Wednesday Night Group

during his therapy session,
while each were sharing,
respectively, what they felt
was their higher purpose in life…
Jerry spoke up

undeterred by his own rudeness
in cutting off a fellow confessor’s
heart-wrenching story
of loss and liquid lament,
mid-sentence

Jerry spouted out,
with a strangely calm resolve,

I think that I was meant to do a lot of cocaine.

it was peculiar that he raised his hand,
since he clearly wasn’t willing to wait even one more second;
he’d started speaking, before his arm had even reached
full extension

there was, after that…
a noticeably uncomfortable
five or so seconds of…
silence

numb jaws,
flushed faces
perplexed looks

Jerry continued

I believe in the perfect perfection of God’s Will.

Nothing has ever occurred
that was not originally
of God’s intent.

Furthermore,

and here, he smiled broadly,
clearly pleased with his own, peculiar, thought process

God is nothing at all
like people have assumed.
God is like a reliable toaster
and He always pops out perfectly toasted bread.

I do a lot of cocaine.
And so I conclude that
I was meant to do a lot of cocaine.
Because, if it wasn’t God’s will,
then God wouldn’t allow it.
God wants me to do a lot of coke.
It’s part of the divine plan.

quite a bit more…
silence

those in attendance checked in,
with the inside of themselves,
that yes, they were indeed awake
and not just dreaming
in their beds

the woman sitting beside Jerry
felt her tongue
growing heavy and thick

the usually quite reliable and familiar-feeling
muscle in her mouth
now plummeting down into new,
strange unfamiliarity,
functioning as little more than a
old, motel carpet with a bad, floral pattern;
lying in the way of her breathing,
collecting fuzz and dirt and hair
from the boots and flip-flops of loud, annoying vacationers
and conventioneers from Indiana, police conferences

one throat cleared…

this sound was a decidedly clear signal, as if the
all-clear flare had just been fired up into the newly interesting air,
signaling to the combat-weary troops that they could,
once again, raise their heads out of the tired trenches

a solitary cigarette ash fell onto a designer shoe knockoff
one, older man shifted angrily in his wobbly chair
and managed to slosh a bit of coffee
on his brand new, polo shirt

several others nervously sipped their own coffees and sodas
while others sat in amazement
and some in a giddy but hushed, chuckling amusement

Tom, the group’s bemused leader arched forward in his chair,
placed his elbows on his knees
with an unusual force,
trying to anchor his anger
and remain diplomatic, despite the outburst against order
and after releasing his clenched jaw,
he somehow allowed himself to say

Thank you for sharing, Jerry.

Anyone else have anything…
anything…
at all?

 

Copyright 2020

Kevin Trent Boswell

From the new book, Next 

Now available, on Amazon 

* Next, cover, tiny

stun

 

cigarette ash
burning long,
conical
the way it happens
when you draw
hard and fast

nothing else
moves

arm lifts
to mouth
lips purse
an exhale of smoke
arm drops

eyes still
fixed
on reflections
dancing on
automobile glass

the news
is still news

frozen
words
moving…
streaming
nonstop
through the mind
on auto play
over and over

eventually
the message,
heavy,
will settle
into place

 

Furyu

 

In the land of Furyu, we don’t have us no states
No countries or borders, not a single, county line
Everybody lives just up the road, from everyone else
And the way we see it, that works out, mighty fine

Words like security and safety just ain’t never used
Since crime is a thing that ain’t nobody invented
Birds sing and people do their own, chosen tasks
For the pure satisfaction of a job, well-dented

Wanting for nothing and always happy
Folks here tend to spend a lot of time outside
We talk and dance, because the music is always playing
And we laugh when the children go down the slide

There’s a church in town, where we pray to Love
And in turn, Love takes care of every little thing
Suffering is something that we don’t quite understand
But goodness is guaranteed, each day, to bring

Rains fall from the sky and folks around here
Call it Heaven, nursing all the crops
It makes the food grow and that food feeds the people
Who eat well and often and gratitude never stops

Folks share craftsmanship, art and new skills
And all manner of things, each a labor of love
You see, in the land of Furyu, everything is easy
And if it ain’t now, it will be, soon enough, push come to shove

In this place, each person’s got a special use
And there just ain’t no reason for nobody to be left out
You belong and that’s because you’re family
And shucks, we figure that’s what it’s all about

Everybody knows because, ain’t none of us simple
That a neighbor is just a brother, a step or two away
Or a sister or cousin or something along those lines
But kin is kin, is what we’re trying to say

It’s a confounded shame, but folks over yonder
Done gone and forgot how to get back over here
It’s a strange thing to all of us, since well…
We ain’t exactly gone nowhere

But we’re all up at the house, and like I mentioned
It’s right up the road, just about a mile or two
We’ll set out an extra plate and we’ll wait up a spell
And you’re always welcome, in the land of Furyu

 

 

 

lovely thing

lovely thing

inspired
a poem

lesser fortune,
it drips
blood

slight,
the wound

crude,
its cause

as such,
it shall
remain
ever so

brief

 

 

2020

Death’s message heralded on dragonfly wings

Silent trumpet sounding, the whole day long

Loss, now the winner of so many things,

Lords over the grieving, threatening the strong

Copyright 2020

Kevin Trent Boswell


Now available, on Amazon:

Liber ex Liberi The Book of Children

Liber ex Liberi; The Book of Children

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

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untitled

I chased a martyr

through all hell’s heat

with intention to 

ask him why

he’d run so long 

he was tired and beat

in fact, he could

all but cry

I’d yearned for the moment

when at last we’d meet

and an answer from him

I would pry

and though he was worn,

we raced and he beat

and so I collapsed

with a sigh

Author’s Note: this is a very old piece, not sure of the date but it was in one of my first few poetry notebooks.


