I see the length of rope that hangs you I know how you are trapped from within There’s nothing for you that I can do Don’t expect you’ll come down again
The invisible shackle on your leg I feel its ponderous weight, as well The lock and key don’t belong to me And neither does your hell
There is no gag to mute your voice You chose to choose, to beg, to ask When asked about your final choice The words could not escape the mask
The floor is yours; of me, no trace Stepping away, discharging a sigh One heavy heart, one double-face For someone other than I
The Music, Poetry, and Madness of Kevin Trent Boswell— Most recent book release, available on Amazon —Magus72 on Patreon – the music, poetry, and madness of Kevin Trent Boswell
a little understated skywriting announcing the death of a loved one brightens up any picnic
a small, unobtrusive mountain of mayonnaise or tapioca pudding in their living room makes for a wonderful birthday surprise
a subtle moat of blood around your mansion is much classier than any ol’ stupid infinity pool
a modest bouquet of wildfire in your neighbor’s garden is a much more imaginative housewarming gift than a dull plate of homemade cookies
one will never present as rude or ostentatious, if only you remember not to scream obscenities in the movie theater… until after the opening credits
it’s not beyond the boundaries of good taste to have an assortment of gangrenous appendages on the bureau in the foyer instead of the more traditional candies and breath mints
the neighbors will appreciate a conservative display of heads on spikes; it’s a nice way to outline the borders of one’s property line without being too uncivilized about it
it’s hardly meretricious or inelegant to wear a fifty-foot royal purple robe, with the ears and eyes of one’s enemies stitched into the edges
it is, after all, a formal affair; one wouldn’t wear it to go out dancing, obviously
no one of good breeding will think you garish, just because you proclaimed yourself lord emperor of all unicorns
most will assume that it was merely the wine talking
if you bring your honey badger to that karaoke bar where all your coworkers meet for happy hour, you’ll have the envy of everyone at the office
it’s not too glitzy or braggadocio to wear lingerie and furs to church, not for the easter service, anyway
no one can accuse you of behaving bodaciously when you drag a couple of five-gallon containers of gasoline into the library, then proceed to dump them out, and light up a cigarette
after all, some of us like to enjoy a good book with a smoke
never too splashy to pass out sex toys and clean needles at the old folks’ home and the orphanage; it just wouldn’t be christmas without the spirit of giving
yes, it is “commanding” to slit one’s throat over the punch bowl
but everyone at the party knows you’re single, and you really do have to peacock just a smidge, if you’re ever going to attract that special someone
anyone who scolds you for pissing on a wedding cake just doesn’t know how to party
who cares if you didn’t hit every single note perfectly in that show tune?
before you started boldly livening up the place with song, it was so tense and somber in that operating room; those surgeons should be thanking you
it’s anything but too splashy to throw mardi gras beads at a funeral
everyone appreciates it when you spice things up with some colorful fun, and who doesn’t like free costume jewelry?
people are just too uptight these days
don’t take it personally; they simply do not understand your special brand of panache
Author’s Note: This piece is supposed to be humorous. There were genuine tragedies that occurred during the ice storms. Tens of thousands lost power, and there were a few fatalities. The homeless suffered greatly.
However, this is NOT about any of those serious situations. This is NOT meant to be disrespectful in any way toward the (thankfully) few instances where people were seriously harmed.
Instead, this piece is merely poking fun at the rest of us, the bulk of us, who were merely required to be patient while the storm passed; something that modern Americans find virtually impossible to do.
they fell like flies during those six terrible decades that began in mid January of 2024, in Portland, Oregon
so much collateral damage such tremendous loss of life
well… normal, everyday life
so much loss of… balance
power was wrested from the hands of those who were so accustomed to having power… in their homes chariots lost all control, crashing into each other like rams; suicide bombers, without any allegiances, taking out street signs, and Toyotas
actually, it wasn’t quite six decades, I guess it was more like six years?
but that hardly matters
when such senseless devastation falls on a place, the clock itself is killed in action
no one even recalls what started the wars
one day, it was brother and sister, neighbor and friend and the next, it was bedlam, chaos
colorless blood ran freely in the streets and froze into gruesome, solid, white sheets of gore; winter’s guts
it all happened so fast, there was no time to question why, how, or when
there was only enough time to react, to fight for one’s life, flailing on the battlefield, in mortal combat, man against nature, warrior against warrior, chariot against chariot
no wonder it felt like such an eternity
it is easy to understand how we thought it was six years
although, I was just reminded, it was only six months, not six years
still, it’s reasonable to assume that it would be simply impossible for so much carnage to occur in only six months
so many frozen toes, cold fingers, and other numb appendages
brave combatants, slugging it out in the trenches, trying to catch one of the few buses that were still running
the psychological impact, the mental anguish of having to leave fallen comrades behind
“Man down!”
