
for any one of the
throngs of delirious dancers
to tire out, and pause
in quiet contemplation

so, that death may
reach out
and throttle them
slowly with a heavy chain
of opprobrium,
the sight of their
unexceptional, mundane
reflections

keep twirling,
never cease smiling,
change your masks regularly,
slip out of your wardrobe,
and don a new costume,
at least once, during each polonaise
or allegro sonata

spin, laugh, tell jokes,
drink, tell lies, twirl,
flirt, giggle and be merry,
but do not ever, ever…
stop

and above all,
stay far
away
from the
mirrors

death
waits for you,
there,
in the
mirrors

©️2023 Kevin Trent Boswell

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Age of the Joker

“See, their morals, their code… it’s a bad joke. Dropped at the first sign of trouble. They’re only as good as the world allows them to be. I’ll show you, when the chips are down, these… these civilized people? They’ll eat each other. See, I’m not a monster, I’m just ahead of the curve.”

—The Joker, from the film, The Dark Knight

The school went on lockdown today

A report came in about an armed student
Roaming the campus

Students were immediately instructed
To go to their dorms, and stay put

After some five or ten, agonizing minutes,
The determination was made,
It was only a hoax

This is an old gag
Kids get bored,
Call in a bomb threat
Just for giggles
Or, to get out of a test

Maybe, it’s to cover their tardiness,
When, one more late-show
Would have caused them to
Fail a particular class

But, these days,
On the national level,
There are more mass shootings
Than there are
Days in the year

Who’s to know
When to be truly concerned?
Or, when to be
Merely annoyed?

The young girl on the news said
The thing that bothered her most
Was how no one talked about it,
After the all-clear signal was given;
She said it went on like a normal day,
As if nothing had happened

She said it was as if
Everything was fine,
When really, underneath,
Everyone knew that
Nothing about it was normal,
Much less, fine

The teachers didn’t address the issue
The students didn’t speak
To each other about it, either

One has to wonder,
How many false alarms can occur,
Before the security guards begin
Dropping their guard?
How many, before they stop
Taking the threats seriously?

What happens, when
The real thing goes down,
And they don’t stop it, because
They got sloppy,
Because of too many
False alarms?

This was one of several such incidents
That took place on multiple campuses,
All on this one, particular day

But, at the heart of it all,
This was not one incident,
Nor was it two, or even five

This, is the new normal
The regular, daily pattern of
Life in the United States,
The common thread
In the tapestry of America

This is the age of the Joker

Every card is wild

It’s not always an active shooter
It’s not always a bomb threat
It’s not even always about
An event at a school

It’s sometimes a threat of
Imminent war against other countries

It’s the news weather forecast
It’s the stories of tornado victims,
The death tolls of flash floods,
Hurricanes, landslides, heatstroke

It’s the rumors, dog whistles, and
Outright cries for civil war in America

It’s the empty shelves at the grocery store

It’s the ongoing, never-ending
Supply chain problems

It’s requisite new vocabulary,
Terms like “doomerism,”
And the dusting off of classic, 70s hits, like
“Collapse,” and, The Limits to Growth

It’s the shortages of needed medications

It’s learning the heart-wrenching truth about
The children of Somalia,⠀
And many other nations like it

It’s the mounting lies that
Erode faith in the system
It’s the creeping groan of fascism,
Sinking its fangs into
The Statue of Liberty’s jugular,
Insisting that she report her periods
To the school nurse

That she burn all those lurid copies of
And Tango Makes Three,
The Bluest Eye, and
Out of Darkness

Slapping the “woke” beer out of her hand,
Making her spit out that “woke” chocolate candy

Making her subject to laws that
Relegate her to the status of cattle,
Demanding that she inform on her friends,
Should they seek to cross state lines
For any health care that involves
Their naughty parts

Insisting that she never speak the
Dreaded crimson words,
Words telling of the flowing of blood,
From the sacred place that
Spawned each of us,
Even those who, now,
Refuse to speak of the cycle of life
That is responsible for their
Entire existence

She is soon to be muzzled,
Disallowed from speaking anything
Beyond, a pained statement of duress…
“Yes, I am happy to bear your seed.”

She will wear a red burka,
Shaped like a baseball cap,
Peppersprayed with meaningless words,
About a mythical nation that ever existed,
One built on the backs of slaves,
Slaves who she must never mention
To her children

Ruby is only a gem, and a color,
Bridges are but things we drive over,
In our carbon-spitting SUVs

Parks is not a name,
It is a noun, describing a place where
People go to enjoy nature;
Good, upstanding white folk,
Standing on the skulls of
Nameless hordes of ghosts

These ghosts whisper foul incantations,
“We are here, too! We have names!”

They seek to possess good, caucasian children,
Swaying them into the unacceptable madness
Of admitting various lunacies, such as,
“Yes, these are human beings. They have proud names, rich heritages, and incredible stories of
Overcoming adversity.”

Insisting that the children
Not be allowed to become
The fodder of the Devil’s history,
Declaring, as if it were true,
“These were the Sioux, the Wichita, the Apache,
The Chinese, Pakistani, the Mexican,
The African, the transgender, and
The women, who monthly bleed,
As God saw fit for them to bleed.”

Surely, all will fall into ruin and chaos,
Were the children to speak about
Such horrors as boys, kissing other boys,
Or, girls, kissing other girls

These are not things good folks discuss
At the dinner table, or in places of learning
No, these are things that must never
See the light of day

After all, the clergy, and the Congressmen,
They had the common decency
To perform their fellatios on each other,
And on the young children,
Under the cover of darkness

“Why can’t these godless teachers
Shut their fucking mouths?!
Sorry, I cursed… forgive me, Jesus
I just become so incredibly angry,
When people have the unmitigated gall
To tell our children that
A huge, astonishing, astounding percentage
Of the world’s population
Thinks and behaves
Differently than us”

Oh, the unruly, unkempt insanity
Of spilling the beans about our actual,
True history, soaked as it is,
In the blood of slaves, migrants,
And silently suffering “others,”
Who we would not abide
Who we would not allow
To follow their natures,
However discreetly they sought to do so

“Isn’t it clear? Don’t they see it?
Don’t they see how immigrants
Are coming to invade us?
How these foreigners want to
Take over this proud land that was
Inhabited only by pure, white blood,
For thousands of years?”

This is the golden age of the false narrative,
Wiggling in “lies” about Murika being built
By “people” from Ireland, Scotland, France,
Africa, Spain, and even many other
Godless lands

“They want our children to believe that
We enslaved an entire race of coloreds
I mean, obviously, we did, but…
What the hell else were we going to do?
That cotton and tobacco wasn’t going to
Pick itself

“They want to murder
The memory of our heroes,
Our General Custer’s, and
Our great General John Wayne
Replace them, with lies about us
Slaughtering innocents, and taking their lands
I mean, obviously, we did do that, but…
What kind of monsters want
The children to know
The truth of it?!”

They have enough to worry about,
Trying to sort out who is the real President,
Whether or not our elections are rigged;
The same election process that put
The other guy in the big chair, last time

Trying to decide if the man
Walking toward them will offer help,
Or rape, or murder

We can’t protect our children from
Being shot at school, or from
Getting high-powered weapons,
And irreparably harming others,

Instead, we focus on preventing them from
Getting a hold of far more dangerous items,
Like condoms, and birth control pills

We rabidly foam on about the
Tyranny of ideas, and events
That are common knowledge

Mandatory background checks,
For anyone who is trying to buy
A semiautomatic weapon?
Unacceptable

Clearly, anyone sensible enough to know
That they need the protection of an AR-15
Is sensible enough to keep their names
Off government lists!

It’s really quite simple…
Childhood pregnancy? good
Females bleeding? not good

Books, scary
Bibles, awesomeness

Ar-15s, yes
Disney, a total mess

Migrants (or women) crossing borders? No
Barbara’s Bleeding Logbook? God bless

The collapsing climate?
Must suppress.

Tax cuts for billionaires, they do impress

Lose an election? Just don’t confess
More than two genders?
We must redress.

The economy, must never recess
Historical facts… “His story,” nonetheless

See? I told you it was simple.
Try to keep up, stupid.

But, anyway,
The school went on lockdown today

But, it was only a prank

So, everything is
Just fine

©2023 Kevin Trent Boswell

Support this work on Patreon:

Magus72 on Patreon - the music, poetry, and madness of Kevin Trent Boswell
Magus72 on Patreon – the music, poetry, and madness of Kevin Trent Boswell

Search for Kevin Trent Boswell poetry on Amazon.