Copyright 2020

Magus

(Kevin Trent Boswell)


The new book is out now, on Amazon:

Chaos Comes Apart

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

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

Patreon

Magus & The Plastic Infinity

Conjure Work

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Enthusiasm

 

The Divine Healer works through their hands
Those hands wrapped in latex,
Connecting and disconnecting tubes,
Wires, IVs, pushing gurneys, handing out tools,
Pulling charts close to see through the tears
Holding up those who are no longer able
To stand for themselves
Holding the hands of the terrified mothers,
Fathers, brothers, sisters, wives and husbands
As they check the vitals
Wiping away the sweat from patient’s brows
Giving their colleagues a thumbs up
When they manage to wrestle one back,
However briefly,
From the infinite void
Wringing those hands into fists
As the frustration and fear and
Righteous anger hit the boiling point
Stroking the cheeks of those who are
In the very throes of death

Through those nauseated nostrils,
God endures the stench of bleach, blood,
Latex, alcohol and unidentifiable cleaners
Pushing through that palpable sense of fear,
Usually noted only by dogs
Now an ever present part of
The olfactory landscape
The scent of patients who have
Shit themselves or pissed themselves
The nervous farts in close quarters
That somehow make their way past the masks
The strange, surreal scent of fresh flowers
Coming from out of nowhere,
As the Angel of Death slips quietly,
Unseen into room 318
Those noses that itch but cannot be scratched
That need desperately to wipe away the snot
But cannot be wiped

God moves through their legs,
Running them down the halls
For the fifteenth time, just this morning,
To answer the incessant, mad calls of
Code after code after code after code after…
Lifting patients from gurney to bed
Then from bed to stretcher, go the dead
Those muscles holding them up,
Refusing to quiver and wilt
Under the weight of an
Obvious abandonment
Refusing to crumple up into a ball
And cry themselves to sleep
Because supplies are needed on the next floor
And someone must take them and
There is no one else to do it
Walking on eggshells at home,
Careful not to touch anything
That their loved ones might touch
Resting those weary limbs on
Uncomfortable cots and pullout couches,
Instead of resting in between those soft,
Cotton sheets on memory foam mattresses,
For the dread fear of infecting their families

God speaks through those mouths,
Slipping into their cars to go home,
After impossibly long shifts
After inscrutable regimens of scrubbing,
Decontaminating, full of the mortal terror
That some spot might be missed…
Out, out! The invisible blood,
Staining the hands, full of imagined guilt
Which is not truly theirs, to bear
Screaming in those parking lots,
Inside otherwise normal cars,
Station wagons and sedans
Minivans and trucks,
Bloodcurdling moans of sadness
A helpless sense of futility,
Beginning as words but crumbling
At last, into spirals of gibberish
A chasm of meaningless mumbles
And heartbroken sobs
God speaks through those mouths,
Calmly reassuring those who have come,
Reluctantly into the belly of the beast itself
Knowing the dread shock of lying side by side
With those who are almost certainly doomed
Speaking softly in friendly tones,
Half for the benefit of the patient and
Half to convince themselves that
“Everything is going to be ok.
We just have to put this tube in,
So you can breathe”
God makes stupid jokes
Through those mouths,
Little, ridiculous comments,
In an attempt to keep everyone’s
Spirits up and to keep them focused
To keep them from completely collapsing
The Angels prophesy through those tongues
Whispering discreetly to one another
In those sullen hallways
“This one won’t last much longer.
We need to discuss who gets that machine next”
The Spirit of love talks through those mouths,
Insisting to themselves that after only a few,
Restless hours of tortured sleep,
Full of sweat and nightmares,
That they MUST roll out of bed and
Force something into their bellies,
To strengthen them for the fight
Assuring themselves that yes,
It is the right thing to do,
To walk back into the mouth of the whale,
To surrender themselves
To its insatiable hunger for more bodies
Those hungry mouths, that cannot eat
Until the end of a 12 or 16 hour shift
Those mouths, full of the
Acid of a gut that produces inordinate
Amounts of stress
Those mouths, dry and thirsty,
Unable to stop at the water fountain
Because they cannot touch their mask
The tongues of insane healers, willing
To dwell in Death’s living room,
For complete strangers
Informing dosages, calling out instructions,
Calling for tools and esoteric medicines,
Strange cyphers, in languages
That only the minds of Angels
Could ever comprehend
God whispers,
One Holy mouth to another Divine ear
“I know.
You did your best.
There was nothing more you could have done”
The Holy Spirit delivers
Those impossibly awful messages
To the bereaved
Speaking the
Unspeakable news to the families,
Telling them how truly sorry they are
For their loss and how
They so desperately wish they
Could have done
More