war is truly hell
so many work hours… gone, forever
never to be made up through overtime
so many delivery orders that never arrived
there are no memorials in the town square, commemorating the fallen heroes
there are only pools of slush and tears
and the slow efforts of healing struggling to bloom, like the first buds of a spring that has yet to arrive
healing the wounds of the body is easy
hot baths, warm meals, cups of cocoa, and bandages for all the minor cuts, sustained out on those unforgiving, frozen killing fields
many battlegrounds have yet to be cleared
Burlington, Thorburn, Burnside, and 72nd Street, all littered with destroyed vehicles, fallen trees and power lines
all icy remembrances of the horrors of this past six weeks of war
the human body is amazingly resilient
the physical frame can regenerate lost tissue, skin that was mercilessly ripped from innocent flesh, as brave soldiers engaged in the fray, a torturous melee against the territory itself, and every previously mobile thing that had suddenly become a permanent fixture of the terrain
yes, the body bounces back quickly
the healing of the mind, however, this is a slower, more subtle, and more painful process
one must confront the awful memories, the flashbacks, the nightmares, of waking up and realizing that there would be yet another morning of snow and freezing rain, and temperatures that only rarely and briefly climbed above freezing
even now, Portlanders are struggling to come to grips with all of it, the mindless, opaque fog of war
some are still huddled in corners, entirely overdressed, certain this is only a brief ceasefire, terrified that, at any moment, the temperature will drop by thirty degrees, and the flurries will begin anew
these snow-shocked veterans of the Oregon ice wars are suffering terribly, post-traumatic stress disorder, mild head injuries, scraped elbows and skinned knees, all these poor limbs, slammed down hard onto the slab of the division of wartime; somewhere down on SE Division Street
these wounds are not only of the body
these wounds run deep into the collective psyche of all who were here and bore witness to the atrocities
humiliation tortures, crimes against humanity, or at least against the ego, forced participation in farcical ice follies, persecution techniques of the enemy, methods that most definitely do not conform to the Geneva Conventions
the victims will have to face that long road toward reopening all the roads;
reconstruction could take days
everyone will have to agree to lay down their arms, so they can take off their heavy coats
they will need to let go of their grievances against the inconveniences of such widespread conflict
they’ll have to band together, setting aside their differences, and their snow shovels
they must remove the war spikes from their winter boots, and finally come together to heal; probably over a cappuccino, or possibly an imported lager
because, while the bitter memories are still all too fresh, and the bruises on everyone’s tailbones are still quite tender, we must accept that now, the war is, in fact, over
it is time to forgive, to put aside our petty differences
it matters not, which side of the Max Line you were on, when the hostilities first began
now, there are no more white, frozen lines of scrimmage
or, at least, any that remain should be gone by tomorrow
it is time for Portlanders, and indeed, all Oregonians to remember that they are kin
never mind that each is as different from the next as frozen night is from snowy day, that no one can agree on the right wine to serve with which dish, or which aperitifs and canapés to serve with brunch
still, they must strive to remember that they all live together, in the great State of Oregon!