The Poetry of Kevin Trent Boswell

The Poetry of Kevin Trent Boswell

Feed the Beast

Feed the beast in little ways,
So in its prison is where it stays
This helps you keep the beast in check
Or else, your life, it will rule, and wreck

Feed the beast with morsels, tiny
Distract it with the bright and shiny
You must give it something, however slight
Or its strength and rage, you will ignite

A starving beast snarls and raves
Doesn’t take orders, never behaves
Denied all sustenance, thinks it’s dying
At the locks, it picks; cell bars, prying

A daring escape; you’d try it, too
If your stomach, you could see right through
But a monster fed with… just… enough
Stays weak, and doesn’t grow too tough

It waits, content, for the next meager spoon
Against its power, you remain immune
Feed the beast the smallest part
Or, it will rip out, and eat your heart

Wean it on tidbits, the worst parts of you
Sample-size snacks of indulgent taboo
Otherwise, the creature… well, it just may
Take hold of your deeds, the words you say

You see, each of us, every single one
Is a no-good, worthless son-of-a-gun
Anyone who says different is lying to you
Or perhaps, to themselves, as so many do

We’re horrible things, down, deep in the core,
With lusts for lying, theft, and gore
Incestuous, selfish, conniving creeps
In daylight, our true nature hides, and sleeps

We’re bullies, crooks; we cheat on our taxes
We’d gladly chop up our neighbors with axes
That is, if we thought we wouldn’t take a fall
But, knowing we will, we don’t try at all

If not for society, we’d be twice as mean,
Three times as lazy, rude, and obscene;
Running over each other, no second thought
Breaking and taking what others have bought

These horrid perversions reside down low
In the parts where most are too afraid to go
But, the thirst is still there; we cannot escape
Our secret desires for pillage, and rape

All that a civilized person can do
Is to keep it all chained, not let it get through
Most try to ignore it, they try really hard
Whistling nervously through the graveyard

These are the ones you can’t really trust;
Can’t face their demons, although they must
Any part of you that’s even a little bit dark,
Is a mirror reflection of themselves, a spark

That spark ignites within them a fury
Appointing themselves both judge and jury,
Punish you, for guilty feelings of their own
Cravings they cannot shake from their bones

Afraid of their shadows, they cast them on you
A scapegoat for things that they’d like to do
Unable to admit they’d do it, if they could
Admit to your urges, they’ll say you’re no good

They tried to starve their monsters to death
Their monsters took over, stole their breath
Becoming beasts; the beasts having won,
Police not themselves, but instead, everyone

Others, they feed their phantom too much
So close to the ghoul, it can reach out and touch
The fiend strangles, once it takes hold
Turning them cruel, heartless, and cold

So, take the advice, and stay to the middle
Don’t run from the Devil, or play second fiddle
Seduce your succubus, incubus, or imp
Trick it, trap it, keep it weak, and limp

Feed the dark beast your unwanted scraps;
To prevent you from falling into its traps
Give it just enough, so that it doesn’t try
To feed off of you, to make you its supply

©2023 Kevin Trent Boswell

https://patreon.com/Magus72

Most

Most stories don’t have happy endings
The brutal truth is that most do not
For each hero who makes it home,
In unknown ditches, a hundred more rot

For every song about some brave champion,
There are endless graves without any bones
For there was no body which they could bury
Only lost names engraved on stones

We must admit if we’re honest about it,
Eventually, Death claims them all
Those who we celebrate after a battle
And those who on the battlefield fall

Those who seem to be safe back at home
Are also short candles in a night so late
None escape the long-armed grasp,
Of those pitiless stranglers, time and fate

©2022 Kevin Trent Boswell

New Music Album on June 8th

Something in the Air – an album of 10 original songs from Trent Boswell, available on June 8th, 2022 at most major music streaming services like Amazon Music, Spotify, iTunes, etc.

Published Works

The poetry and music of Kevin Trent Boswell
The poetry and music of Kevin Trent Boswell

Support This Work on Patreon 

Magus72 on Patreon - the music, poetry, and madness of Kevin Trent Boswell ​
Magus72 on Patreon – the music, poetry, and madness of Kevin Trent Boswell

All Around

All Around

“All Around” – music by Trent Boswell

I can’t find it I don’t see it
Though I’ve looked nowhere over
I was certain I’d have found it
By now

Thought I had it once
In my hand like a clover
But it flew away
Somehow

I’ve rubbed out my eyes
Squinting through the dark
But my eyes are too full
Of dreams

Want nothing so much
Thoughts of self not a spark
And I still do not know
What it means

Collecting each one
Not mine in a moment
All tomorrow’s
Forgotten yesterday

Yourself saw you with them
You know of the torment
A sideways hello
Didn’t say

Slippery little thing
So many to climb
Fall so fast and without
A sound

Never had your gift
Of yours all this time
Wrapped tight and spilling
On the ground

All time gone by
Flirting with the dawn
Seeking for a higher
High score

Those things which remain
To this day are long gone
These things are all things
No more

Don’t know why I bother
I bother not to know
It’s never too much
Not to say

A slight tinge of joy
In each thing to show
Everything never came
This way

The secret only shared
Never told never kept
All the smiles that cannot
Be got

Always not moving
Ever happy it wept
In the open it hides
Where it’s not

Close the window my friend
Despite how it looks
It is going to be
A fine day

For it has the good sense
In verbose old books
All words refraining
To say

A slight tiny sting
Four missing leaves of clover
Ending all applause
Curtain bow

Can’t find it don’t see it
Having looked all over
Was certain I’d have lost it
By now

©2022 Kevin Trent Boswell

Lyrics available in print:

Time for Nothing - Poetry, Prose, and Song Lyrics, by Kevin Trent Boswell
Time for Nothing – Poetry, Prose, and Song Lyrics, by Kevin Trent Boswell

Support This Work on Patreon

Magus72 on Patreon - the music, poetry, and madness of Kevin Trent Boswell ​
Magus72 on Patreon – the music, poetry, and madness of Kevin Trent Boswell

Inside Job

Author’s Note: This one is a little more fun if you read it in Tony Soprano’s voice.

I always defended my inner child
Even when change, he’d slow or shunt
I spoke to him softly, sweet and kind
Never too harsh, rude, or blunt

But his juvenile ways sabotage me
Constantly force me to fall back and punt
It’s time for him to grow the hell up
My progress, the crybaby tries to stunt

If I’m ever gonna get ahead in this world
Any luck in life, the brutal hunt
I can’t afford to have this kid in my way
His juvenile tantrums, I gotta confront

All this baby does is worry, complain
He fights reality, finds truth an affront
His childish attitudes are holding me back
I say, fuck that bratty, squawkin’ cunt

I know a guy; he paints houses, wetwork
A reliable button man to bear the brunt
He knows how to handle these things
A backdoor man; alibi and solid front

I’m sick of his shit, bellyachin’, moanin’
I gotta do it; I’m putting out a hit on the runt
I’ll murder this punk and bury his body
In a shallow grave by the waterfront

©2022 Kevin Trent Boswell

Magus72 - the music, poetry, and madness of Kevin Trent Boswell
Magus72 on Patreon –
the music, poetry, and madness
of Kevin Trent Boswell

my friends

good morning, all you beautiful people
you lovely, angelic folks i call friend
i want you to know that i’m thinking of you
though fiery days, together, do blend

whirling quick, down the drain of time
not seeing your faces, hearing your voices
distance and schedules demand this of us
circumstance offering no other choices

i want to take this brief opportunity
to say that you still mean a great deal to me
i’d rather that we were conversing, laughing
than where and how we happen to be

more often now, do i have these thoughts
since all appears to be coming apart
the wretched state of things all around us…
i think of you, how i miss your heart

each moment is truly a blessing, unique
neither taken for granted nor guaranteed
i’d pray for you to have happiness, joy
if i thought it helpful to request or plead

but alas, our time on the big, blue marble
ephemeral, flickering, fleeting, concise
disappears quickly, precious little warning
like a glass of sunsets, smiles and ice

tumbler, carelessly knocked from our hands
by a stupid stranger, passing by in a roar
an ignorant ogre with a love of wealth
a disdain of beauty and a love for war

beastly creatures, not one, but many
loving too much, to climb and to fall
punching holes in our collective boat
though surely it sinks and dooms us all

the cup of this world, spills over with promise
wonders of nature, so much opportunity
carelessly ruined by the madness of kings
who with stolen gold, kill with impunity

we, being lovers of kindness and good
seeing their greed, the destruction it brings
it hurts our hearts, we sigh and conclude
“i guess that we just can’t have nice things”

as we watch them ripping it all into pieces
everything beautiful, too soon to die
i want you to know how much i love you
i’d hate if the chance were to slip idly by

i want to tell you that you’re all in my heart
and in my thoughts, your memories glow
i’d not forgive myself if i wasted
the opportunity to let each of you know

just over the horizon, a banshee wails
as we near the welkin, do smile, once more
i’ll be thinking of you, as we take that step
through the long, strange and endless door

©2022 Kevin Trent Boswell

Magus72 on Patreon, the music, poetry and madness of Kevin Trent Boswell
Magus72 on Patreon, the music, poetry and madness of Kevin Trent Boswell

Photo by Mo

The poetry of Kevin Trent Boswell
Eight poetry titles, available on Amazon

Too

You’re too young

You’re too old

You’re too timid

You’re too bold

You’re too forgiving

You’re always holding grudges

You’re too straightforward

You’re all winks and nudges

You’re too kinky

You’re such a prude

You’re too nice

You’re terribly rude

You’re too poor

You’re way too rich

You’re too loyal

You’re a backstabbing bitch

You’re too punk

You’re too straight

You’re too early

You’re far too late

You’re too logical

You’re too black and white

You’re too much of a pacifist

You always pick a fight

You’re not broad enough

You’re too eclectic

You’re speed is too slow

You’re pace is too hectic

You’re the same, old, usual

You’re too avant-garde

You’re too soft

You’re just too hard

You’re too boring

You’re too, too much

You’re always gone

You’re here way too much

You’re too stupid

You’re a little too smart

You’re too far ahead

You’re too close to the start

You’re too involved

You’re too apathetic

You’re too fat

You’re too athletic

You rhyme too much

You’re too free-verse

You’re too offensive

You’re afraid to curse

You’re too angry

You’re too sad

You’re too worried

Why are you so glad?

