One may, at any slapdash time
With little more than wink and nod
With no sense, reason, structure, rhyme
Of any chosen thing, make a god
Copyright 2020
Kevin Trent Boswell
The new book is out now, on Amazon:
Take a look at my Patreon page at https://www.patreon.com/magus72
I’ll be cross-posting here, what I publicly post, over there. Patrons-only content will be available, over there.
I am Love
And the power of the Sword
I am the softly spoken Word
She, receiver of the fruit
Speaks of Nothing, yet all,
Has she heard
I am the Way,
the Truth and
the bringer of Light
I am not the Lamb
I am, instead,
The stillness of Night
I am the lover
I bear the yoke of Strength
My children shall draw in, behind
I am of Her,
At any length
She shall be strong in her mind
I shall guide when I may,
Gently to say,
Draw towards the paths of
Light, Truth
I will embrace her,
She, the secret practitioner,
Falling in the spiral
Of joyous youth
She is Love
And the power of Earth
Copyright 2020
Magus
(Kevin Trent Boswell)
Take a look at my Patreon page at https://www.patreon.com/magus72
I’ll be cross-posting here, what I publicly post, over there. Patrons-only content will be available, over there.
zipper head,
open your tender teeth
reveal yourself
in all
of all
that
you are
clench
the mail
betwixt your steel jaws
deliver the cypher
into waiting hands
so many crude
assumptions
of what you might
or maybe
may be
you can come into the arms of
safe haven,
you are the arms of safe haven
you are anything but
safe
haven
let the carpet unroll
before your feet
of marbled steel
kicking rusty sparks of lightning
from the concrete
bouncing light
and quarters
into heaven’s gutters
zipper head,
stay where the rumbles occur
keep your head high and
out of the trenches
your worn, dusty boots,
dug deep into the stirrups
of a bipolar bull,
thrashing one…
torpid another
through the shiftiest gears,
our protagonist prevails
walk those high wire nights
of cappuccino hallelujah
scratch the blackboard dust
swing at that other head,
climbed into a chasm of dark
make every new
adoption of nomenclature
the donning of your sacred title
a wreathe of laurel highlights
lay upon your cornflower brow
a teeming of light in your sepia,
seal eyes
pontificate of sarsaparilla calculus
you observer of courses
determiner of courses
forgetter of courses
let all courses be
subject to your power
and sway
a kingdom which stretches past
all imagination or illumination
let them conduct themselves rightly,
for knowledge of your presence
they query quick but quiet,
twirling stick in coffee and
mad scraps of leaky pen napkin notes
and the subtle escapes of breath
from your pulpit
convert them, each
and all
to your church
of the considerate virgin
let your christ gnosis
hail the multitudes
of bovine slitherers
each now armed
with impressive equations of
equanimity, poise
because your scepter
hath provisioned the unwashed
with its manna
lay your miracle on the
blister of impatience
and lameness walks now,
with living memorial of
lazarus sensibilities
oh but could we only attain
unto thee,
hail, most mighty
of the cousins
and czar of all the wanderers of
the minotaur’s labyrinth
we invite you to sit with us
for tea and do tarry
tell us the tales of
your turns
we are swollen now,
swallowed and all
fallen into silence,
as we wait upon our excitable smiles
for your symposium
of next-ness
zipper head,
fair friend of the white and gray…
let it begin
we are ready
Copyright 2020
Magus
(Kevin Trent Boswell)
Take a look at my Patreon page at https://www.patreon.com/magus72
I’ll be cross-posting here, what I publicly post, over there. Patrons-only content will be available, over there.
i can feel the rain coming,
in my spirit
like the old man
in the rocking chair
on his front porch,
i feel it in every bone,
every trick limb and
aching joint
a sweeping sense of despair,
as my head passes through a
deluge
something similar to
a drive through car wash,
only… less convenient
a team of pressurized fire hoses
and huge, comic pom poms,
thwacking me
right in my
frontal cortex
as the weather makes its approach,
a sweeping sense of despair,
as the weather makes its
slow, arrogant approach
i know its imminent arrival,
often hours beforehand…
before the first cloud
rears its muddy black,
disapproving face
my bones crack and my hopes
sag
nothing fazes
the stupor,
a dark, somnolent plague
of inefficient sleep,
brought on by
a simple change of
barometric pressure…
a slight swing of
humidity;
a little water.
a little water can
drown
my
w
o
r
l
d
never approaching
the front page,
ranking only
section c in the newspaper
the c section
opens my skull
and dumps that precious
baby brain on the
cold, tile floor
kicking it into the corner,
near the waste can
those morons at the paper
ought to recognize
that murder is more of a
front page deal
they view it as
a little spill on the carpet,
it’s only water…
don’t cry…
i won’t cry.