let there be peace now and forever
sit, side by side, at the fireplace, share your stories with one another
help one another work through the trauma and heartbreak of the ice wars
maybe don’t sit by an actual fire, like, in the actual fireplace; I mean it’s like fifty degrees out, now… so, maybe just a nice sweater, and a scarf or something
but, you know… some tea, or coffee, and the love of your fellow citizens, citizens of this great territory, all of who lost so much in these horrendous six weeks of…
come to think of it…
it really was, now that I think about it, only about six days, or something like that
but, anyway…
whatever
it was a grim, burdensome trial by fire, you know, that weird, burning sensation that you get, when the only exposed parts of your skin are being dragged by gravity across the white, rock hard and razor sharp wasteland, somewhere along the front lines of César Chávez
it’s so weird that you’d feel heat, being raked over ice like that…
but I digress
the message here is unity, peace, healing, and starting anew
let the insufferable nightmares of those six awful days begin to recede days of ice, calamity, the inability to receive any type of deliveries
let these horrors finally be buried in the past
it is now time to bury the ice scraper
to begin treating one another as neighbors, once again
the war is over
well, don’t actually bury the ice scraper, because we could potentially get another brief cold snap at some point, but you understand the metaphor
go now
go in peace
there are restaurants to eat at, coffee shops, where baristas will serve you hot beverages,
there will be packages waiting at your doorsteps when you arrive home from work
and, all will once again be rational and sane, just as it was
the ice is on fire bumper car gridlock in the house of eternal glaring mirrors
roller derby queens in the mosh pit
dire, splintered rose of morning, flush from the recent triathlon, scoops tainted blood into the shoes of passersby, snagging their throats with treble hooks of laughter, inappropriate sympathies, and an unreasonable sense of doubtful kinship
chuffed to be chaffed, lampooned, stranded, laid bare, out on the hard, white, diamond beach
all fat and blubbering; every bit as distressed as a snow covered bear trap, whistling a lullaby
the panting team of dogs, recovering from their labors at the front end of the long sled, lined with the tusks of sea lions, the hides of wolves and polar bears, full of provision pouches, stuffed with the fat of seals, the jerked meat of horses and sheep, the oil of whale fat, lamps with tinder, flint and steel, maps and spyglass
come what may, take all comers, oh come, all ye entirely too faithful in thy selves and thy surety
when the steps to the kingdom are many, and fraught with the myriad challenges of the pale rider
footfalls in the tundra are rarely heard farther than a few links
panicked and labored breaths go not much more than a perch
hysterical screams, pleas for help, these fall under the brutal gales of blustery winter, after not more than a chain’s length
and, hope, that frail desert flower, it seizes up in the fierce cold, after but one or two barleycorns
the unhinged advice of prairie-mad soothsayers, tolling on, cracked bells, silly, cocky and cockeyed songs of ignoring advisory cautions
repentance, penance, cold forgiveness,
touched in the head, white-bearded archons, flat on their backs and somehow flush with the skyline
gossamer wisdoms, stitched singly, haphazardly, threaded with baby’s breath and prideful schemes of humanity, pining after such translucent and diaphanous tales as freedom and solidarity
thimbleful of knowledge, bottomless well of thirst
finding servitude at the feet of the hard, white, glass god
coarse altars of lead, chalcedony, hematite, heliotrope, and smoky quartz
the spilled inner workings of snow dusted pigeons, drizzled over wreaths of holly, mistletoe, and amaranth
peculiar characters, etched into collar bones
sequences of numerals, names, and pictographic metaphors of violent inundation
it is sometimes possible to pilot oneself spritely through the tiny cracks in the walls of elemental fortresses
although, it is necessary to be infinitesimally small
slight enough to seep in through the inconspicuous spaces between nucleus, proton, and electron
the guards there demand steep tributes of outlandish bribery
otherwise, they will allow a foreigner to pass, unabated
most would-be breakers of the firm law of covalent bonds fail to remember the signs, and passwords,
they perish in surprise, taking the slow slide down the fireman’s icicle pole, expiring on tempered lengths of bastard steel
tumbling down, all Raggedy Ann, on the intolerant, vengeful Nordic coastline of Hagalaz and Isa, Hail and Ice, the penalties of cruel Thuriaz
blisters are cells of memory, connective synapses of recollection, the mysteries of how horses and fresh lambs drop, all nimble and precocious, right from their mothers wombs
this, while the purview of warriors, kings and commoners, despots and derelicts is a nearly hobbled state of tardy incapacitation
hamstrung, in tiny wooden prisons, little more than strips of bark and thick switches and kindling
captured, helpless, in thatched barracks of straw, bundles of linen, and distracted into oblivion by sparkling colors
lower beasts, nearly ready for the long journey at the first hour and breath
the armies of men, stumbling along immense assembly lines of careful speculation, as with the construction of ocean vessels and whole kingdoms