You’re too sensitive

You’re too thick-skin

You’re too quick to finish

You’re too slow to begin

You’re too far gone

You’re too stable

You bite off too much

You don’t give all you’re able

You’re too frigid

You’re too horny

You’re too grabby and needy

You’re too distant and thorny

You’re too quiet

You’re too proud

You’re too humble

You’re too loud

You’re too unpredictable

You’re too strange

You’re too normal

You’re too subject to change

You’re too ambitious

You’re too restrained

You’re too big-boned

You’re too big-brained

You’re too reserved

You’re too outgoing

You second-guess too much

You think you’re all-knowing

You’re too brazen

You’re too fearful

You’re too cold and harsh

You’re too sentimental, tearful

You’re too specific

You’re too cryptic

You’re too Pollyanna

You’re too apocalyptic

You’re too masculine

You’re too effeminate

You’re too tight-assed

You’re too indiscriminate

You’re too hands-off

You’re too political

You don’t tend to details

You’re too analytical

You’re just way too picky

You always say “whatever”

You’re not very bright

You’re think you’re so clever

You’re too pasty

You’re too tan

You’re too girlie

You’re too manly-man

You’re too dense

You notice too much

You never ask for help

You always need a crutch

You’re too red

You’re too blue

You’re too much of everything

You’re way too much you

©️2022 Kevin Trent Boswell

Magus72 on Patreon - music, poetry and madness

Pariah

I’ve always been
Outside the norm

I never quite fit in
Never fit neatly enough
Into any of the boxes

Despite being a straight, white male
Somehow, I always still manage
To be the different one
In every crowd

I believe in science
But I’m also an occultist

I’m entirely too rational and skeptical
For a great many in the occult community

I hold disdain for those who think that
White light is the solution for every problem,
That all things are possible through magick
And that crystals, sage and essential oils
Will cure absolutely anything and everything

I’m what is known as a gray magician,
Equally comfortable with
Angels and demons
Blessings and curses

But I’ve always been
A little too “light and goodness” for some
And a little too “dark and scary” for others

My acceptance of atheists,
As well as agnostics and Satanists
Gets me odd looks from the
Holier-than-thou clubs

And my complete lack of
Any bitter hatred of Christianity
Makes the Left Hand Path people
Somewhat suspicious of me

But the fact that I believe
Spells can cause change
And that it’s possible to
Communicate with unseen entities

This gets me automatically pigeonholed
By anyone in the scientific community
As either a lunatic or a charlatan
Or both

I’m too Ceremonial for the Witchcraft crowd,
Too witchy for the Hoodoo crowd,
Too Hoodoo for the Ceremonial crowd
And so on and so forth, ad-infinitum, ad-nauseam

I have kinks that get me labeled
As a pervert, by many

But I usually found that
I was something of a disappointment
To a lot of the kinky people I met
Because I wasn’t a submissive male
Or because I wasn’t bisexual
Or because I wasn’t whatever else
They were hoping that I would have been

Of course, they’re always happy that I am
Open and accepting and loving
Of all orientations, gender-identification, etc
But I’m still a straight, white male
Which is, to many of them,
Still sort of boring, sort of a letdown
And I get that, I really do
It’s OK, I’m not offended by it

I play chess and I listen to classical music
I both listen to and play jazz
So, I’m a bit too “uppity”
For many rock-and-rollers

But I’m only a decent chess player
And a mediocre jazz guitarist
So, I don’t get to sit with the really cool kids
At any of those tables

I also listen to punk, speed metal,
Gangster rap, blues, rock, pop
As well as dozens of other genres
And somehow, it’s still a surprise
When someone else likes the same bands as me
I’ve never really figured that part out,
Seems like there’d be more commonality
But there you have it

I write poetry and hell…
Everyone hates that

But even among the poets,
I don’t stick with any one, single genre
So, none of them really gets me, either

When I branch out into things like horror poetry,
That freaks a lot of people way the hell out

“What the fuck is wrong with that guy?!”

Sure, they love Stephen King
They don’t bat an eye at The Walking Dead
Or movies like Hellraiser or Saw
But I write one little, horror poem
About cannibalism and suddenly
I’m weird

OK, so it was more than just one

I play guitar, sing and write songs
But my style is all over the map
So it’s just too this or that for
Almost everyone

I was even told as much, by a friend,
A guy who had helped a pop artist,
A one-hit-wonder, to get a gold record
Yeah, I was close friends with a record producer

It didn’t help me one bit

He said “You’re a very good singer
And you’re a good guitarist but…”

“People want catchy songs”

“And they want to know
Exactly what they’re going to hear
When they come to a show.
You are all over the place.
I had no idea what you’d play next.
Pick one style and stick with it.”

“You can be a genius, later.”

That wasn’t good enough for me
I always wanted to do all of it

I wanted to do all of it, now

I’d play rock, blues, folk, funk, metal,
Country, pop, weird, avant-garde stuff
And psychedelia

However, most people seem to be more
Chocolate or vanilla or strawberry
But not all of the above

So, somewhere along the way,
I’d lose the crowd because I played a song
That was just too… something
For their tastes

I don’t play or follow sports
So, there went any conversation
With three-fourths of the
Male population, right there

I’m accepting of all religions
But I don’t belong to any
So, I don’t have any of the neat, lapel buttons
To get me into those meetings

I hate bullies
So, I never get invited to the hate crimes
Instead, I’m the idiot who will
Stand with the guy who is outnumbered,
Just because he’s outnumbered

But I think everyone is fair game
When it comes to rude jokes
Especially me
Because, if you can’t laugh at me
Then, who the hell can you laugh at?

But I sort of suck at political correctness
So, I piss off most of the woke crowd

It’s OK, the feeling is mutual

I don’t get into cosplay or anime
I’m not a Star Trek guy, though I like the show
I don’t collect or read comics or manga
I don’t keep up with most television

I advocate healthy eating but I’m not vegan

I can dance but don’t really like to
I can cook but don’t really like to
I can small talk but don’t really like to

I only comment on politics
When it looks like my country
Is about to shift into fascism;
I’ve talked way too much about politics
In the last four years

I’m no fan of hatred
So, I don’t get to sit with any of
Those guys in the white sheets
Or the black boots, bald heads and suspenders

But I’m a little too strange of a white guy
For most minorities to feel
Totally at ease around me

It’s probably safer to have
“Normal” white friends
And I actually get that;
I don’t take any offense to it

I’m not fluent in any other languages,
Despite having taken both French and Spanish
So, I don’t get to play interpreter for anyone

I think the climate crisis is way more severe
Than nine out of ten people do
Want to clear out a room fast?
Bring that up and watch them all scurry

I’m not a cat person
So, that rules out about three-fourths
Of the female population, right there

But I can always talk about dogs
With other dog lovers
And there’s a saving grace, for certain

I’m into martial arts and that’s too violent
For many people
But I’m not a black belt in anything I studied
So, I’m not important enough to listen to
In those groups
And even the style I’m most into,
Jeet Kune Do, is controversial,
Because it’s extremely eclectic
And it thumbs its nose at any type of
Tradition, purely for the sake of tradition
So, that pisses off a lot of people
Who practice traditional styles

I’m not a Right-Wing nut job but I support
The second amendment and I own guns
So, I just ostracized myself from
Both the Right and the Left,
Right there

I don’t surf or skate or snow ski
I’m not a connoisseur of fine wines
Or fine cuisine
I don’t read anything on best-seller book lists

I’ve always been either
Lower class or lower, middle class
So, I can’t get into any of the swank affairs

But I’m a bit too odd to get invited to
Most of the cool kids’ parties

It doesn’t really help that
I don’t smoke weed and I don’t usually drink
The lack of these habits raises many eyebrows

I don’t fit hand-in-hand with most, other people

Even my closet friends,
Dear, dear, beloved friends
Would readily admit:

“Yes, he’s an odd one.
Oh, we love him.
We just don’t claim to really
Understand him.

We think it’s probably quite enough
To just love him
And let it go at that.”

And with that statement, I’d completely agree

I’m perfectly content to be
The black sheep, the odd man out
The different one

But all this lack of fitting in
Has helped me, in one, very clear way

It has compelled me to develop
A desperately needed survival skill
And that is

Good listening

Because I learned early on
That if I was going to last
More than ten minutes
In any conversation,
In any room,
Anywhere

I did much better if I
Kept my rather strange opinions,
Beliefs and attitudes
To myself

But I did even better, still

When I could repeat back the opinions,
Beliefs and attitudes that someone else
Had just expressed to me

Everyone appreciates being
Truly heard

Not everyone needs to be agreed with
It isn’t even everyone who
Needs to be appreciated

But everyone
Likes to know that you were
Actually listening

And if they say anything at all
About music, martial arts, chess, poetry
Or anything else I’m interested in
Well, I might have just bought myself
Ten more minutes of friendly conversation

And when all else fails,
When I’m talking to someone and I can’t find
Any common ground… at all

I can always punt
I default to the saving grace of
Dogs

But if it becomes clear
That they don’t like dogs…

Well, then it’s clearly just time to leave

©2021 Kevin Trent Boswell

Photo by Arianna Jadé

Magus72 on Patreon

parody

in the sixties and seventies,
everyone went over the top

musicians wore outlandish costumes
and behaved as if they were invincible

sometimes, they believed it

but mostly, it was because they had
seen through the facade of the system

they did lots of psychedelic drugs
which taught them that everything…
and yes, i do mean… everything…
is utterly ridiculous

there’s literally nothing you can say,
think, feel, believe, wear or do
that isn’t… just plain silly

rather than take ourselves seriously,
why not revel and delight
in the temporal, inane
shenanigans that are
our lives…

ourselves

these days, everyone is
up their own asses,
again

everyone is busy, twenty-four-seven,
trying to convince everyone else
that they’re the coolest, that they’ve
got it all figured out

“if you’re into disco, you’re not cool,
because disco was silly and they just thought it was cool, before everyone knew better”

or

“if you’re into _______,
then you’re not cool, because ________.”

put whatever you want in there,
classic rock, polka, country, surf music…
whatever

someone is going to be
actually offended
that you like it

“if you’re into that, then you’re not cool,
because that’s not what i’m doing
and i’m pretty much the only one
who’s doing what’s cool.”

