story – Kevin Trent Boswell

More Machine

Built the Machine with your own, bloody hands
Said you programmed it for our plenitude
Carefully, you tightened all its bolts and bands
You saw to it that everything was screwed

Saddled your Machine when it was still small
Rode it everywhere, all over the place
Weened your Machine on blood, sweat and all
Devouring everything, leaving not a trace

First you drove it to every faraway nation
Consumed every animal and crop in the land
Millions of slaves, chained to your creation
Ground up beneath the wheels of its demand

You’re so proud of your Mean Machine
Cranked controls all the way up to MORE
So hard that you snapped off the knobs
Doesn’t know any limits, only knows war

You fed Machine what they built by hand
It grew meaner by the day, on all they could grow
It ate their homes and even ate their land
It even ate their memories, all that they know

When Machine had gobbled up every last thing
Picked clean all bones, in every foreign field
You rode back home, a messiah, a king
Fearing your hungry Machine, we all kneeled

You’re so proud of your Mean Machine
Cranked controls all the way up to MORE
So hard that you snapped off the knobs
Every day, it breaks its own high score

I guess you never heard of Dr. Frankenstein
Guess you knew Dr. Faust wasn’t real
So, you sold your soul and that was fine
But you threw all of ours into the deal

Machine just grows, never stops to ask why
You said we’d be saved by your shiny, little toy
Now, no one can stop it, no matter how we try
It’s programmed to eat, enslave and destroy

You saw Machine’s lust, heard its awful moan
You finally figured out that it would never stop
Beneath its wheels, you began throwing your own
Anything to save yourself and stay on top

Nothing left to eat, Machine looks all around
And sets its ravenous eyes upon you
Alone, it eats the Earth, with a grinding sound
Finally eating itself… only thing left to chew

You’re so proud of your Mean Machine
Cranked controls all the way up to MORE
Turning so hard, you snapped off the dials
Mean Machine breaks free to settle the score

From the black book of awful, horrible, despicable things, Out On The Killing Floor

Out On The Killing Floor, by Kevin Trent Boswell — Available on Amazon

Support

Many thanks to everyone who supports this work, over at Patreon. It wouldn’t be possible without them.

Sumus Solum

just a few words
quietly into the ear
words in Latin
and a whisper, these

“Velocitas. Tempo. Quaeso.”
being: speed, pace
and the last meaning
please

looking fearful, desperate
it spoke again, saying
“Fastinare, Padre.
Sumus solum.”

“Hurry up, Father.
We’re lonely.”
the words beating
in his ear like a drum

the face grinned
but it was not the smile
of the one to whom
the face did belong

it was the mockery of the evil
that hid behind that face,
working on the priest
who was less strong

“Let me show you,
all that you can have”
and reaching into his mind,
showed him his every desire

anything and everything
he’d ever wanted
anything he could
ever want or require

intoxicating visions
washed over him
waves of sensation,
each of them seeming so real

honors, wealth,
lust and health,
every appetite or pleasure
he could ever hope to feel

this Father Antonio,
the weaker of the two,
began falling apart, succumbing
to temptation’s sway

but Father Paolo
continued his prayers
even while his assistant
backed away

the spirit, bound to the bed
thrashed about and snarled
spitting and cursing every
curse-word it knew

Paolo threw holy water,
said the prayers, kept faith
fearlessly advanced,
while Antonio withdrew

the Bishop had warned
Antonio wasn’t ready,
not up to the task,
said Paolo should choose another

but neither Father Paolo
nor the good Bishop
truly understood, just how weak
was the inexperienced brother

Antonio had never
performed the Rites
and in the presence of such evil,
he succumbed to the attack

but none suspected that he too,
would become possessed
and worse, he stabbed
Father Paolo in the back

the wounded priest,
the only one of these two
who had strong faith
and the skill for the job

stumbled back into the hall
Antonio came to his senses;
and seeing what he’d done,
began to sob

the spirit, it watched,
through the eyes of the young girl
Antonio’s crying and
Father Paolo, falling down dead

Father Antonio’s
heart pumped with fear,
he slumped to the floor,
clutching his head

the spirit laughed
the last words it spoke…
“Now, let me give you
your reward.”

it closed the girl’s eyes
forced its frail host to smile
and the approaching sounds
of sirens loudly roared

Father Antonio spent
twenty years in prison
and was given parole
for good behavior

The Bishop spoke
at Father Paolo’s funeral,
said that he’d gone
to be with the Savior

the frail, young woman
possessed by the spirit,
died slowly, tormented
in the asylum

the orderlies, speaking no Latin,
thought it gibberish,
her endlessly whispering…
“Quaeso. Sumus solum.”

From the anthology of dark, horror poetry, called Out On The Killing Floor.

Main photo by Khoa Võ

Support for This Work

You can be part of the ongoing madness from Kevin Trent Boswell on Patreon. Take a look at the benefit tiers and find the one that drives you sufficiently insane. They start as low as $3.

You won’t find madness at a better price, anywhere. If you do, we’ll match their price and/or cut them up into tiny pieces and bury them in the garden.

Magus72 on Patreon - the music, poetry and madness oKevin Trent Boswell — Magus72 on Patreon

So Much Blood

It’s almost Halloween, kids. So, gather around, for a little story. It’s about some of the strange things that go on, out in the deepest parts of the woods, where people rarely go.