dashing to and fro, for a few handfuls of fitful days, and then, flopping down, all useless and dead, onto the ivory floor of cathedral, lapsing into comatose stupidity, before the misty-eyed gentry, all aghast and agape in their cemetery processions
garlands and banners, horns, and other things, all about as useful and as sensible as fistfuls of frozen rain, hurled at bloodshot eyes, in a farcical effort to turn back the sun
casualties of winter casual business, and other synonyms for meshuggeneh
there is nothing here, except razor and concussion
there was little else, before
there will be so very much more, after all the pages in this calendar finish collapsing, and the scorpion chicks hatch in the spring
Medusa’s brood, arising from pockets beneath the deep sea
haloed gypsy birds dance ridiculous jigs of rain summoning
the rain, overzealous, violently stabs the messenger, plucks out the beans of its collaborators and benefactors
every catapult needs a good story to tell at parties
it breaks the stalemate, gets strangers to drop their cards below line of sight; defenses, all poesy fall down in the fireplace ready for the singeing, jousting steer of the brutal, searing poker, and throttled by the iron callousness of the black bands of weighty tongs
each extraneous, irrelevant heartbeat flutters briskly through the epistemic landscape, with great and needless fanfare; cones of pine, juniper, and spruce, arriving, on schedule, in crisp, popcorn condition, and announcing their candidacy to throngs of disinterested piles of wanton ash and charred corpses
even if the pellucid cloak of the frigid undertaker was not already draped unceremoniously over the frozen casket,
the bleached fangs of a ravenous, predatory spirit of long forgotten murder is already snapped halfway through the femur
rigor makes it silent house call and gets fussy when its tea isn’t ready, or prepared just right
and it just so happens that… all the tea fell into the fishing hole, beside that steep ravine, about three furlongs back
no one is going back to retrieve it
in point of fact, no one is going back
the infamous baby blues of the orthodox reaper’s gaze are nothing but fishwife tales, windblown, fanciful stories for the antsy sprats
no, only the empty chasms of endless black sockets are what comes to collect
it is pittance of a sacrifice of time a brief stop off, the breadth of a wink and a nod
the somber, noiseless driver barely slows the funereal sleigh, little more than a knot or two
just long enough to drop off a carcass to the butcher at central weigh station at the junction of nowhere and anywhere
a nameless parcel drop point in a never ending whiteout of dusty white sepulchers of bleached curtain stillness naught, added, heaped upon still more naught
waiting endlessly at the barred gateway above Davy Jones’s Locker, that impenetrable doorway, never to open, frozen fast by an ancient curse, cast by a race of creatures who no longer dwell in these parts, and hence, it cannot be undone or broken
there is only stillness
there is only the prone slumber of waiting for the cessation of that which ceaseth not
beneath the pallor of this unsympathizing row of colorless manacles, fastened to illusory, two-dimensional jailhouse walls, wandering, listless, between the vibrant universes of the living and the stale, crumbling patterns of the unknown dead
there is the sled captain, who stands high, at the whip, and then, there are the dogs
there is the eternal fisherman, and there is a lifeless stringer of salmon flavored icicle pops, trailing in the terminal waters, behind Charon’s skiff
in between, nothing, torpor of wasteland
and, any trace of once beautiful mystery, now stripped away
there’s a little too much play in this troglodyte toggle switch; it’s randomly going on and off, and that could mean that no one at all is going to get hurt
I went halfway around the world, just to change your mind, turn it all around, and go the rest of the way homeless
I stopped being witty and cute about five and a half hours before I ever got started
horrific crash, a dust bunny in the corner slammed into me, head on, and I nearly died
when I say that I’ll wake up again tomorrow and carry on as usual, no one ever takes these threats of self-harm seriously
a good scouring scourge is a healthy part of any unbalanced individual’s therapy; I recommend you go on Tuesdays, between the hours of midnight and fathomless apathy; ask for Tomás
embracing the barn owl’s lofty promise was always a noble goal; if we’re talking about the goal that is that precious few inches of golden airspace between your drunk friend’s fingers, in which they present you the priceless opportunity to hit your paper football through it
back into the lab, to draw up new schematics for sucker punch melody grinders and rambunctious shades of taupe
the widget blueprints were leaked; the balloon factory obviously has a mole
every single bit of this was somehow even better than the other one that you weren’t paying attention to, either
the pretzel grenades will make short work of our adversaries; short work that will malinger through the frenzied millennia
even now, in this early phase of the campaign, our garden gnome mercenaries are gathering reconnaissance and torturing the water hose for useful information about that twig over by the fence
let’s synchronize our watches we’ll reconvene at eleven hundred hours to plan our assault on that blueberry cheesecake
to imply that there’s some potentially better use of our time and energy is an offense punishable by not being offered a slice of cheesecake
that’ll teach those bastards
in the meantime, I have hired a new duende, and we can trust that all the the arrangements will be handled appropriately