but i will sleep;
i am drugged
and stuffed into a canvas bag
by this natural sedative;
carted off to the ocean
of inactivity
and dumped in,
left for dead
with a note,
pinned to my scalp:
“you will submit to my dominance.
you will curl up
in a soggy, little ball
and wait
for me to pass”
i have survived, seemingly
intolerable fires of the spirit,
unquenchable flames of the heart
earth scorching plumes of fire,
setting daily life alight
i’ve dealt with dozens of
major catastrophes,
not to mention hundreds of
tiny conflagrations,
the little fires that need putting out
only to be doused
and completely
extinguished
by a little water
Copyright 2020
Magus
(Kevin Trent Boswell)
I am getting back on to my Patreon page at https://www.patreon.com/magus72
I’ll be cross-posting here, what I publicly post, over there. But other, patrons-only content will be available to patrons, there.
Straps
Saddles
Leather
Salty breath
Rough riders
Ride rough rides
To frontier deaths
This, to be a man
Quest
For fire
Freedom
The good fight
Women and whiskey
Powder and ball
Barrels alight
Law of the land
Brutal
Western blacksmith
Forge a boy
Into a man
We are the riders
Of the weary
What shall we say
Of women and whiskey?
Copyright 2020
Magus
(Kevin Trent Boswell)
I am getting back on to my Patreon page at https://www.patreon.com/magus72
I’ll be cross-posting here, what I publicly post, over there. But other, patrons-only content will be available to patrons, there.
Relentless and vile, that wicked thing…
Evil, ever striving against the light,
Seeking its demise and then, from it,
Escape, a twisting, eluding, evasion
Good then, must plant its wrathful sting
In return, even double, triple, to spite
And each, standing, must overcome it…
Rising to that dutiful, somber occasion
In this deep spiral of ethical confusion,
Cometh the horns of the beast, with its stinger
Stickier, dicier, bits of the question…
Who sits in righteous judgement of the wrong?
Which of us is upright, free from all illusion?
Who may, in fairness, be the bringer
Of justice, penalties, implications, suggestion
Who’s sees truth and, if ever, how long?
Copyright 2020
Kevin Trent Boswell
(Magus)
The new book is out now, on Amazon:
Support the work at my Patreon page: https://www.patreon.com/magus72
I cross-post the public works here. Patrons-only content is available, on my Patreon.
Author’s Note: this piece is NOT a forecast of doom, not in any way.
That is incredibly important to note. Instead, it’s two things.
First, it’s a snapshot of things which have already happened, as well as my disappointment and anger about how the situation has been handled, thus far. It is one artist, responding to real world situations, through the medium of art. That should be easy enough to grasp.
Second, it is a warning NOT to behave as if nothing is wrong or different and NOT to behave as if the world is ending. Neither extreme view is correct. Something real and dangerous is here but need not be catastrophic.
I write poetry for a variety of reasons, one of which is what I refer to as a personal “exorcism“. It’s one of the ways that I personally get my thoughts together, for what needs to be done.
In writing out worst case scenarios, I get poisonous thoughts out of my head and onto paper, where they might be properly dealt with, in an adult manner.
That being said, the following is not at all a pretty picture. Fear is a constructive tool, when properly guided toward preparedness and prudence.
So, I encourage you to allow yourself just a few moments to wallow in the fear, as well. Then get busily back to the business of a productive life.
Happy Friday the 13th!