But there are always those who think it will be nice to have a cozy, little cabin, way down in the valley, where no one ever goes. Sometimes, something bad happens to those people. But what exactly, it was that happened… well, no one knows.

Enjoy the story, kids. And sleep well, tonight… especially those of you who live way out in the woods.

So Much Blood

They was so much blood
On them walls, the carpets, even the ceilin’
Hardly anythang in the room
That t’weren’t coated with gore

What sorta person… what sorta creature…
Could do such a thing?
Whatever t’was, it looks as if it come
Up from out that thar hole, in the floor

I reckon it coulda been human
But I doubt that’s the case
‘Cause there ain’t no bodies…
Just them awful, red stains

Sick fellers, they’ll sometimes kidnap folks
And some of ‘em’ll kill you
In either case, they leave somethin’
Some type a clues or remains

But there ain’t no footprints, nowhare
And they’d have to be some
In all of this blood, if anyone
Was ta walk out that door

But they ain’t nothin’
Just them nasty trails of slime
An some type of excrement
I ain’t never seent before

Whatever it t’was,
It was slow but fearful strong
Theys signs a strugglin’
Pert much everwhare

It weren’t quick… poor bastards died slow
Y’all see where they tried fer the doors,
Tried climbin’ out the winders
But couldn’t get there

Y’all see, right here and over yonder
How they was grabbin’ fer weapons
Whatever was close, them scissors
That pistol and that there knife

The poor souls all this blood belonged to,
Looks as though they fought hard
To defend themselves but it t’weren’t
Enough to save their life

Them locks was all still bolted
There ain’t no evidence of nuthin’
Comin’ into the house
From anywhare, outside

And from the looks of that hole,
Whatever t’was, it ain’t here, no more
T’was somethin’ godawful big
Too damn big to just up and hide

Whatever left them bite marks
In the top a that bedpost,
T’was something mighty huge
Somethin’ with a heap a sharp teeth

It looks as if this feller was… eaten
Right here on the bed frame
Theys half a man’s shirt
And an eyeball, underneath

Y’all ‘member them strange stories
Them that great-granddaddy use’ta tell?
Them whoppers, we all reckoned
Weren’t nuthin’ but senile dementia

We just assumed they was just
Tall tales to get us to behave
They said that once, ever hundert years,
“Them critters… they’ll come to getcha”

They said that’s why no one ought never
To live here, in this here valley
“Don’t build there.” they’d say,
Soundin’ all mysterious

‘Course we all reckoned it was nothin’
Just hallucinations they’d had
On account a when they was younguns
That flu had all them folks so sick and delirious

I ‘member this feller tellin’ great-grandaddy,
Some twenty years back, how he was fixin’ ta
Build hisself a house here, wanted to know
If they was any money he could borry

I ‘member the look on great-granddaddy’s face
When he tolt ‘im “No, I shan’t do it.”
But what was truly strange was
How he said “You’ll be sorry.”

It seem’t sensible to dismiss all them tales
As a bunch a dammed nonsense
Just a heap a stories, to get the younguns
To mind and act right

But ‘member how, a few generations back,
A handful of our kinfolk lived in this valley
They went missin’ without no explanation
That were a hundert years ago, as of last night

Now, I ain’t never been known
To be a superstitious man
Y’all know I ain’t a scare’t a no man
And I’ll fight a feller at the drop of a hat

I’m gettin’ the hell outta Dodge, never to return
And I strongly suggest y’all do the same
Ain’t never seent such a mess as this
And that’s all I reckon I got to say about that

This piece is part of the anthology of dark, horror poetry, called Out On The Killing Floor. It’s coming for you, soon.

Photo by cottonbro

Seven Spanish Angels

My cover of Willie Nelson’s “Seven Spanish Angels”, a wonderful song that he got Ray Charles to do a duet with him on. I don’t care for modern country music but I love Willie Nelson, Johnny Cash, Patsy Cline, Dolly Parton, Loretta Lynn… to me, that’s real country music.

The great jazz saxophonist, Charlie Patker would go into a bar and load up the jukebox with country songs, which puzzled his jazz cat friends. When they asked why, he’d say “It’s in the stories, man. Listen to the stories.” Nobody can tell a story like Willie Nelson. How much more true is that, when Ray Charles is helping him tell it?

I’m doing the vocal, playing all the guitar parts and the bass. I’ve never been much of a slide guitarist, so it’s not exactly amazing slide work but it came out just well enough that I didn’t ditch it entirely. Since I didn’t have Ry Cooder’s number, it will have to do.

You can support this work and download the song for free at:

https://Patreon.com/Magus72

Seven Spanish Angels

He looked down into her brown eyes
And said “Say a prayer for me”
She threw her arms around him
Whispered “God will keep us free”
They could hear the riders comin’
He said “This is my last fight
If they take me back to Texas
They won’t take me back alive”

There were seven Spanish Angels
At the Altar of the Sun
They were prayin’ for the lovers
In the Valley of the Gun
When the battle stopped and the smoke cleared
There was thunder from the throne
And seven Spanish Angels
Took another angel home

She reached down and picked the gun up
That lay smokin’ in his hand
She said, “Father please forgive me
I can’t make it without my man”
And she knew the gun was empty
And she knew she couldn’t win
But her final prayer was answered
When the rifles fired again

Words and music by Willie Nelson

Special Thanks

Special thanks to the following people for their video and photo contributions:

and Jeff Ross

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

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