God sits behind the eyes of them…
Those bloodshot, horror-stricken eyes
Watching, through the tears
Through the sweat that cannot be wiped away
Filling up the goggles that shield them
Against everything except the misery
Those itchy, swollen eyes
That gaze upon the convulsions
Of those who are drowning
Inside their own lungs
God looks with infinite empathy
Upon those who stare the
Thousand yard stare of
A battle-scarred soldier,
One who has been too long in the shit
And has lost too many friends
Who has witnessed entirely too much
Death
And suffering
God looks into the panicked eyes
Of each person on each bed
And knows full well
Of their very real and very reasonable fear
God cries through those eyes
And yet, upon losing so many children
Looks not backward to the dead
But ahead to those
Who might still be saved

The God who is beyond All Names
Shines total love on you,
All ye sacred brothers and sisters
Of the caduceus, the Divine Staff
Which heals those struck by the
Serpent of Death
In the lost and lonely desert

You, who are possessed by God’s essence
Are illumined in the LVX of the All…
The God who is benevolence itself,
Far more loving than even
Those most generous, kind and
Merciful ones,
Those whose Names we all know well
The God who is is beyond
The idea of God
Is touching us,
Through you

after the crying

It is truly strange, our choices

In the certain light of death

Each of us inclined to 

A different manner  

Of dispensing or dealing with 

The final breath

One will merely smile 

And go for a long walk 

Another gathers the family 

And prepares a meal,

Over which they might talk

Some will scream silently, 

Slumping down and over slow, 

Into nothingness 

While a newly widowed spouse, 

Enflamed, seeks out a final fling 

with some sexy piece of dress

The bitter recite litanies of pain and 

Assign all manner of important blame

The fighters assault random strangers

Beat them into the ground

And assign them terrible names


Priests herd sheep into house of prayer 

To deliver the last rites 

Of final sleep

Lovers kiss and promise;

This living briefly with the awareness 

of impending loss

causes them to cling and to 

relentlessly weep

Children huddle, whimper and 

Meekly question 

What thing comes next… 

After the crying…

The bony, white lady 

Walks the streets of night, 

She sweeps up the losses

And calls it dying


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.

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lunch

reason, fear, confidence and hate,
a troublesome and thoroughly stupid bunch,
arranged one apocalyptic tuesday, late
to join up for drinks and a hot wings brunch

the waiter was not exactly… too good
and this bothered greatly, two of the four
so they skinned him and devoured him, right where he stood
and chucked his bones toward the front door

the manager, mr. business, upon seeing this,
scribbled on a napkin, his nextest of kin
apologizing, comped the bill and blew them a kiss
and that was the moment that love strolled in

the mob overtook her, in a frenzied attack
crying out for help, she sank down, out of view
bobbed back up with a blade and black jack
slicing and whacking and slashing them through

once the hubbub settled, the last blow had been swung
reason had no ears and hate, had no hand
she’d cut out fear’s eyes… confidence, his tongue
and everyone in the diner, frozen where they stand

then love straightened her skirt and strolled to the bar
looked business right in the eye and said “buy me a drink?”
shaking, he poured her martini and lit a crumpled cigar
“anything you want, ma’am, faster than you can blink”

the janitor mopped up the mess, it to the painter, he gave
who promptly used it in a mural of the strange brood’s disagree
it showed a little lady, fierce, the day, she came to save
people admire it, on tuesday’s, when the martinis are free

 


Copyright 2020

Kevin Trent Boswell


 

The new book is out now, on Amazon:

Chaos Comes Apart

16040ade-9658-4920-b7f0-b69fd20c18c7

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.

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Magus & The Plastic Infinity

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Conjure Work


juggernaut

far on down, the road twists and turns

lightning strikes and hellfire burns

through thick smoke in that darkened place

obscuring the troubled lines of your face

amidst the fear and fading of the light

shells of the dead rise in the night

ruled by Saturn, with poison mind

the blind falling in, behind other blind

war is the way and the order of things

Mars and all those bloody gifts he brings

stumble but once, never to rise

sour wings of death cover your eyes

too great a thing, too great a foe

at the end of your hubris, hell and woe

abundance of darkness, absence of light

swallowed and chewed in eternal night


Copyright 2020

Magus

(Kevin Trent Boswell)

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

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

Magus72 on Patreon

Magus & The Plastic Infinity

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Battle Against the Public

I think what this pandemic was lacking is a song, a tune that the people can hum. Therefore, to fill the current need, I have adapted an old favorite, with new (improved) lyrics.

I present to you, “Battle Against The Public”.

[sung to the tune of the famous song, Battle Hymn of the Republic]

Mine ears have heard the glory of the 

Omniscient, Orange Lord

He is trampling on the facts  

About the PPE we’ve stored

He hath loosed the fateful virus

By the terrible signs, ignored

His untruth is marching on!

(Chorus)

Story, story, tell it to ya!

It ain’t no worse than the flu… duh!

Praise him or he’ll remove ya!

Our Nonsense marching on!

I have seen His message echoed in the

Online, Right-Wing camps,

They have builded Him an altar 

Where truth‘s secured with iron clamps;

See through His dimwit message 

By the light of Logic’s lamps

His toupée is marching on!