it only tells us
how terrified you are
of our opinions
of you

and that’s really
the only thing
that sets you apart as being
truly ridiculous

it’s the
not knowing
that you’re ridiculous

that not knowing
is what makes you comical, farcical

acting cool is cool
but believing you’re cool…
well, that just makes you
kitschy instead of campy

but if you start right out of the gate,
convinced that everything about you
and what you’re doing
is utterly ridiculous,
with the intention of milking that silliness
for everything it’s worth…

then it’s not ridiculous at all,
however ridiculous it is

and it is

for the love of god,
please stop trying to convince us
that you’re cool
and that what other people are doing
isn’t

it only makes you into
a sad caricature,
a parody

you see, we really don’t care
what you do,
as long as you do it
with all of your heart
and soul

put on a ten gallon hat
deck yourself out in wild makeup
wear a smoking jacket
sing out of key… in pig latin
play bongos while tap dancing
do the tango to speed metal
dress in leather and do opera
dress in drag and do gangsta rap
wear a suit and tie while you
sing outlaw country music

just know
beyond any shadow of doubt,
that before,
during and
after…

that you were,
you are and you
always will be

ridiculous

and we’ll absolutely
love you for it

©2021 Kevin Trent Boswell

Support the creation of more ridiculousness by Kevin Trent Boswell, at:

Magus72 on Patreon
Magus72 on Patreon, a very silly place.

And He Wept

Jesus wept
And I know why
Impossible, the weight
Of this world, to deny

Jesus wept
And I understand it
When so few give love
And so many demand it

Jesus wept
More than he bled
Meaning of the words,
Right over the head

Jesus wept
With heavy heart, breaking
So little effort, to give
All lost, in the taking

Jesus wept
In solemn recognition
Of hatred, beating love
Into submission

Jesus wept
And I do, too
This could’ve been heaven
For me and for you

Jesus wept
Cried harder than I
He knew the potential
We possess and deny

© 2021 Kevin Trent Boswell

Main Photo by @seb

Latest Book Release

remission, poetry by Kevin Trent Boswell
remission, by Kevin Trent Boswell

remission

Other Titles Available

The Poetry of Kevin Trent Boswell
The Poetry of Kevin Trent Boswell

Dark Matter

on the page

Liber Ex Liberi

Chaos Comes Apart

in the current

Next

Support more music, poetry and madness by Trent Boswell over at: Patreon.com/Magus72

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Perception

You may think you’ve seen this one but you ain’t. The new, improved and at least 333% stranger version of “Perception” from the album Flagship by Trent Boswell.

Lyrics:

Perception

What’s a man supposed to do?
It’s hard today just not to lose
So, when I’m down and beaten blue
I look around and think of you

Sink into my contemplation
Answers come with concentration

And strong opinions, well I have mine
And you may find me blind
But I don’t mind because it’s true;
I’ve never needed to see you

Walking ‘cross the field,
I realize that nothing’s real
No pain or joy

Out on the lawn the past is gone
I simply can’t be wrong anymore

Was paid a visit, a strange man
He said that Jesus could lend a hand
Now many a man can’t see the road
Or make a stand on his own

If God is Love, then Love is God
And you agree without a nod

© 2021 Kevin Trent Boswell

The album, Flagship, is available at:

Flagship, by Trent Boswell - original avant-garde rock music

iTunes

Amazon

Spotify

Or get your own, signed copy of Flagship over at Conjure Work.

Trent Boswell – lyrics, all guitar parts, vocals

Ed Kopp – bass guitar

Brett Waress – drums

Show Your Support

You can help by hitting the thumbs up 👍 button, directly on the YouTube page.

Subscribe ✅ to get more of this kind of madness. Be sure to ring the little notifications bell 🔔 and select “all”.

Support more music, poetry and madness by Trent Boswell over at: Patreon.com/Magus72

Special Thanks To

For all of the really cool footage, photography and visual special effects, special thanks goes to the following people:

cottonbro

Johannes Plenio

Stef

Mikhail Nilov

KoolShooters

Mikke House

Frank Cone

Anni Roenkae

Fiona Art

Tima Miroshnichenko

Axel Vandenhirtz

As well as Pressmaster and Erin Li.

More cool, weird, poetic, philosophical, musical and sometimes disturbingly odd stuff at:

https://KevinTrentBoswell.com

https://ThePlasticInfinity.com

No More

Author’s Note: This piece is brand new. This piece is ancient. It speaks of things which happen daily. It shares memories of the long, long ago. It is deeply rooted in yesterday. It is severed from everything except tomorrow.

No More

No more crawling, borrowed knees
To beg or steal a parched penance
Privilege of chewing
Tiny, tinfoil excuses

Receipts, all signed
Cuneiform zero
There, in the register
Where it speaks of the balance
Which is long overdue
A large and loud emptiness

The slaying of pragmatism
And the prodigal son
The wisest of investments
Healthy, constant dividends
Since there are no returns

Assets freely traded
On the scales in the marketplace
Sacrifices, invisible, smoking
On strange altars of doubt

Multiplication of manna eaten in secret
Loaves baked, foreign recipes
Nets tossed into distant waters
Plucking up fishes, filling the nets
Pouring floods out of the wide mouth
Fleeing the estate, belly of greater fish
Absconding from duty
Tariffs of masticating consummation

Cutting off the heads of what was,
Peeling away, shedding foul-smelling skin,
Pulling off all those silvery flakes of armor
Toss carcasses in frying pan,
Serve with herbs grown in new earth
Feast, fructifying small kingdom
And a table for one

No more buried talents
All now upon display
A day of rest is earned
In the refusing of yesterday’s complacency
Tossing out its tired labors

Cutting down the vines
Which brought decades of wine
Wine that choked those throats which drank
In the seeking of blindness
Attempting to drown out
All hearing of familiar, droning complaints

A fatted calf not missed,
From the cool, shaded hammock
That swings peacefully in a calm, quiet
Where the only shadow cast
Is that of the grand, old oak tree
Whose face is always welcome
Who speaks only and ever
Kindly of its kin
Or not at all

Wait now, at the oasis,
For the promised bride’s coming
Who brings the cool water from the well,
For a desert weary camel

All is soon to be right,
For the steadfast resistance
Against worldly temptations

Sovereignty steps out
Dropping the broken, black irons
Of miserable bondage
Lead, flowing through the river veins
Of miserly brothers
Cruel rage of bad blood

New, mazel tov celebrations
Of kaphar, divine grace
Selah and hallelujah
In a day of jubilee

The god of forgetfulness,
Is ever gracious and joyful
Drunk on the charms
Of plentiful, good company

Regaled today, by delightful tales,
Told by they who arrive on the morrow
During a banquet, yet to bloom
Banking on its promise
Of them and their warm presence

A toast is drunk daily
To what is seen
Which is nothing
For what is
In the eyes
Most of which
Is good

A steward, in secret
Stealing everything that was sacred
Receives all, in due course
New master’s blessings
Of themselves, a fine reward

And spared a death, daily
The stoning of harsh, marble law
Seven generations
Removed from the sight
And all senses

Tools of old bone
Hand me down worries
Covet, instead, that wild courage
Which rails against the unknown

Naked, cast out
No starved, gulag wages
Demanding the whole
The lion’s share of nary
A single thing

Punished sin of necromancy
Crime of insisting upon the rubric
Of a heritage of heresy
Brooding there, in the long lines
Where impatient fools bicker and stew
Wrestling with the dogs over scraps

A hindsight, an insight
A bird advances, eagerly
Plopping itself into the hand

The exiling of perdition
Raises up its secret children
High above the floods
Where the true blessings of heaven
May kiss them upon their heads
Sealing in immunity against sorrow

That these should never dwell
In that place of woeful wandering
Stone gardens of Golgotha
Where is never and nothingness
Only long, dusky shades
Commiserating with the dead

© 2021 Kevin Trent Boswell

Photo by K. Mitch Hodge

Latest Book Release

remission, poetry by Kevin Trent Boswell
remission, by Kevin Trent Boswell

remission

Other Titles Available

Dark Matter

on the page

Liber Ex Liberi

Chaos Comes Apart

in the current

Next

The Poetry of Kevin Trent Boswell
The Poetry of Kevin Trent Boswell


More Information

KevinTrentBoswell.com

YouTube

Magus & The Plastic Infinity

the music album, Flagship

Music Streaming, Amazon 

Music Streaming, Apple Music 

Music Streaming, Spotify

SoundCloud

burn

i lit myself on fire
for want of a reason not to
without ceremony, swept the ashes
into an old, empty coffee can

on a bit of masking tape
with a felt marker of navy blue
ungraciously catalogued it
abruptly labeling it: “man”

unsure of where to put the thing
i looked around, all about
since it’s nothing that i’d wanted
or would have ever paid for

for lack of a place to put it
there is nowhere, i’ve no doubt
to donate or dispose of it
tossed it into junk drawer

years from now, i suppose
it could just as well be never
i or someone else, unlucky
may stumble onto it again

i doubt it should prove useful
in the future, or really, ever
since there’s a plentiful supply
of the ashes of better men

© 2021 Kevin Trent Boswell

Latest book release:

remission

remission, by Kevin Trent Boswell
remission, by Kevin Trent Boswell

Other Titles Available:

The Poetry of Kevin Trent Boswell
The Poetry of Kevin Trent Boswell

Dark Matter

on the page

Liber Ex Liberi

Chaos Comes Apart

in the current

Next

More Information

KevinTrentBoswell.com

YouTube

Magus & The Plastic Infinity

the music album, Flagship

Music Streaming, Amazon 

Music Streaming, Apple Music 

Music Streaming, Spotify

SoundCloud

Strange Leaf

You might have heard the audio track but the video is an entirely different kind of experience.