our schemes of passive conquest, followed by a bit of relaxing seppuku are quite safe within its capable, razored claws
tonight’s humiliation is the epitome of postmodern junkyard chic; I like mine sautéed with garlic, onion, mandrake root, capsicum, wolfsbane, and a pinch of dill
de rigueur new wave infatuation folds up nicely, and tucks away neatly into the furnace
these feral scarecrows wander through the violet patch, looking for windbreakers, opium, and elusive moments of quiet, inspired slaughter
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
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
you will miss out on everything good in this world, because you pay no mind to anything, unless it makes you feel intense pleasure, within the first few seconds of your coming into contact with it
but, most things that are worth a fractional damn take time to comprehend
only camouflage, disguises, and baited traps are appealing upon the first, hurried look
you lack the patience for anything of depth; the slow, patient tempo, the subtle building up of tension
you are a toaster pastry junkie, surrounded by strange, delectable flavors which are unknown to you
blackberry brioche bread pudding might not be your cup of Earl Grey, but it’s at least something new
you’d have to slow down enough to try it, and that means it’s never going to happen
you’d much rather stage a five-lawyer defense, arguing that you already tried it, years ago, when you know damn well that you’ve never even heard of it
but, you’ll swear… you didn’t like it back then, even though a four-star chef flew in from Paris just to make it for you
therefore, this one couldn’t possibly be any better
you’d prefer to spend fifteen minutes trying to convince everyone that you had something just like it, (only far superior to it in every way) for breakfast
it doesn’t matter that everyone in the room saw you, walking out of the shop this morning, with a dozen doughnuts and a coffee
it’s more fun for you to say that you’re allergic to blackberries, even though you know good and well that you’re not
rather than simply forking off a little nibble, and politely giving it a taste, we must submit to your twenty-five minute tirade, lambasting us for being so foolish, as to believe that we were actually eating what we thought we were eating
you so kindly break it down for us, in very small words and short sentences, that if it wasn’t made by Louis XVI himself, in the bathtub of Marie Antoinette, then it’s not actually a real blackberry brioche bread pudding, and it’s technically only a “sparkling Viennoiserie,” despite your having learned that term only half an hour ago, while eavesdropping on the waiter at the next table, thinking nobody else heard it
but, by the time you have finished making your ridiculous and utterly pointless case, the rest of us have cleaned our plates, paid the bill, and quietly fucked off, while you were busy looking at your reflection in the silverware
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
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
“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.
Tousle the soggy noodle Stir it in the pot It’s no longer stiff and sharp; More inclined to rot
It’s decidedly well-seasoned; Overly so, perhaps More than oregano, salt and pepper; Too many spices, in fistful slaps
Dusty, rotten crumbs, from kitchen floor Grease, tracked in from the streets As well as lint, and various perversions That flaked off bedroom sheets
Along with the turmeric, garlic, and basil, There’s a reduction of sweat and tears The pot overflows with olive oil, And existential fears
The noodle once stood proud and tall, Looking sharp, in a new cardboard box Advertising logos, and bright colors, Like a shiny, gold brick in Fort Knox
Now, it’s soft, it’s overcooked, Full of inconsistent flavors And, the intense heat of the kitchen Hasn’t done it any real favors
The noodle is tired and sickly now, You’ll likely find it tasteless It’s slathered in clashing sauces The ingredient choices, baseless
Still, the noodle is all that is left, And one must attempt to preserve it It’s the only meal or means there is, Whether or not you deserve it
The pot, too, has been banged about; It’s hardly fit for duty It’s been kicked more than a martial artist In the head, and in the booty
It’s scratched, and chipped, soiled and bent, The handle held in place by hope Too look at all the permanent stains, You’d think it was allergic to soap
But this, too, is necessary to keep One can’t simply throw it away Without this beat up utensil, Where would the noodle stay?
This kitchen debacle is a catastrophe Of lowbrow, modern cuisine But, a noodle in a pot is all we’ve got And, I know that you know what I mean
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
Magus72 on Patreon – the music, poetry, and madness of Kevin Trent Boswell
Coming Soon
A new album from Trent Boswell, Area 25
Coming Soon – Area 25 -new music from Trent Boswell
Cover art by the elusive Mr. Dorian Strange.
Area 25 – a witch’s brew; 12 original pieces of rock and roll, hard rock, and funk. It’s a psychedelic concoction of madness, lifted from the purse of Venus, pilfered from the wallet of Apollo, and heisted from Jupiter’s garage.
It will be available on all the major streaming services, like Apple Music, Deezer, Amazon Music, Spotify, YouTube Music, and many more.
I’m offering a special package deal. Below, you’ll find a list of all my poetry titles, as well as my album Flagship. For just $72, I’ll send you a copy of one of each of the poetry booksANDa copy of the Flagship CD.