(Chorus)

Friends, who you thought really knew ya!

Tell you it’s a hoax, come to screw ya!

Sit and wait at home, like Buddha!

His Orange is marching on!

I have read a fiery gospel, writ 

In CAPS of angry steel:

“Those who deal with My opponents,

Get respirators that might heal”

Let the Orange Nero, play the fiddle 

Let Americans all kneel

Trump is God and nothing’s wrong!

(Chorus)

Derogatory, press is unfair to ya!

Common sense has got the blues-a!

From Miami and NY to Chattanooga!

The virus marches on!

He has sounded forth the trumpet 

By Easter, we will have it beat;

Well, never mind… but admit, 

That the idea was pretty neat!

Doctors say… he’s a mo-ron!

(Chorus)

Gory, the doctors all conclude-a!

Fateful end, you’ll come to-a!

On breath machine, you’ll turn blue-a!

The buck He’s passing on!

In reports that came from China, 

South Korea, Italy 

The Donald was duly warned 

Of illness, born across the sea,

With mighty golf club in his hand, 

He said “Let’s wait and see”

As He lied to make men wealthy,

Let us try to make men see,

While the President blathers on!

(Chorus)

Glory, brave souls who blew the!

Whistle, sorry no supplies get to ya!

Your on your own, He never knew ya!

Our health care, shat upon!


Copyright 2020

Kevin Trent Boswell


The new book is out now, on Amazon:

Chaos Comes Apart


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

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

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Conjure Work

Idol

One may, at any slapdash time

With little more than wink and nod

With no sense, reason, structure, rhyme

Of any chosen thing, make a god


Copyright 2020

Kevin Trent Boswell


The new book is out now, on Amazon:

Chaos Comes Apart


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

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

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Magus & The Plastic Infinity

antiverse

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Conjure Work


I AM; SHE AM; WE AM

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.

Patreon

Magus & The Plastic Infinity

antiverse

blogspot

Conjure Work

zipper head

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.

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Magus & The Plastic Infinity

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Conjure Work

rain

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.

Patreon

Magus & The Plastic Infinity

antiverse

blogspot

Conjure Work

Beef Jerky

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.

Patreon

Magus & The Plastic Infinity

antiverse

blogspot

Conjure Work

The Balance

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: 

Chaos Comes Apart


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

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


Patreon

Magus & The Plastic Infinity

Conjure Work

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sweeping

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:

Chaos Comes Apart


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

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


Patreon

Magus & The Plastic Infinity

Conjure Work

antiverse

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untitled

One may never truly know

Into what deep and secret part

A simple kindness, how it grows

Seed taking root in the heart

The depth of its vast potential

That seeming, but not, small event

How vital, immense and essential

When it sprouts, or where it went


Author’s Note:

I read a post on Facebook about a man who, as a child, was regularly, severely beaten by his mother.

He said that watching Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood showed him that he didn’t deserve that cruelty and he said “Mr. Rogers saved my life”. I couldn’t seem to locate the post again but it inspired this piece.

Be kind to each other. When people will not allow you to be kind, then at least be BIG and just walk away.

There’s a huge difference between choosing to avoid arguments/fights and being a coward. People need to understand the difference.

Some people think that every minor confrontation is a threat to their wellbeing or even just their ego. They think that if they walk away, it equals weakness.

The real weakness is lacking the self-confidence to simplify go around it and ignore it. If backed into a corner or loved ones are threatened, then fight; to the death, if necessary.

But if someone is just mouthing off, you can choose to just ignore it. Rather than it saying that you’re too afraid to deal with it, it says that you’re too BIG to deal with it.

And you never know… your complete refusal to be rattled or fearful or angry or to be drawn into a fight, it might just have a profound effect on the person who is challenging you.

They may change, they may not, doesn’t matter. What matters is that YOU will change.


Copyright 2020

Kevin Trent Boswell

(Magus)


The new book is out now, on Amazon: 

Chaos Comes Apart

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

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

Patreon

Magus & The Plastic Infinity

Conjure Work

antiverse

blogspot

mirror black

your self-hatred runs 

the whole way through, 

with its shark tooth hunger 

and desert thirst

since you only speak of how, 

all but you,

everyone else 

is the downright worst

yes, they robbed your ego, 

of its growth 

I’m well aware, 

the scars run deep

I‘d have loved you enough, 

for us both

but your jaws are locked, 

and so both, we weep

Copyright 2020

Magus

(Kevin Trent Boswell)


The new book is out now, on Amazon: 

Chaos Comes Apart

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

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

Patreon

Magus & The Plastic Infinity

Conjure Work

antiverse

blogspot

Chaos Comes To Town

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My new book, Chaos Comes Apart, on Amazon:

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

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

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

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

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

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

Enjoy.


Copyright 2020

Magus

(Kevin Trent Boswell)

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

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

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Magus & The Plastic Infinity

Conjure Work

antiverse

blogspot

conjunct neptune

The new book, Chaos Comes Apart is finished!

I’m exceedingly pleased with it and very proud to say that soon, a few days, it will be available for purchase on Amazon.

If you become a supporter of my Patreon page, with the next week, you’ll get a free .pdf copy of the book, regardless of which support tier you choose.