“Strange Leaf” by Kevin Trent Boswell.

This world has been encoded for your protection. The original poem, “Strange Leaf” is published in the book title, remission, available on Amazon and at Conjure Work.

The audio track for “Strange Leaf” is available as a free download at the Patreon page, Magus72.

While you’re there, look over the benefits and perks that patrons get, exclusive content and lots of other bonuses.

If you enjoyed this video, don’t forget to:

Give it a thumbs up 👍 on YouTube
Subscribe ✅
Ring the notifications bell 🔔

© 2021 Kevin Trent Boswell

Perception

A new music video for the song “Perception” from the full-length, studio album, Flagship by Trent Boswell.

Show your support on YouTube by hitting the thumbs up 👍

Subscribe ✅ to get more of this kind of madness

Ring the notifications bell 🔔 and select “all”

Support the creation of more music, poetry and other, assorted madness from Trent Boswell at:

Patreon – Magus72

Get a digital copy of Flagship for yourself:

iTunes/Apple Music

Or get it straight from the artist, in digital form or get a signed copy of the CD at:

Conjure Work

More Cool Junk

YouTube

Magus & The Plastic Infinity

the music album, Flagship

Music Streaming, Amazon 

Music Streaming, Apple Music 

Music Streaming, Spotify

SoundCloud

Beat

That is not dead which can eternal lie
and with strange æons, Death itself may die.

      –H.P. Lovecraft

If you found yourself in Cthulhu’s shopping mall, probably in the swim wear section, you might well hear this, playing over the speaker system.

Zero times hydra, to the power of existence, cubed, over the square root of straight jacket. Solve for Y.


This is “Beat” from my horror collection, Dark Matter – Poems of Horror and Depravity.

Beat – from Dark Matter, Poems of Horror and Depravity

It’s been set to a beat, so that your strange æons might be somehow just a touch more symmetrical in nature.

The .mp3 file is attached, feel free to download it and share with anyone you like. Just click the DOWNLOAD button below, to play the track. Or hold the button down and select your SAVE option.

BeatDownload


See it on YouTube:

To continue drinking from this strange well of madness, hit the thumbs up 👍 subscribe ✅ and ring the notifications bell 🔔 and select “all”.

Get your copy of Dark Matter HERE


Beat


Nameless, black
Void and choice-less
Surrendered to night,
Full of dark
Wanting nothing,
Now all is empty
Free to take up any chain
Any desire that one might wish for
No desire, no restriction
No thirst for servitude
There is only the vexing slumber
Hunger for the fat of a new kill
Is somehow become as a stranger
Wandering, wanton hex
A nubile delving into psionic prisms
Load the chamber
With hollow shells of the dead
Projected visions of delirium
Angelic chasms
Frightful clamoring in the cranium
Call back the dogs
And let them sleep
For the dawn will soon enough
Overtake their prey
That tender light, shredding matter
Rending garment and flesh
Quite succinctly
No need of drummers
To time the pulse of this tune
The rhythm of it,
A vacillating pendulum
Lo, it is even without the ability
To stray from its precision
The striker upon the cylinder
Is the pointing, bony finger of
The hand of Death, Herself
The hammer that clangs the bell
Is the Mother of Night, incarnate
The femurs of a thousand heroes
Beating against the tanned hides
Of the children of the same
Her crooked digit,
A culminating of perpetual cycle…
Stick meets skin, head warps and
Sound emanates through eternity
Stick meets skin, head warps and
Sound emanates through eternity
Stick meets skin, head warps and
Sound emanates through eternity
A beat all too well pounded into the
Collective memory
Burned into a hive mind
Fallen into cerebral pits of
“Never before”
We have at last, found the true past
It is even more horrid and shameful
Than we feared
It is full of monsters
It is full of us

Copyright 2021 Kevin Trent Boswell

If you dig this particular brand of madness, you’ll want to support the creation of it and get lots of bonuses that aren’t available here or anywhere else, over on Patreon:

Patreon – Magus72

Latest book release:

remission

Get your copy of remission HERE

Other Titles Available:

The Poetry of Kevin Trent Boswell

Dark Matter

on the page

Liber Ex Liberi

Chaos Comes Apart

in the current

Next

Patreon – Magus72

YouTube

Magus & The Plastic Infinity

the music album, Flagship

Music Streaming, Amazon 

Music Streaming, Apple Music 

Music Streaming, Spotify

SoundCloud

Dangerous

Only one beast in all of creation
Only one which is anywhere known
Finds pleasure, perverse, even vocation
Unnecessarily harming its own

Of nature’s many carnivorous creatures
A vast array of poisons appear
Murder is common among their features
Motives of territory, status and fear

Death was here from the earliest days
Primal defense and sexual stuff
Animals kill in a whole slew of ways
But only one just can’t get enough

Horrific numbers and manners of killing
In the “most-evolved” is hate diagnosed
Not hungry or scared, finds it all thrilling
Only one, to true evil, the host

Complex schemes arise in one beast
Thrives on misery, whenever it can
Though many kill, to say the least
The most murderous critter is man

Copyright 2020 Kevin Trent Boswell

Support the work on Patreon

Latest book release:

remission

remission , by Kevin Trent Boswell
remission, by Kevin Trent Boswell

Other Titles Available:

Dark Matter

on the page

Liber Ex Liberi

Chaos Comes Apart

in the current

Next

The poetry of Kevin Trent Boswell
The Poetry of Kevin Trent Boswell

KevinTrentBoswell.com

YouTube

Magus & The Plastic Infinity

the music album, Flagship

Music Streaming, Amazon 

Music Streaming, Apple Music 

Music Streaming, Spotify

SoundCloud

Blind In The Sun

If you like bands like Queens of the Stone Age, Jane’s Addiction, Jimi Hendrix or The Mars Volta, then you’ll probably dig this.

This is a brand new recording of the song that I wrote many years ago but never had a chance to record it until now. I’ve played it live with my band quite a few times but unfortunately, we never caught it on tape.

I’m playing the bass and guitar parts and singing. Everything that you hear on this track is me, except for the drums. That’s because I don’t have access to a live drummer right now. Besides, feeding and caring for a wild animal like that is expensive.

Here’s the full video on YouTube. Don’t forget to hit the thumbs up 👍 subscribe ✅ and the notifications bell 🔔

The song is called blind in the sun and the lyrics are below. Originally, it was a poem and I set it to music (hence the Roman numerals in the lyrics).

The .mp3 file is attached to my Patreon page, so you can go there, download it (for free) and play it whenever you want.

I forget sometimes that people don’t always follow my rather eccentric, artistic choices, so I will explain something about this track. I purposefully chose not to clean up the sloppier guitar licks on this track, because it’s the feel that I was going for… teetering on the edge of the abyss.

Going back and punching in smoother, cleaner guitar parts is easy enough. I just didn’t want ’em, not for this. I’ll mention two songs that inspired my playing on this. One is “God”, by Tori Amos. Her guitar player is way better than he sounds on that track. It’s dirty, gritty and foul, for a reason. The song is about existential angst and the loss of faith, so it’s gotta be grimy.

The other is “Come On (Let The Good Times Roll)” by The Jimi Hendrix Experience. On that song, he does what jazz musicians refer to as “going outside”, meaning that he lets his solos wander just a little bit out of time and out of key, on purpose. Of course, he brings it back in or it wouldn’t be interesting. I chose to step outside on this track but hopefully not too much.

Feel free to share the link to this page or the Patreon page, or the YouTube link on your social media, that’s the best form of advertising there is for underground artists. I thank you in advance. Enjoy!

Just click that big, unwieldy link, below, to listen to the track. Or go to the Patreon page. You can download the song from the Patreon page and have it for your very own. Just don’t forget to water it every few days and never feed it after midnight.

Blind In The Sun

https://c10.patreonusercontent.com/3/eyJhIjoxLCJwIjoxfQ%3D%3D/patreon-media/p/post/45543356/0114204adf4a4bb2b4c492b3e1d80cbd/1.mp3?token-time=1609345733&token-hash=2ZL8WItz55_ogZDHvUN7Am6ticXKPOwsOUgMUTJy7_k%3D

I.

Blind in the Sun⠀
Can you cringe beneath
The shadow of a fly?
You’d better try
Running ‘cross the sand
Fire in the hearts of your band
In the joy of being alive
Stripped of delusion
And so forwardly stride

Lost in the garden
with canonized illusions
There are the keepers
Of the tower
But I am not a member
Of the dark December
The light of the sun refracts
In my eye

II.

Everything is water
Electric fluid matter
In a paper cup
Called Time

III.

Somewhere in the North
There are real vampires
I know you go to visit
From time to time
To roll in the stench
The decadence of
Thirst for blood
To dine with a pack
Of wild gods

I have no intent
Of adopting your bent;
Partying down with the devil
On your shoulder

I have no intent
Of going where you went
Beating on a skull
In a hellish midnight circle

But who am I to say?
That you are not ok?
I will simply stay
Behind

Copyright 2020 Kevin Trent Boswell

Copyright 2020 Kevin Trent Boswell


Latest book release:

remission

remission , by Kevin Trent Boswell
remission

Other Titles Available:

Dark Matter

on the page

Liber Ex Liberi

Chaos Comes Apart

in the current

Next

The Poetry of Kevin Trent Boswell

KevinTrentBoswell.com

YouTube

Magus & The Plastic Infinity

the music album, Flagship

Music Streaming, Amazon 

Music Streaming, Apple Music 

Music Streaming, Spotify

SoundCloudBlind In The Sun.mp3

conjunct saturn

This piece is new and is part of a book that I’m working on, called one pass by. The theme is one trip of the Moon through the lunar cycle.