sweeping
uninformed leaves rustle a bit
and roll over the usual yard
nothing yet, appears to sit
in a space entirely too soft, nor hard
while standing in the cues
of what sounds already are,
in the distance, hear the clues
of misery, sweeping wide and far
an invisible, mushroom leverage
lays its breaking boot of
concrete and leaden sole
atop the teeter totter
leans down, shifting its tonnage
with devastation under its
unforgiving weight
bar graphs fly off their easels
ticker tapes spin out and fizzle
time cards shred themselves with panic
and punch clocks fall off walls
to dive bomb the rows of empty desks,
which explode into kindling
all around
file cabinets are set ablaze and
the rodents are overworked,
spinning all those little,
interlocking wheels
of the intercom system
it’s entirely too loud
in the staff room
and the commandant
can get no sleep
despite his bedtime story
being piped through
the loudspeaker
outside is the warm normal,
a blue sky, serene balm of certainty
a textbook spring,
assurance nestled
in the obvious dream
but some strange worm
has crept into the ear of the dreamer
and wiggles its way
down to the lungs
where it cripples
the casual breath
combat is hand to hand,
through negotiations
sterilization weaponization
settling old scores,
between complete strangers
the best assassin is always
one the target
already knows well
taking dinosaurs
right out, at the knees
pyramids and castles
close their doors
refusing to check the coats
of the newly and arriving guests,
the overloaded sled of dead,
pulled by black, wheezing horses
turned away at the door,
on account of their
inconsiderate lack
of a reservation
or at least the common decency
to drag along a chest of gold
with which to bribe the bellhop,
he who rings that iron bell
that sullen, tolls,
reverberating and shaking
the whole of the kingdom
wide and through
a brown bag sandwich lunch
sits near the front door and goes stale
there are no baby cubs to suckle
at the teet of intelligence
since, all the babies‘ eyes
have been pulled out
and stapled to screens,
screen doors and screened mouths
and boxes of screens of varying sizes
each drawing buckets
of unhealthy surprises
from the freshly dug,
poisoned well
trees, a currency, vital commodity
their crushed skins all disappeared,
the traders find none of their
hides in the markets
now more prized than gold,
is a simple mop
to wipe away the mess
circles form and fall apart
sticks fly at one or the other
or both at once
funny how the numbers
play their cruel tricks
allocating the meals of the masses
to boards of a few dozen
or six
as digits of ones become thousands,
billions divide into segregated pockets
of six, five, four or less
eventually,
someone
or something
must come along
and mop up
the mess
kings decry and verily decree
a restless tribe
casts lots,
to question the gods
whether to dig in or to flee
but the answers are yes,
to each and every question,
so sayeth the oracles,
in throwing up their hands,
choosing instead,
to call in for a sick day
no parades pound the streets
one must turn the earth to gather eats
wall off the oceans, sink all the fleets
dim the lights, freeze the meats
a foul wind wails over the dizzy heads
and through the nervous heart
scout upon the watchtower and wait
as machine belches and cranks to start
a breeze blows in
unhappy news from the east
a mad king crumples up the paper,
stoning the raven messenger, dead
as if it mattered, not in the least
soon ancestors say their prayers
closing their eyes, just for practice
all the ice rafts are full
and shoving off, with final waves
their lanterns go dark
over a feverish horizon
quell, if you, will the wild rumor beasts
it stops not the hunger,
nor the need for the priests,
for divine protection and
rites of passage
into the never
of night and time
emptied halls and banquets broken
plays where nary a word is spoken
cold feet frozen,
chapel coughs up people
stockpiles of goods and caskets
confusion, gratis, in gift baskets
and praying hands, pried from steeple
minds blinking, frozen, in their tracks
the wood chipper roars
for more easy snacks
like lining up dominoes
or graham crackers
the wounded’s IV unit,
given to campaign backers
since some lonesome despot,
wrapped in mist
must sit the wake with what remains,
rule with the iron fist,
over the land of the dead but free
the endless hordes of weeping
hungry, Dickensian urchins are we
hand me down frowns
and mouth to mouth, creeping
beat and fan the furnace flames
ideas, flailing and failing
burn all those treasured sames
arson greedily replaces sailing
as the new sport of official Rome
gather wood and gather tinders
slaughter the calf
and smoke over cinders
and nail down the doors,
seal off the hearth of home
leap now, two whole seasons far
and spy with that digital, electric glass
what evil now, cometh nigh
and just how twisted
is that monstrous thing?
the Heavens hold an angry star
Titans conduct a foul, black mass
Distracted by pointing fingers at why
a wretched agenda for the blacklisted
who bear worst, the brunt of the sting
when mansions, missions,
shacks and shelters
close all their fearful shutters tight
to ward off invaders
riding on gargantuan wings,
hydra heads
hunting through the choking day
consuming through the ravenous night
the monument must,
by necessity, be
simple and we imagine that it might say
there once was, here,
long ago, that is, ‘til today
a clueless band of marauders
who conspired to steal the fires
of eternal life
now they vanish
more each day,
leaving a legacy
of fledgling understanding
and a salty, palpable,
useless strife
nothing
is ever anyone’s
to steal
or to
own the right
at most,
all things
we briefly borrow,
to quickly stroke
and hold
what hubris, it is
placing strings
on a temporal,
flickering light
one so easily
blown out
by a simple, new
draught of cold
Copyright 2020
Kevin Trent Boswell
(Magus)
The new book is out now, on Amazon:
Support the work at my Patreon page: https://www.patreon.com/magus72
I cross-post the public works here. Patrons-only content is available, on my Patreon.