Chaos Comes Apart is a brand new work, most of which has NOT already been presented here. There are a couple of pieces that are already here but not many.

However, I did end up needing to expand it a little, from its original length of 75 pages, up to over a hundred. It was something about the guidelines for the spine size, for printing. Mercury retro hangups, as I see it. But that just means that you get even more for your money.

So, I also included in the final version, several older pieces, most of which had never been published, a few that had. So, it keeps with the theme of establishing patterns… and breaking them.

I’m also quite happy to announce that I have stumbled into the inspiration for the next book, as well!

The newest book is called “one pass by” and the theme is the interactions of the Moon, with each of the other Planets, as She cycles through the zodiac, each month.

You don’t need to know anything about astrology in order to enjoy the pieces, they’re standalone works of poetry. 

Each one spurs mental images , feelings and thoughts, without needing any training or understanding of the Planets, whatsoever.

That being said, if you do happen to know the basics of what the Planets represent to us, human type critters, you’ll be in on some of the jokes and insights, in the deeper layers of the pieces. It’s win/win, either way.

I present you now, one of the first pieces from the new series and I chose this one because I think, perhaps, you’ll find it amusing. It’s called “conjunct neptune”.

To whet your appetite for it, will explain that the Moon rules over feelings, emotions, the unconscious mind and how we go about resting, healing and nurturing, both ourselves and others.

Neptune is the God of the deep sea and rules everything to do with oceans. But He also rules illusions, delusions, intoxication, dreams and sleep. Knowing that, what you read next should make perfect sense.

Enjoy!


conjunct neptune

i think i’ve gotten

a little bit

of a nip

of a part, too thinky 

i need to boughten

some lit

of a tiny, or large, sip

of the drinky 

i think with a wink

to take the day off, is an excellent notion

and it’s severals of the excitings 

it will be to play about, lay

and noddedly to blink,

filling a trough, slipping into the potion

that’s more than enough writings 

for any, or one, or this, done, day


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.

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Magus & The Plastic Infinity

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Morning Flies Far

Confounding the stupefied senses, the

syllabus, schedules of uninformed winner

you’ve reliably opened a festering wound,

spending lunch money upon trinkets of dinner

Empty the cup that was never quite full,

all the seats cold and audience, waiting 

there’s no more rind or gristle to eat

and no one left, to hear the debating

Slink down now into entertaining covers

and call it all finally done, for a life

wasted and somehow full of wonder,

no loud report, but fish round for a knife 

And instantly recall, in blissful drudgery,

some things can’t be cut by the cannon gun

whether eight more lines or only a million

some faces watch, from which you don’t run

Quiet cannibals, eating your sorrows

angels who lift any plagues from your land

mouths that sit, ready for morsels

morsels that come from only your hand

Sing now, with wretched rooster of morning

sing loud of his majesty and curse his name

take small solace in dimwitted knowledge…

no one is salvation and no one’s to blame


Copyright 2020

Magus

(Kevin Trent Boswell)

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

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

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Magus & The Plastic Infinity

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the old gal

she angles for the

best seat in the house 

if you don’t watch her,

she’ll own that retirement home 

she’s got to have the comfiest chair

clueless, tactless, all bad breath and 

weak knees

white hair stained teeth brittle bones

poor me looks and 

sighs of discontent,

her current frailty betrays memory 

of the once upon a time,

when she leapt over tall dreams 

never one for small talk, 

you always know exactly 

where you stand with her

she puts her charms to work on men 

and the women all want to be her friend 

now she snores the lazy day long

on infomercial couch

perpetual, old codger thirst

it takes precious time and strength 

to get off the sofa

so, she always manages to 

trick someone into getting 

a drink for her 

there are no children, no grandchildren 

no brothers or sisters 

there is only the waiting 

waiting for company to arrive 

and for dinner time 

she still appreciates touch

but tires of it easily; 

retreats to early bedtime 

old woman has no cats,

she doesn’t like them 

television holds no interest for her

she’s always been more of a

nature lover,

walking for hours, anywhere 

but even this is no longer suitable 

as the heat gets to her fast, these days 

and her weak legs 

no longer do their part

when strangers come around,

she is discourteous, 

barking cliches at them, 

to get off her damned lawn,

even though she 

doesn’t even have a lawn

her mind doesn’t work like yours or mine

it’s as if she thinks she’s in charge

but old friends are always welcome and 

she loves on their familiar faces,

kissing them on the cheek 

and sitting close to them,

imploring to make up for lost time 

she fails to recognize 

some people’s need

for personal space

old woman was fierce in her day

but her day is no more dawning 

and sun sets slowly on her 

throwing dim light on her white hair 

the old gal needs help sometimes,

going up and down the stairs

even needs help getting into bed,

she has a male nurse that softly 

raises her legs up and tucks her in

she must be bathed, 

because left to her own devices,

she won’t do it herself

her caretaker gently puts her in the tub,

soaps her up and washes her clean,

towel dries her and brings her a snack

that old people smacking sound 

happens more than ever before, 

that thing they do 

that makes it sound like 

a stoner just ate a bunch of 

peanut butter but lost their soda, 

so they can’t wash it down 

her appetite is still strong; 