The Moon is the protagonist of each poem, speaking directly to the reader or just thinking out loud. These are musings about the moods and experiences that come up each month, as Luna aspects the other planetary bodies in our solar system.

Our moon travels around the entire ecliptic (faster than any of the other, traditional planets) in roughly 29 days. That means She regularly conjoins (meets) all the other Planets, as well as forming what astrology calls aspects with them, such as sextile, square, trine and opposition.

Each of these angles prompts a different type of energy. Making sense of how these aspects affects us is a big part of what serious astrologers do.

In astrology, the word planet comes from the Greek, meaning “wanderer”. So yes, the Sun (Sol) and the Moon (Luna) are each a proper Planet (capitalized P for respect), even though they are not planets, in the astronomical sense.

In mythology, each of the Planets are ascribed as being the same energy or archetype of a particular God or Goddess. Our versions are named after the Roman Deities and correspond quite closely to their Greek counterparts.

In essence, these poems are the Goddess Luna, on her usual, monthly travels around Earth and Sol, the Sun. She’s talking about Her experiences with each of them, telling us the story of what can usually be expected, when She bumps into the other Gods in some way.

Each piece is written in lowercase, including the proper names, such as Saturn and Jupiter. This is a stylistic choice and nothing else. I probably read too much e.e. cummings and I’m just plain weird like that.

People who understand basic astrology will probably get a deeper meaning of each piece but they written simply enough that people with no astrological background can still get the gist of what’s happening and follow the stories.

The Moon is representative of many things and the easiest of these to grasp right away is emotions. Where the Moon is and how She is interacting with the other bodies out there determines a huge amount of what wee feel, collectively and individually.

This piece is about when Luna occupies the same bit of space as the Planet Saturn, who is the Lord of Time, restriction, boundaries, limitations, duty, architecture, crops (to some degree), geology, slavery and prisons. He also rules over contracts and institutions, especially in their more complex, bureaucratic and byzantine forms.

If you enjoy this and you want to see more of these produced, ha a look over the tier benefits on my Patreon page and become a patron, to support this work.

And now, I give you…

conjunct saturn

conjunct saturn

one of my least favorite bits
and each of us admits
jaws clench and grind
dutifully, as we try

to respect the old man;
but it crumbles, our plan
when near him, you find
you want to curl up in a ball and cry

i try hard to explain
in a language, most plain
my thoughts and feelings
and my needs, most dear

from his bed, every time,
of gravel, dirt and lime,
grumbles that these dealings
he just doesn’t care to hear

the only thing that i can say
of our meetings that’s okay
is that beside him, i discover
i seem to have the uncanny knack

for putting self into order,
defining clearly the border
between this, that and the other;
and it helps me to pick up the slack

but it’s tiresome work
for he’s a bit of a jerk
to be honest, he’s no fun
and no one really likes him

but as guardian, it’s clear
he inspires much fear,
so much so, that no one
ever dare strike him

into whatever room
floats our cloud of gloom,
they sit up straight and quick
and all take a somber notice

the vibe becomes serious
no drunk smiles, delirious
like jesus hitting you with a stick
or buddha, with a lead-filled lotus

folks get down and back to working
time for labor, not lurking
and he’s carefully checking
everyone’s to-do, check lists

if they’ve missed a thing or two,
as we all often do,
their rear ends, he’s wrecking;
his motivation-boot, it assists

my heavy heart hurts
at each weight he asserts;
the sad details he shows me
of the most dreary, depressing issues

though i attempt to retreat,
our little dates aren’t complete
until he calls me a baby and throws me
a box of camel-hair tissues

copyright 2020 Kevin Trent Boswell

Latest book release:

remission

remission, by Kevin Trent Boswell

Other Titles Available:

Dark Matter

on the page 

Liber Ex Liberi 

Chaos Comes Apart 

in the current 

Next 

KevinTrentBoswell.com

YouTube

Magus & The Plastic Infinity

the music album, Flagship

Music Streaming, Amazon 

Music Streaming, Apple Music 

Music Streaming, Spotify

SoundCloud

untitled

the dark nighttime

has many visions,

lost illusions, all seeking

to guide you

into foul madness,

struggling beneath

too-short

and coarse covers

trust your gut,

sweet child

for nothing but light

is inside you

the same

may not always

be said

of the others

look both ways

before you cross over 

the unknown

threshold

there is the light

which is in you

true

and bold

and then there’s

all of the everything 

else

that’s out there

some lights

which have gone out

but haven’t yet

been told

devils may take the

appearance of angels,

so always 

take care

these would

warm themselves

by the fires of

your favors

but themselves,

cannot

return

the good deed

gratitude absent,

and all the 

usual, 

good flavors

are not nearly so much 

in them,

not so much as 

they need

caring, something

they’re sometimes

quite good

at feigning

but they would 

not do so much 

at all,

were they able

to give you

assistance

they assist

by restraining

so that you make

in their making

up the food

on the table

in those dark places,

your rules don’t

make up

for the senses

your eyes

often fail

and your hearing

goes dumb

you‘re a good child,

a smart one

keeps up

strong defenses

against the weaving

of webs that would

have you

succumb

listen not

to easy tales 

of leisure

or love

be generous

to the grateful,

giving too much,

one discovers

there’s humanity

in your heart

and it fits you,

like a glove

but the same

may not always

be said

of the others

listen closely

when the light

whispers its

soft warning

go not lightly

where it would

sternly 

guide you away

lean gentle

upon your genteel

manners

of good morning

shield carefully,

your beacon

shining,

that it may

ward off those

hungry things, 

slinking 

in the twilight

committing

many crimes

to justify

sadness

your large heart

feeds them 

but the briefest 

time’s highlight

your manners 

won’t bring them

single moment’s

gladness

baleful hunger

returns ever, 

without

pause

more hot and fierce,

and much

stronger

than before

opening you

slowly, 

hiding

their cause

growing more

and more bold,

once you open

the door

in knowing

what warm,

nice feelings

spill out of you

upon your noble,

good faith,

they come

again to dine

a stitch of

incredulous

will keep away

death’s hue

after all

is said and done,

it almost always

saves nine

trim the wick

of your candle,

its bright light,

inspire

keep your

powder all dry

and your lamp

tinder lit

the pushers

of darkness,

small steps lead

to the dire

be careful

and wise

and don’t

fall for it

strange misgivings

will have you 

to shirk, 

with sudden attitude

even the

friendliest

of those come

hither smiles

the first thing

to go, 

once they get in,

is your mood

lasting longer

than it should,

means you’re taken

by the wiles

hold your memory

tight 

and never let them 

touch

trust, when the way down 

is nagging

and the good feeling 

lacks

harken which hands 

reach for you,

too awful

much

a bother in your belly, 

stops you 

dead in your 

tracks

your energy

will fail,

long before

their thirst

that visceral fear, 

in your warm,

tenderhearted

guts

if you take

the hooked bait,

you’ll soon see

their worst

suspicious,

uncertain

and thinking that

you’re nuts

those uneasy

twinges

that drive you back,

second guessing

from the most

obvious act

of a seeming

benevolence

they’re there

to warn you

of something

bad, pressing

despite daddy’s

words good can 

sometimes draw 

a malevolence

some feed on grace,

manners 

and mother’s charm school

propriety

it’s less commentary

on your love

on more so,

on their bleakness

in spite

of polite

good intentions,

all sobriety

resides in your

maintenance

against your own

weakness

glowing with life,

you are 

and so, must remain

in your poises

stay out of the

shadows

and out

of the foolish

they, and it, wane 

into dark dins

of the most 

horrible noises

which lead

away from light

and down into

the ghoulish

when your social

sensibilities

are suddenly

eviscerated

and it happens

without logical

reasons,

not one

something upon surface

seems

rather

uncomplicated

do not question it,

dear child,

instead…

turn and run

abdominal doubt

scorning the

solid

handshaking

is hidden

inside of

your knotted-up,

inward self

signal of a threat, 

through 

inexplicable

quaking

though they look

the good deal,

put them back

on the shelf

never wander

too closely

to the edges

of the dark

shadows have

been known,

on occasion, 

to jump through

to leap out and swallow

flickering,

pretty things

that spark

those that reside

inside of

pretty things

such as you

keep close

to the guard dogs

who growl

behind fierce eyes

when strange

temptations

come close,

offering favors

do not lean in,

or listen

too well

to their lies

the keepers

of darkness

and light

are close neighbors

and sometimes

those shaded

boundaries 

do fall wide open

for some 

always go there,

eager to steal 

keys

this may shock

or confuse,

sensibilities,

all broken

disappearance 

in the night happens, 

with the greatest

of ease

not all are so nice 

as you, child and know 

that some are the weight

of a great, heavy stone

not everyone

and everything

would have you

to live

some would

consume all,

even marrow

of your bone

every precious,

last drop of

all the blood

you could give

some of the

monsters feed

quietly

on your brain

not keeping you

in such good

but a good many

shapes

most monsters fall out

from the ordinary

and there,

they remain

until you break

their spells  

and your spirit

escapes

creepers

all slithering

down low,

out of light

shielding from

the bright, good

and sensible

day

well-hidden

under coverings,

many put up 

no fight

but will linger

and drain you

until you rise up

and slay

some appear tricky,

as a lamp 

or a torch

often does

but are only 

cloaks of

drowning 

in the cool shade

storms,

wearing rainbows

where color,

never was

any light

splintering through,

artificially

made

devils with dowries

invite you to 

lie on razor sharp 

pillows

with sweet, sugar

poisons,

sharp in the throat,

catch

because some wicks

take to light

easily, 

like dried-up, old willows

candle burns through

the night,

on first strike of

one match

some things

look a lot like a candle,

a flame or 

a spark

but they

will never burn,

no matter how hard 

you try

use up all 

your matches

and still,

in the dark

some will

always break things

and take things

and lie

about other things

like innocence

and light

and hope

lovely or kind

at first glance,

they may

look

but with a lot

of hard scrubbing

and a fair

amount of soap

you’ll discover

the ruse

and note all  

they took

I’m sorry to

have to say, child

not all is 

as it seems

in fact, most

things aren’t,

at deep heart

of the matter

in this world,

there are things

far worse 

than bad dreams

and the daylight

does not cause

them all 

just to scatter

some things

are stubborn 

in slow dying,

sowing trouble

and you’ll never

get back

those things

which were taken

guard against the losses

and in time, 

pop your own

bubble

childhood

dies a bit easier 

with your confidence,

unshaken

but die,

it must do,

since it’s nothing

but a blindness

the warm blanket

of sheltering,

by fathers

and mothers

the love you

possess, child

rewards kindness

with kindness

the same 

may not be said, 

always

of the others

Copyright 2020 Kevin Trent Boswell

Latest Book Release

remission

remission, by Kevin Trent Boswell
remission, by Kevin Trent Boswell

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KevinTrentBoswell.com

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ReverbNation

Conjure Sound

Strange Leaf

It’s not about just one thing.

