a crisp vertigo has bitch-slapped me right out of my seat, and taken my place at the table
how is it that one can be gun-shy and trigger-happy, at the same time?
these lesser mysteries fall pale and sickly, into the dim, sour heat of winter’s chamberpot
fasten a few severed limbs to your Christmas wreath, and sing that classic advertising jingle once more; it does so warm the hearts of the masses
put a few coppers into the wooden collection box to help the neighborhood children raise enough funds to burn down the old cathedral, and replace it with a house of mirrors
it’s a good cause
or, at least, it’s one that they’ll never write songs about, and hence, we’ll never have to listen to them singing
you scrunch up your brow and wonder, with a new brand of vexation, what is this peculiar dip you’ve been invited to plunge your nacho poker chips into?
it is gray with fear, it cringes and recoils when you move towards it
and, what’s more, it reeks of both vinegar and victory
a blind man sidles up next to you and tugs at your coat sleeve, saying “I’ve seen this movie. Trust me, you won’t like it, either.”
the cat has dragged home, and ceremonially draped, a hippopotamus across your threshold
it is more than a little incensed that you show no appreciation for its generosity
fickle creatures, all of us
more inscrutable nightmares, injected straight into the jugular
night wipes the sweat from its brow, takes another shot of whiskey, and motions disapprovingly toward the calendar on the wall
the constable slurs an order to the lieutenant on duty, who promptly douses the wall with gasoline, and sets the calendar ablaze
before exiting, he salutes, and cheerfully says, “No worries, sir. We’ll have a new one nailed up in time for the New Year’s festivities.”
all the stops have been ripped out from the church organ
now, it will do little more than blow bubbles, and coo sinister, atonal choruses of “Hail to the Chief,” “Ring Around the Rosie,” and “Tiptoe Through the Tulips”
“Ashes, ashes…”
we are always falling down
it has been said that there are worse things than you
still, it is truly impossible to know, and difficult to imagine, where such monsters could possibly exist
“Three Day Beard”- music video from the new Trent Boswell album, Area 25
“Three Day Beard” from Area 25, by Trent Boswell
Release date is February 22, 2023. Note, it may be up to a week before the album starts showing up on the various music platforms.
Available on all the major music streaming services, like Apple Music, Spotify, Amazon Music, YouTube Music, and many more.
Album cover art by Dorian Strange.
Lyrics for “Three Day Beard”
I.
Standing in a soup line Sucking on a tail pipe Working on a new crime; Against myself, How many times Can I kill myself? Before I die? God knows I tried To find out
II.
I wandered where the women went Thought my soul could be at ease I never lost my good intent But found myself wishing I’d never had it at all Never had it at all Is that what you’d call A fall from Grace?
III.
Listen here man and wo-man alike I won’t tell you about all the cigarettes And the booze, and the other scenarios I won’t tell you about all the hard feelings And the petty larcenies I won’t tell you about all the Broken bones and homes Rendered in brutal beatings And I won’t even tell you about the sadness; The heavy, “wish we weren’t here” melancholy But I will tell you this: There are people who walk this earth Who are so beautiful, on the inside, They make angels blush And you… Ain’t one of them
IV.
Allow me some time To be angry I’ll shout, not speak my mind I’m hungry; Don’t wanna eat
V.
Forgive my trespass I’m not sorry Thought maybe you had grown, Just a little, I was wrong But don’t worry You will
You will Just not with me
VI.
If you wipe the slate clean, Just kick back and dream: Never learn a thing About what you see
VII.
My license to be blind Has been revoked Just in time And now I see the work Cut out for me
This piece of prose is from a book of horror poetry. What is horror poetry? Imagine that Stephen King wrote poetry and prose instead of novels and short stories.
This particular piece is about the climate crisis. It’s an imaginary interview with an American farmer in the not so distant future, a dystopian vision of the runaway effects of climate change.
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Special thanks to the following people for contributing video for this project:
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
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.
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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.
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:
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⠀ 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
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.
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.
Author’s Note: This piece is dedicated to anyone who is still awake and should not be, to anyone who is worried about what things are waiting, up ahead.
Nighttime
Trouble, in the nighttime, fell Upon too wakeful brow, Which ought to sleep
Coins cast in tainted well, Uncertainty of where and how, Enough to cause anyone to weep
Pitching gold piece of its own, Came an angel of repose and rest With curious question, whispered, quiet
“A myriad things, all unknown… How is it you’re certain… to fail the test? Without shred of doubt, that may deny it?”
Of course, no good answer was there, for this And searching, mind grew sore and tired Eyes heavy, in downward creep
The angel placed soft, loving kiss Upon empty head, thoughts all expired Drifting peaceful now, into the deep
Kevin Trent Boswell 