That’s $39.21 off the cover price. Better still, this flat price includes FREE S&H.
The free shipping offer applies only as long as it’s in the continental U.S. If you want international shipping, you can contact me privately so that I can calculate a specific S&H price for you.
all nine of my poetry books, plus a copy of the music CD Flagship, for one flat price and FREE shipping!
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
i need to run pleeze set me loose to run in the yard i am a good dog im not too bryte you beat me but its ok i was bad i still love you i takes cares of you bestest i can i wrap my teefs around the bones of any bad peoples trys to harm you i rip the balls off anybody tries to hurt you ill live on one meal a week its ok i dont need no mental stima-lashuns i dont know what dem things is no persunal space them are just words i dont know what thems mean anyway i will lick your feet you will be happy i will be happy i dont need no time time dont ezist for me ezept when you gos away then i am a very sad if i had hands i would clean up my poop so you wouldnt have to stoop down and do it becuz its beneath you it must be beneath you becuz you dont do it much as littel as possibal i wish i could do it for you i dont need nuthin i wantz to run in sercals for you make you laff beg fer your attenshunz pleeze may i do tricks for you lick your face you snatch me up scruff of my neck i dont make no fuss yor the boss i deserve to be choked you warned me last time i already learn that lesson wounds almost healed up now its ok it was my fault i will not be bad no more sorry i interupted your favrit show with my dumb stuff my thirsties my hungerz me bein chokd on the chain around my neck i was just bein selfish i sorry i do better next time pet me pleeze i love you
dime store shopaholic purpose is dying thousands more reliable than the single or the none
little tick-tock remains to garner the gains gouge the special killing double barrel price gun
one for all and everything event pressure, systolic tying stakes to the ground taping nails into place
boatloads of saving coupons for barrels of monkey fish laurels trips and great prizes sale signs and wonders red tags of grace
cometh thee first oh ye saved, special items vip members, apostolic way buffed and paved golden, hyperbolic and warned, were they who heeded not, the news
crumbling, the chances to make quick advances power grab rostrum no sleeping possum who, missing bargain bus, sits at home with the blues
come antsy and itching tense and hot twitching lucky thunder ball ticket lightning begged from the sky
iron, hot and free lunch with cookies and punch waking neighbors from naps pay full price for scraps no savings for me? oh, dear lord, why not i?
the thrifty and clever with leverage on the lever get a long life extended warranty protection of dustcover case
it’s so sweet and juicy tried to tell sister lucy that hot tongue, bickering in flickering fashion but unlike lucy, whose lips drip skeptical passion it’s only a big, fat deal that you’re dickering and sizable discounts are what you embrace
all top-shelf stuff proof, more than enough taste it and see jump, shout, and sing promise satisfaction join in on our action a product, superior above any other
get in the door while there’s going left to get and still some to be got don’t burn with regret wishing you’d bought shiny, fresh feeling bargains, ground to ceiling and truthfully, there will never ever be another
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
From the black book of horrifying, awful, terrible things that will keep you up late at night and drive you to drink too much, Out On The Killing Floor
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’mweird
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…
I find myself weeping But I’m not weeping for me Not for anything I might have missed Or anything that I had hoped to be
It’s not because of some thing I desired But did not manage to attain It’s not something I had that I didn’t want Nor any of my own physical pain
It’s not for me, I had room to move I rolled the dice and they fell as they did But I took my chances, I took my shots I went for it all and from life, never hid
Sure, things could have turned out better I could have had an easier time But I know not everyone gets to win To the top, only a handful climb
Still, all-in-all, at the end of things, I did OK and better than many I had sorrows and joys, resources and gifts I got to spend my talents, every last penny
Yet, generations are coming behind me Emerging from the dark of the womb Into a darker world, for which we’ve not Prepared them, nor should we assume
That somehow, they’ll just be alright That they’ll manage some way, to sort the mess That some miracle solution will present itself Or that God or good luck will bless
Nor should we think it likely the case That hard work will see them through it all Nor in hubris, think what stands today Will not, tomorrow, surely fall
Least of all, we should not dare To turn blind eyes to their plight Out of sight is out of mind But by no means makes it right
Having turned over each, useless stone After turning my wheels, digging in deep With no useful advice or answers, for them I bury my face in my hands and weep
From the black book of horrifying, awful, terrible and frightening things that will keep you up late at night and drive you to drink too much and too often, Out On The Killing Floor
Available on Amazon
WARNING!!! Take only as prescribed. Keep out of reach from children, pets, pregnant women and anyone who still has any hope for the future. May cause sleeplessness, fatigue, depression, anxiety, suicidal thoughts or visions of impending doom. Some readers may experience weight… not weight gain, just the heavy weight of existential dread. User assumes all risk and releases the author from any and all legal liability. This book is not approved by the FDA or anyone else who enjoys being happy. May be illegal in your area.