You will easily spot some of the references to what’s going on right now and you’ll be tempted to stop thinking about it any deeper. But there’s far more in this than just what’s on the surface. This piece has no less five, separate meanings.

At the link below, you can listen to the recording. It’s an audio track of a poem that I set to music.

It starts very subtly but as it goes on, more and more layers of sound are building up in the background.

When you click the button, it gives you two options. If you just want to listen, click “view”. If you want to keep it, click “download”.

The words are posted below, in case you want to read over it. Feel free to share it with anyone you want.

Enjoy.

Listen to and/or download Strange Leaf.mp3 HERE

Strange Leaf

Turning over the strange leaf

Turning over the strange leaf

This disease is twisted

Scroll of crisp, fleeting knowledge

Closed

Knowledge of fire

Imminent

Throttle the breath

The king demands to be suffocated

In his sleep

Open the store for business

Give away the store

Surrender the kingdom to foreign invaders

Exposing palace guard

To various and sundry diseases

Each lure is enticing

More flies with honey

Otherwise, who would pay

With their histories?

Draw them all in with promises

Dates, compensation

Envelopes of flesh, pay offs

Reward for job well done

Blown secrets

Welcoming the killer

Taking them in hand

Pressing the lips to theirs

The people marvel, asking… how is it?

That one is so keen on this ruin?

Sitting amid the ashes and smoke

Of everything that has been built here?

These modern assassins

With their blades that are not sharp

And somehow, still cut into the chest

Death hides in expensive papers

Slow poisoning

Curses, binding victims

Black operations

Enchantments of vapor

Fog, happy delusions

The superior general is nowhere to be seen

He is conscious

Too clever

Cannot be made

Knows the angles

Lives and breathes the routine

False front

Encryption easy, plaintext works fine

No one puzzles anymore

Steganography is in the obituaries

Citizens are exhausted

Too tired for such crossword puzzles

Going out for a smoke instead

Trade information

In the marketplace

Exfiltration

Bring the defector

Home

Bite down on the dangling bait

Taking it all in

Believing every breath

Of the lies

Hide in plain sight

Got him by the throat

Control every decision

Deep cover

In the king’s pocket

Eight ball, corner pocket

Potentate busy in the honey pot

Playing with the handler’s mice;

Brief pleasures

Foolish pursuits

The intelligence all warned of these things

Plant the propaganda cypher deep

Where invisible moles dig up dirt

Behind enemy lines

Behind the iron curtain

Inside the iron lung

Flimsy robes providing no cover

Leaving your backside naked

Ass hanging in the wind

Summon the executioner

Simple curling of the finger

Roll up the scroll again

Match strike

Set it all off

Breathe in the satisfaction

Knowing operation is in motion

It’s coming soon

Playback is sanitized

Redaction, blot out the salient bits

Stopping up the pipes

Sell the story to the people

Want to play the game

Mutually assured destruction

Broken rhythms, code

Exorbitant bills

Gray sleeper

Uncle should have had the trigger in place

Monitoring the pulse

Cut out

Build up the legend

Elicitation of consent

Keys handed over for favors

Stay on the reservation

Travel in packs

Operative signals

A cough

Smokescreen

Run out to the store

Real quick

Dead drop

Delivery of small packages

Sabotage

Spanner in the works

Monkey mouth

Tinkering with toys

In terminal waiting rooms

Going to see the tailor and then

To see the cobbler

Fitting out the gear

Getting ready for the ball

Cinderella stories

Surreptitious flaps, seal the lips

Ghouls scour the graveyards

Where soon enough, all walk

A stainless steel ride

On the smooth train

Smoke stacks churning

Nonstop trip over the river

The L-Pill is long and round

It feels warm and pleasant as it

Sweeps the room…

Never know where the bugs are hiding

The chessboard is covered

With hundreds of rooks

Provocateurs and their purple ravens

Send in the pretty bird

She who swallows the signets

Conversation starters

Asking if she can bum a ride

No one can resist sharing with her

A most deadly resource

Infiltrating deep inside

Her smile

Lights up in the house

Show time

All sing like canaries

Under her spell

All light up with anticipation

We’d lose it all, were it not for her

Lost inside these dark clouds

Hearing that sultry siren voice

Regularly calling us

Out into the open

Vulnerable

Always comes

Dressed to kill

In something see-through

How excited each one gets

Peeling off those thin, flimsy wrappings

Hurriedly tossing them aside

For the insanely craved

The fumbling, shaky

Handful of minutes that it usually lasts

Carnal knowledge

Taken inside

Surrendering to the temptations

Wiles of the seductress

Little rituals and pats on the bottom for luck

One is literally turned upside down

Her charm is so strong

She deals in illusions,

Mirages, smoke and mirrors

Her stock and tradecraft

She’s good…

She’s very, very good

Never even questioning the matter

Asses feverishly chasing butts

Into oblivion and ash

Nursemaids gather on the back porch

On every coffee break

Swapping nuggets, juice, gossip, stories

Melodies of the official musicians

Open up the secrets of the music box

Sing the song of familiar comfort

Putting tips into the black hat

Saving up ducats to spend at the commissary

The doctor too, is an asset

Take the medicine

Change in the wind

Even dispersion through the system

Everything flows into place

Pouring in waves

Filling the containers

Enemy assets have infiltrated the realm

Moving now in the open

Impunity

Friends begin to distance themselves

Seeing the information come out

Noting how the map keeps rolling up

How it won’t stay in place

No one wants all that mess

Rubbing off on them

Second hand knowledge of good and evil

Disinformation

Civilians

Collateral damage

Innocents… it’s peculiar how they sound

Like innocence, itself

Out of the loop

Not in the know

Once, we too were innocent

Now, so much dirty laundry

So many secrets

Deeds that cannot be undone

We were all so green

Initial brush contact

Obsessed birdwatchers

True converts

Believers

In the cause

Now we maintain silence

Unnoticeable tip of the head

From across the room

Stepping out back for a quick exchange

And back in before anyone is missed

Dropping an innocent postcard

From time to time

Cultivation

Till the rough soil

Turn the flowerbeds over

Spread the chickenfeed

Spread the seed

Burned

Compromised

Smoking gun

A bit of dry cleaning

Removes the odors and stains

Burn the microfilm, papers, documents

Bona fides

Take off your shoes… all of them;

Don’t forget anything

Think hard about where

You might have hidden some

Step onto the scales

Feel the weight

Step away

Take a seat, bow out, tap out

The man in the coat and tie

Will be in to see you soon

Too much heat in the kitchen

Stepping back

Away from the blowback

Maintain cover, deniability

Pockets, littered with hiding

Cooling off in the shade

Double-cross the bridge

A trip to the hospital

Dressed up like a throwaway pig

In a coffin company suit

Book of matches, tucked into the vest pocket

A sequence of numbers inside

Picked up in grandma’s Cadillac

And going to the penthouse

For the all day long

Erase the problem

With assistance from the Dutch

And all of their superior, problem-solving skills

Transfer of power

Exchange

Change, slight

Sleight of hand

A hand in it

Too many hands

Off limits

Safe house

Tall brown grass

Walking sticks

Dead

Drop

Hush, little baby

Never heard a word

Assure the dying

All is well

From the book remission, by Kevin Trent Boswell. Now available on Amazon.

remission , by Kevin Trent Boswell

© 2020 Kevin Trent Boswell

Patreon

Flagship, by Trent Boswell

YouTube

Sound Cloud

Other poetry titles available:

Liber Ex Liberi

Next

on the page – poems for artists, writers and other hooligans

Dark Matter – Poems of Horror and Depravity

Chaos Comes Apart

in the current

The Open Mic Series – “none”

Here’s a really neat project that I’m pretty excited about!

I asked some of my friends to make recordings of themselves reading my poems. Quite a few thought it was a great idea and were more than happy to contribute.

The link here is the .mp3 of the first one I’ve chosen to present to you. You can click on it and just listen or right-click and save, if you want to keep it. It’s free!

Recording of “none” by Kevin Trent Boswell

By the way, if you want to help out and support more cool stuff like this, see my Patreon page, Magus72.

I’ll be posting them here, one at a time. I’ve had a lot of fun putting this together and I hope you enjoy listening to them.