she eats virtually 

anything you put in front of her, 

she’ll even steal food from your plate, 

if you leave the room

the old broad just ain’t got no manners

or shame 

she’s too old to worry what anyone 

thinks of her and far too busy 

with her endless naps

to notice the things they say…

she’s half deaf and half blind, anyhow 

the gal has skills, though

while she never had 

any formal schooling, 

she’s learned a great deal 

over the years in the school of life

and people are always 

impressed with her intelligence 

she’s been through good times and bad

she’s smart enough to know 

when to sit still, when to run 

and when to just play dead 

and wait it out 

while she ain’t too proud to beg 

for what she wants,

she can still flatter you out of

just about anything you’ve got,

with her aged eyes and soft company,

winning you over to her side,

every time 

despite the pitiful, poor manners, 

when this old woman sits next to you,

you know that you’re in the presence 

of a real, true friend,

the type that will defend you 

and tell you no lies

you feel love pouring off of her

and your every arrival at her house 

is  met with her rising up 

on those creaky old bones,

coming straight to the door, 

to welcome you inside 

she wears ridiculous things,

things designed for a girl 

half her age

as if she doesn’t understand her decline 

or just refuses to accept it, 

or both

and don’t be too alarmed 

if you catch her walking around naked

she’s not ashamed of her body, 

in the least

she’s capable of being a mean old bitch

when necessary 

but she won’t spare the energy for it

her nature is that of the lover, anyway 

she really got around, back in the day,

let everyone touch her, all over

it’s not always obvious

but a lot of the old birds

were good girls in name only, 

they let every guy in town rub them 

in that special spot,

the one they open their legs for

but we don’t judge her,

for its in her genetics to be 

loose in the streets, running wild

and accepting attention from all comers

loneliness is what she fears most,

she doesn’t tire of her friends company 

always wants them to stay longer, 

becomes anxious if she has to be alone 

the old gal is cemented into my heart, 

I love her, 

even though she rarely speaks 

she is a warm companion and 

they just don’t make ’em like that, 

no more

I talk to her and stroke her cheek and 

she lets me know with her eyes 

that it means the whole world to her

when she goes down for another nap, 

I curl up beside her 

no jello or cookies for her, 

just like a proper, English lady, 

she takes biscuits, instead

she doesn’t like hot coffee or hot tea,

she usually just drinks 

room temperature water 

despite all her demands for 

attention and her lack of 

personal hygiene 

and her being completely 

devoid of any social grace,

she’s a kind old gal 

and she’s this man’s best friend


Copyright 2020

Magus

(Kevin Trent Boswell)

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

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

Patreon

Magus & The Plastic Infinity

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Zero

Author’s Note: this piece is very old, I wrote it in my early 20’s. I share it because, unless you are one of those highly lucky people who seem to be unable to fail at anything (and most of us aren’t), then chances are you’ve hit low points in your life where it seemed like you just wouldn’t be able to bounce back.

I hit one of those points in my early twenties, which is what spawned this writing. About twenty years later, I had gone through many ups and downs (life has not been kind to me, if we’re shooting straight, here) but I was worlds ahead of where I had been at the time of this poem.

Then, due to a sequence of unfortunate events and a handful of bad decisions, I had another time, just a few years ago, that eerily paralleled this work. It was even harder to endure, because it felt like I was going backwards.

I actually have a pretty relaxed attitude about suicide, I feel that it’s a person’s right to choose to remain in the world or to check out. I’ve hit such lows in my own life that I questioned, more times than I could count, whether it was worth it to keep trying.

I don’t fault anyone for checking out of Hotel Life, if you’re not having a good time, you know where the door is and you can bail, anytime you want. I don’t judge anyone for deciding that the pain was simply too much to bear.

But for those of us who keep trying, despite seemingly overwhelming odds against us, we need a lot of encouragement, sometimes constantly.

One way to encourage others is to share our troubles. Not to complain, not to be negative, just to let our guard down and let others inside of our own darkness, so they realize that they are not alone, that others suffer, too. To say, “I am not perfect and I sometimes feel like a complete failure“.

So, I share this very open, humbling, embarrassing, unflattering, slice of my own history with you. I don’t share it with you so that you will feel sorry for me. I share it so that you may draw some small measure of strength from it.

May this in someway help you to feel better about where you are and how things are for you, now. And if things are not good for you now, then may it remind you that you are not alone. Keep your chin up and keep swinging.

Zero

Woke up to women (in a wearisome way) tramping about and talking very loudly, in the fashion that insecure people adopt, because they feel that they are never truly being heard

Woke up to a Monday morning, drenched in usualness

To catch glimpses of the demons that had been hovering above my bed while I slept

Got dressed in a stunning cigarette; feels good to be dressed in black

Woke up to get a drink of sulphur water from the tap

To the day before All Hallow’s Eve

Woke up from dreams of the living, to confront the dead

Woke up to many miles, dancing beneath my feet, yearning to be travelled

To a thick, invisible chain around my leg (it’s as long as the State of North Carolina and never gets tangled up in anything, unless I try to cross the state line)

Woke up to probation officers and community service and possible prisons

Woke up to realize that hang-overs have an upside: they keep you from thinking straight; too bad I don’t have one; I guess I should have drank more