Become a Patron
Magus72 on Patreon
Patrons get exclusive content, early access and other perks.
characters Heather and Burt Gummer, driven up onto the roof of their bomb shelter – from the 1990 film, Tremors (Universal Pictures)
“Food for five years, a thousand gallons of gas, air filtration, water filtration, Geiger counter, bomb shelter! Underground… Goddamn monsters.”
—Burt Gummer, from the 1990 movie, Tremors – lamenting the loss of his desert fortress, due to something he wasn’t prepared for and never could have possibly foreseen
The thing about bunkers and hunkering down Is they’re not supposed to be a permanent solution You can store up food and weapons, safely underground But what if it’s many thousands of years of toxic pollution?
If nothing is left to come back to, if you can never go outside If the world is never livable again, somewhere down the line A few years in, most folks will start committing suicide Rather than live in a subterranean box, after society’s decline
In a total climate collapse, everything would come undone It’s not like one nuclear bomb drop, in a single place on the map The whole of Earth, uninhabitable, you’d never again see the sun Any psychologist will agree, without sunlight, people snap
A few years after a nuke, the radiation may die down and then People might come back up top, from the way-down-there That’s if there’s any kind of habitat for plants, critters and men But what if it’s still too hot and you still can’t breathe the air?
There are snazzy bomb shelters, well-thought-out, for sure Decades worth of water, food, meds and every type of supply And lots of entertainment to help you psychologically endure But ultimately, you face the hard question; you need a reason why
If there’s never a return to safety, an opportunity to re-emerge Then, no matter how well you think you’re equipped If nothing grows up top, if heat and humidity constantly surge The very best bunker in the world is just an expensive crypt
WARNING!!! Take only as prescribed. Keep out of reach from children, pets, pregnant women and anyone who still has any hope for the future. May cause sleeplessness, fatigue, depression, anxiety, suicidal thoughts or visions of impending doom. Some readers may experience weight… not weight gain, just the heavy weight of existential dread. User assumes all risk and releases the author from any and all legal liability. This book is not approved by the FDA or anyone else who enjoys being happy. May be illegal in your area.
creak of old hinges, original, hardwood flooring clanging of ancient, iron pipes
scraping, scratching from behind the walls, below the floors and from the attic, above
things too small to see things that can’t be seen, at all things that receive no mail, no visitors things that aren’t supposed to be here or anywhere else
quick, bright flashes memory’s dim lenses flecked with dust and specters
once, a place of mirth and much company echoes of laughter, music and children, floating through every hallway
scents of pot roast, potatoes and carrots, cigars, perfumes, liquors, fruit tree logs crackling in the fireplace, roses, thyme, basil, rosemary and lavender from the garden, drifting in through the open windows, freshly baked pies and cookies all washing over the senses of friends and neighbors
finely crafted furniture of oak and leather, where once they sat, sipping teas and sewing, nursing babies, reading the newspapers, scratching the chins of kittens and puppies, holding hands, kissing in the happy hours, consoling each other, after some loss
all of it now covered over by tarps draped with sheets and drop cloths consumed by the dry rot of time or dampness, the mildew and stale, trapped air which slowly made their way in
these too, desired to stay here, forever to find a home, within these walls
anymore, only whispers float through these rooms
no one has lived here for many years
the kitchen, bedrooms, parlor all bare and sullen the pantries stocked only with cobwebs of memory
this house was the home of more than a few hearts a place of comfort and rest for a great many souls
No matter how brutal each one was Each Winter must eventually bend Give way to the heat of warmer times Ultimate truth, all Winters must end
Yet, Summer is a cruel despot, too Who, by violence, iron fist, ascends Crushing the good comforts of Spring Mocking, with scorn, its means and ends
The subtle politics of seasonal power A judge who was, ‘til now, always present By checks and balances, ensuring fairness So each would eventually lead to the pleasant
The judge grows old and is losing sense Slipping always further into dementia Leaving them all to sort it out, themselves Declaring what’s just, for the judge, in absentia
By increments, referee dives into madness By tiny degrees, each step, does descend Yearly, heat grows, cold loses more power Leading soon enough to all Winters’ end
From the black book of awful, horrible, despicable things, Out On The Killing Floor.