The main thing I wanted to achieve here is get a variety of people, reading the pieces… in the way that they hear them.

None of the readers were given any prompts about how to read. A few people preferred to have something assigned to them and so I picked for them. But in most cases, they chose their own pieces to read.

This first poem is called “none” and it’s from my book in the current.

in the current, by Kevin Trent Boswell

Our guest reader is Xander and he did a great job with it. 

Recording of “none” by Kevin Trent Boswell

I’m posting the text, as well. That way, you can follow along or read it first, then listen or just listen and find out where it takes you… your choice. Enjoy.

none

mandala being nightmare…

nothing being curse…

still we strive for 

something!

she cries 

in her 

elliptical 

orbit

cycle of nothingness 

somethingness

separation 

dance

eros 

chance

death, 

arousal and 

denial

correct, 

of course

the role being 

after all 

seductress

how could one say 

that she was wrong?

how could one argue 

that anything

was ever

wrong?

polarities

cry of response 

no avail

she is 

in heat

hears 

nothing 

of my 

dharma

portions of 

infinity 

etc.

no wrong

only difference

how must one 

proceed in 

seeking

to curse

the void?

Copyright 2020 Kevin Trent Boswell 

from the book, in the current

Support the work at my Patreon page:

https://www.patreon.com/magus72

I cross-post the public works here. Patrons-only content is available, there.

Patreon

Magus & The Plastic Infinity

Conjure Work

antiverse

blogspot

Idol

One may, at any slapdash time

With little more than wink and nod

With no sense, reason, structure, rhyme

Of any chosen thing, make a god

Copyright 2020

Kevin Trent Boswell

The new book is out now, on Amazon:

Chaos Comes Apart

Take a look at my Patreon page at https://www.patreon.com/magus72

I’ll be cross-posting here, what I publicly post, over there. Patrons-only content will be available, over there.

Patreon

Magus & The Plastic Infinity

antiverse

blogspot

Conjure Work

mirror black

your self-hatred runs 

the whole way through, 

with its shark tooth hunger 

and desert thirst

since you only speak of how, 

all but you,

everyone else 

is the downright worst

yes, they robbed your ego, 

of its growth 

I’m well aware, 

the scars run deep

I‘d have loved you enough, 

for us both

but your jaws are locked, 

and so both, we weep

Copyright 2020

Magus

(Kevin Trent Boswell)

The new book is out now, on Amazon: 

Chaos Comes Apart

Support the work at my Patreon page: https://www.patreon.com/magus72

I cross-post the public works here. Patrons-only content is available, on my Patreon.

Patreon

Magus & The Plastic Infinity

Conjure Work

antiverse

blogspot

Chaos Comes To Town

If perhaps you’re craving some escape, some vitamins of inspiration, to get you through the dull roar of viruses and technological hangups and fearful, dull talk of elections and recessions and limitless to do lists and the hundred things you want to step aside from, for just a few, delicious minutes…

You might enjoy dipping into the eccentric, electric pool of weirdly words that I now release. Images that speak through your eyes and feelings that peer into your ears, reassuring you that, no matter how strange today seems, it’s likely to only get stranger, my dears.

Doesn’t sound like reassurance to you? Then look further, deeper into the expanding woo of kaleidoscope and know, that something bitterly beautiful and magnificent always comes out of every bizarre, however far, at first, it went.

The only thing you can count on for certain is that everything changes and everything… including troubles… settles back into comfortable routine, given enough time for the cooking bubbles.

This is true, whether you struggle against the changes with every ounce of strength or relax, let current carry you, drifting along, entire length.

It all stirs up and then, peacefully settles… back… down… again… even if you do absolutely nothing about it. Try it, breathe it, if you care to doubt it.

So do the things you need to do,
To take care of your own and for care of you
But turn an ear and an eye for moments, few
For a little something to help you through

After all, how can a mind possibly deal with all the chaos, real, of the modern world, if not properly armed, to defend itself? Protect the gray in your skull against the beast, with the malleable mania of poetry priest, and fend off some of the stupid doldrums that are pounding, drooling, at the door.

All good secret agents know, that if facing torture interrogation, they should distract themselves from pain with elation, singing and making up silly stories in their head. This keeps the mind from snapping, a thing that’s certainly worse than dead.

A bit of poetry and music, all that Orpheus ever used and he traversed the depths of hell, emerging unscathed, unbruised. Put some of that magick dust into your pocket and go, it’s only left to trust and know, that everything else is silly, when set beside.

The big bad world is known to cower and lay right down as if dead, when once you threaten it proper, with an unpredictable pipe bomb of poetry, cocked and painted onto its cocky head.

My new book, Chaos Comes Apart, on Amazon:

https://smile.amazon.com/gp/r.html?C=2EIU1YSKTC6SW&K=WFT0JB3LJN3D&M=urn:rtn:msg:2020031021204095b1740d54b345db8aaec4cdad50p0na&R=1OIWENZKO66E0&T=C&U=https%3A%2F%2Fsmile.amazon.com%2Fdp%2FB085RN5WYV%3Fref_%3Dpe_3052080_397514860&H=WMGC3ZTDWE5L1ZBAOSWBAP3UGHEA&ref_=pe_3052080_397514860

107 pages, all original works. Most of these, probably 70% of them have never been published anywhere before.

They were written over just a handful of days, in a maelstrom of creative inspiration, given by the Goddess Venus, to whom the book is dedicated.

The themes are varied, mostly centering around the way our worlds expand and contract, sometimes pleasantly, other times frighteningly, sometimes with plenty of heads up and often, with our pants down.

Writing it helped me cope with some of my own, more challenging changes. I sincerely hope that reading it helps you adjust to yours.

Use the link here to find it, it is still settling in to Amazon’s search system, not quite coming up there, just yet. But this link takes you straight to the banks of the strange river, where your world might just be stretched out of and back into shape.

Enjoy.

Copyright 2020

Magus

(Kevin Trent Boswell)

Take a look at my Patreon page at https://www.patreon.com/magus72

I’ll be cross-posting here, what I publicly post, over there. Patrons-only content will be available, over there.

Patreon

Magus & The Plastic Infinity

Conjure Work

antiverse

blogspot

Morning Flies Far

Confounding the stupefied senses, the

syllabus, schedules of uninformed winner

you’ve reliably opened a festering wound,

spending lunch money upon trinkets of dinner

Empty the cup that was never quite full,

all the seats cold and audience, waiting 

there’s no more rind or gristle to eat

and no one left, to hear the debating

Slink down now into entertaining covers

and call it all finally done, for a life

wasted and somehow full of wonder,

no loud report, but fish round for a knife 

And instantly recall, in blissful drudgery,

some things can’t be cut by the cannon gun

whether eight more lines or only a million

some faces watch, from which you don’t run

Quiet cannibals, eating your sorrows

angels who lift any plagues from your land

mouths that sit, ready for morsels

morsels that come from only your hand

Sing now, with wretched rooster of morning

sing loud of his majesty and curse his name

take small solace in dimwitted knowledge…

no one is salvation and no one’s to blame

Copyright 2020

Magus

(Kevin Trent Boswell)

Take a look at my Patreon page at https://www.patreon.com/magus72

I’ll be cross-posting here, what I publicly post, over there. Patrons-only content will be available, over there.

Patreon

Magus & The Plastic Infinity

Conjure Work

antiverse

blogspot

untitled

dark spectators

file in from the corridor,

to witness death

scepter of violence

shines a smile

electric murder pictures

steal their breath

Copyright 2020

Magus

(Kevin Trent Boswell)

Take a look at my Patreon page at https://www.patreon.com/magus72

I’ll be cross-posting here, what I publicly post, over there. Patrons-only content will be available, over there.

Magus72 on Patreon

Magus & The Plastic Infinity

Conjure Work

antiverse

blogspot

flash

I.

… standing right on the tip 

of a spoonful of madness…

now, there’s a guy

who understands 

the depths

of loss

I fell into a well 

of brilliant colors

covering lungs

 in layers of 

dark gloss

no wiser,

or better 

for the experience

but 

never a lament 

will you hear 

from me

time… 

and other… 

four letter words

                                                                    (aside)

a plethora of pleasures and miseries

have I earned and yearned,

pleaded against and welcomed 

with banquets

for and through my guilt by association 

with the bleating of these mild sheep,

cloaked in the 

dripping, hollow fangs 

of serpents

crashes 

of symbols,

off beat                                       {snares}

four/for             MaDN”u”s

and off key stares—————–> II

II.

study well this deranged diatribe

tests are continuous,

apparatus is on its way

to assist you…

with those

already concluded

we’re 

watching 

you

III.

are the bad ones 

bothering you 

again?

take 

this 

and 

end 

it

Copyright 2020

Magus

(Kevin Trent Boswell)

Take a look at my Patreon page at https://www.patreon.com/magus72

I’ll be cross-posting here, what I publicly post, over there. Patrons-only content will be available, over there.

Patreon

Magus & The Plastic Infinity

Conjure Work

antiverse

blogspot

almost something like it

you say you’ve been

to the mountain 

and now you’re a big to do…

funny but i don’t remember

the mountain

ever mentioning you

i am not your memories…

that frame cracked, 

when I outgrew

shards of recollection, 

now strewn about your rug

a steep cleaning bill is due

i am no longer boxed in

i‘ve outgrown my previous place, 

mounted on your wall, to view

i no longer fit in your wallet

or inside of any container 

that also contains you

Copyright 2020

Magus

(Kevin Trent Boswell)

Take a look at my Patreon page at https://www.patreon.com/magus72

I’ll be cross-posting here, what I publicly post, over there. Patrons-only content will be available, over there.

Patreon

Magus & The Plastic Infinity

antiverse

blogspot

Conjure Work