Woke up to dig dirt from under my fingernails (can’t figure out where it came from, since I haven’t worked in over a year)

Woke up to realize that I have not worked in over a yearWoke up to remember that I am inconveniencing my friends, surfing couches

Woke up to a burning clutch in a crap car and thought “Well, at least I didn’t put any gas in the fucking thing”

Woke up to remember I didn’t have any gas money, anyway

Woke up to eat a bad meal and cover the taste with another cigarette

Woke up to fall back into the depression that I thought I had shirked

To begin to believe there is nothing that can be done for me, except a miracle

Woke up to re-live painful bits of mental collage, that may or may not be actual memory

Woke up to remember that my memory is not that reliable

Woke up to smoke too much and sulk like a little boy

Woke up to know pain, in the biblical sense, on the receiving end

Woke up to acknowledge that I am pessimistic and I have become undesirable, for that reason

Woke up to wonder why I woke up at all, since I was sure that I would fail, even that this, this most trivial of details

Woke up to put away all the psycho babble, self help nonsense, and to deal with deal with the cold, hard truth: that it really is going to take a miracle to save me

Woke up to realize that somehow, I still believe in miracles


Copyright 2020

Magus

(Kevin Trent Boswell)

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

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

Patreon

Magus & The Plastic Infinity

Conjure Work

antiverse

blogspot

the witch returns

For Carrie, on her birthday

white witch of of the primordial oceans

a sphere of Fire swims 

through vast expanses of deep, 

trudging, Gulf Stream, without end

the wake of each wave is a play space 

for Olokun’s children, bobbing up 

and over the water

delighting in their own weightlessness

waning lunar light glimmers

on the surface of an exoskeleton, 

a creature bearing a barb, 

sharp, it is a needle 

dipped in fiery nighttime 

whiplash smile, able to cut,

deep into the heart of urgent issues

or to hobble an enemy 

with vials of poison, 

whatever job need be done, 

that day

winged heels take to flight  

upon waves of air,

transmission of electronic signals, 

through waves of sightless ether,

collecting data and drops of dew

ideas float on currents, across 

all space and time

sharing a spot with the 

silver tongued trickster 

is a red man of war, atop a war horse, 

bedecked with invisible armor, 

as hard as a hundred mountains 

but light as a hummingbird’s breath

his sword drawn 

and leveled at the temples

of his foes, to skewer the craniums 

of intellectual fools, 

here in his compound of Air, 

he draws on his vast chalkboard, 

designing inventive new ways of war

the warrior’s consort is 

floating neither in Air, 

nor is she hold up in some rich, 

resplendent palace of Earth, 

neither does she take a dip 

in the immense pool of fish pairs

instead, she is bathed in Fire, 

full of wrath and vigor 

and the conquest of all things

she carves her name 

into the trunk of time

and carves the throat out of fear

the ancient architect 

hath built up for himself 

a strange structure, not his typical castle 

and not quite a chariot, 

with predictable, rolling wheels 

nay, his world walks, tank-like, upon on 

an assortment of odd, spindly stalks,

grabbing at the ground, 

drawing their meals

in with Mesozoic pinchers, 

pulling each meal into a small mouth, 

where the Lord of Time 

consumes his peculiar fish

all these dance and sway and spiral,

without end

all chuckle, change and challenge,

wrapped in a weird package, labeled friend


Copyright 2020

Magus

(Kevin Trent Boswell)

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

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

Patreon

Magus & The Plastic Infinity

Conjure Work

antiverse

blogspot

Back Lash

whiplash

it hurts 

when you have decided 

to be free;

titles are handed out 

readily, 

but nobility has a price

it carries weight

turning 180°

and falling back 

to start

can snap 

that delicate mechanism 

known as your back

and rip you 

asunder

unless

you possess 

flexibility and

resiliency;

as being schooled

in the movements

of birds and

angels

as I lie here, resting my back

from a day of laboring at one of

the hundred horrible jobs I’ve had over the years,

I reflect on the emotions

that have traveled 

up and down 

this bent spine

of mine

I become aware of what

has not been done,

the various manifestations

of which my life has 

sought to take shape 

and yet failed 

for various reasons

I recall seeing a sign

at the chiropractor’s office:

       “Your Back Is Your Life Line!

                                             Get It Straight!”


It is time to change

the way I sit,

to sit up straighter,

seeing straight ahead

to the new things

coming this way

time to change 

the way I sit,

and the way 

old things

sit 

with me


Copyright 2020

Magus

(Kevin Trent Boswell)

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

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

Patreon

Magus & The Plastic Infinity

Conjure Work

antiverse

blogspot

Fat Gold Mystery

Plums in the pot, bubbling, bubbling

Custard in the pan, cooling, cooling

Logs in the fire, crumbling, crumbling

Infant on the rug, drooling, drooling

Rooftop primed with snow,

Sprinkled brown leaves, like

Shavings of chocolate, on vanilla ice cream

The world is new, and remade 

Every day

Fashioned; 

Threshed out, by the tools 

Of possibilities


Copyright 2020

Magus

(Kevin Trent Boswell)