Warning: Take only as prescribed. Keep out of reach from children, pets, pregnant women and anyone who still has any hope for the future. May cause sleeplessness, fatigue, depression, anxiety, suicidal thoughts or visions of impending doom. Some readers may experience weight… not weight gain, just a heavy weight of existential dread. User assumes all risk and releases the author from any and all legal recourse. This book is not approved by the FDA or anyone else who enjoys being happy. May be illegal in your area.
Available on Amazon
Support
Special thanks to the patrons on Patreon, who make this possible. You can be part of it, too.
Magus72 on Patreon music, poetry and other, assorted types of madness
If you ever were in any kind of doubt About the evil in the hearts of men Think about Chicago, circa 1890 And what happened there, back when…
A hotel was built on S. Wallace and 63rd Owned by one of the devil’s own pawns A slimy little man by the name of Holmes He raised the money through elaborate cons
How he went about his money schemes Is bad… but it pales, when compared to why He built the place up with the sole intention of Trapping people there, to die
This fiend kept all his contractors in the dark So none knew the true nature of the place Hallways, leading nowhere, many fake doors Each worker had a puzzled look on his face
A great many builders, all with small jobs There was no reason to suspect anything foul Lots of secret passages, trap doors, thick walls So no one would hear the victims howl
The store, up front, was innocent enough The apartments on the third floor, too But the second floor and the basement, These were where… awful things, he would do
Chutes that lead to the basement below A huge bank vault, for… something diabolical A crematorium and acid vats to get rid of bodies And a labyrinth… not at all metaphorical
A maze of hallways, sinister booby traps, So much evil, it’s hard to imagine it all Thing is, it wasn’t a movie, it was a pet-project His own, private, murder mini-mall
To say he was mad, well… that just doesn’t cut it It was deeper and much more perverse Hollywood has made millions and they do try But have yet to dream up anything worse
Dahmer… he was mad, liked eating the dead Ted Bundy killed women for sexual kicks Richard Ramirez, Ed Gein, a whole host of sickos But none of them ever bought pallets of bricks
H. H. had a slew of craftsmen and laborers To build a museum of death and by age 35 He was eventually hanged, after confessing to 27 murders, some of whom were still quite alive
The Zodiac escaped capture and Scotland Yard Never did apprehend the ol’ Ripper, Jack But neither of them ever went so far As to construct even a shanty or a shack
I have to admit, I’m unable to fathom The depravity of such a despicable plan How so much planning went into the thing And all of it… from one, single man
I promise you, I don’t find anything whatsoever About any of this gruesome story funny But I shudder to think, what some other lunatics Might’ve done, if only… they’d had enough money
If had a bunch of cash, I’d probably build the Finest recording studio that anyone’s ever seen I can’t imagine my first thought would be to build The set of something like Saw, Part 14
But one man had exactly such a thought Unspeakable evil was just his idea of fun He may have killed as many as two hundred, Yet, they could only convict him for one
How many victims? No one knows, because Acid and lime don’t let much remain He admitted to 27 but some were still alive The only certainty was that Holmes was insane
I’ve seen and read about many ghastly things Some of it factual and some, fictional mystery But you can go read all about H. H. Holmes In any reliable source of modern history
I’m bothered to the core by the sickness of men The terrifying things that killers will do But H. H. perturbs me, far more than most Because all of his story is entirely too true
There are madmen and there are murderers But you can’t just say something’s “not right” That a man dreamt up such a chamber of horrors Well… it’s why I lock my doors at night
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
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.
Into the unknown, faster and faster Down, down, into places of doubt To dark situations we cannot master Into places no one warned us about
Coming, coming, that terrible sound Noises we’ve never heard before Unintelligible whispers all around Moment by moment, more and more
We know not what comes, only that it is nigh No more information do we possess Just a powerful dread that soon we shall die But when or how, we can only guess
This must be hell, nothing else can explain The terror, the darkness, all the confusion Rattling through the addled brain It’s impossible to reach any other conclusion
Only hell holds such a perpetual wait Leading only to more, frightened delay We must be the damned, who repented too late And here, in hell, we now must stay
And yet, wide awake, enough to discuss What we don’t know and we’re able to curse The fear of whatever makes its way toward us If this isn’t hell, it’s something much worse
Kevin Trent Boswell 