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

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

Magus72 on Patreon

Magus & The Plastic Infinity

Conjure Work

antiverse

blogspot

untitled

dark spectators

file in from the corridor,

to witness death

scepter of violence

shines a smile

electric murder pictures

steal their breath


Copyright 2020

Magus

(Kevin Trent Boswell)

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

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

Magus72 on Patreon

Magus & The Plastic Infinity

Conjure Work

antiverse

blogspot

precious sister

precious sister…

the journey cracks

grand science, now able, 

functions beautifully

that dreaming noodle 

rears the head 

flailing blows

and the sudden, 

hard obeisance

sleeping through those 

sweet rituals,

falling tiger

wags an 

accusatory finger

consumer of logical winds

a simpleton’s vanity 

peculiarity of the weather 

doctor points his caduceus:

inside becometh out, 

yea, verily

let us worship the

revolver medicine

as to movement,

these are but hard woman 

promises

death, a reluctant song,

now tumbling into 

guilt-ridden odyssey 

careless waves of infinite days

armies of unrelenting dawns,

one upon another,

each 

weaker

than brother

any here, for i, is her

a hopeless moonlight crumbles

her covers burn the sleepless skin

granting every excuse for you 

to slip outside

into the pisces pool of 

what is not yours

escape from the mouth

of rendering 

emptiness

find me 

in that dark place

or find something else,

whatever 

works 

at least there is always the

faint, corduroy comfort 

of believing 

that the sullen orb 

listens

we hold no such 

hopeful vigils 

for our dear, sweet  sister

of vacancy


Copyright 2020

Magus

(Kevin Trent Boswell)

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

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

Patreon

Magus & The Plastic Infinity

Conjure Work

antiverse

blogspot

flash

I.

… standing right on the tip 

of a spoonful of madness…

now, there’s a guy

who understands 

the depths

of loss

I fell into a well 

of brilliant colors

covering lungs

 in layers of 

dark gloss

no wiser,

or better 

for the experience

but 

never a lament 

will you hear 

from me

time… 

and other… 

four letter words

                                                                    (aside)

a plethora of pleasures and miseries

have I earned and yearned,

pleaded against and welcomed 

with banquets

for and through my guilt by association 

with the bleating of these mild sheep,

cloaked in the 

dripping, hollow fangs 

of serpents

crashes 

of symbols,

off beat                                       {snares}

four/for             MaDN”u”s

and off key stares—————–> II

II.

study well this deranged diatribe

tests are continuous,

apparatus is on its way

to assist you…

with those

already concluded

we’re 

watching 

you

III.

are the bad ones 

bothering you 

again?

take 

this 

and 

end 

it


Copyright 2020

Magus

(Kevin Trent Boswell)

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

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

Patreon

Magus & The Plastic Infinity

Conjure Work

antiverse

blogspot

untitled

Universe Collapsing

Constant Arousal

Continual Unravelling

If you are Quiet…

You will Hear

If you Look…

You will See…

Nothing


Copyright 2020

Magus

(Kevin Trent Boswell)

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

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

Patreon

Magus & The Plastic Infinity

Conjure Work

antiverse

blogspot

waste

my love is dancing

in your sleep

and you, here now…

all a waste,

in your flight,

an empty, 

downward embrace 

return we, 

to one,

when you, pointed,

lick the 

ground

touch the girl’s insides

but realize…

empty   s pa  c  e

is what 

comes

not-one, 

for timidity’s sake 

the eyes cast lots 

of salty war

upon his gorgeous shelter

they still marvel 

at your lame,

dead hero 

a shady vision of candy dilemma 

bump the mouthful of riches

stick precise flesh 

between 

fast, clever eyes

us, to hollow leaves,

we went

and to ash

and for this, 

but a tangle 

of whispers, 

am i


Copyright 2020

Magus

(Kevin Trent Boswell)

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

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

Patreon

Magus & The Plastic Infinity

antiverse

blogspot

Conjure Work

almost something like it

you say you’ve been

to the mountain 

and now you’re a big to do…

funny but i don’t remember

the mountain

ever mentioning you

i am not your memories…

that frame cracked, 

when I outgrew

shards of recollection, 

now strewn about your rug

a steep cleaning bill is due

i am no longer boxed in

i‘ve outgrown my previous place, 

mounted on your wall, to view

i no longer fit in your wallet

or inside of any container 

that also contains you


Copyright 2020

Magus

(Kevin Trent Boswell)

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

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

Patreon

Magus & The Plastic Infinity

antiverse

blogspot

Conjure Work

bell

just as

a lover does

god

wishes to be

wooed

cried out for,

desired

hunted

I have called…

now,

for a

great

time

and

I am

weary

my eyes,

heavy

from the

looking out

my voice, tired

I am become

as a

sounding

bell

a chiming

in the darkness

an echo of

an echo

of a long

ago

heard only by

the ear

that sits close

to the mouth

who uttered

the sound

in the beginning

sound…

the genesis

of all things

beginning is

answered

only by

ending

god

not

somewhere

in the circuit

between

mouth

and

ear

instead,

there is only

mouth,

the ear

words,

the space

silence

between

yearning,

not knowing,

finding

remembering

and forgetting

loneliness

crying out

in the wilderness

for the return

home


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.

Patreon

Magus & The Plastic Infinity

antiverse

blogspot

Conjure Work

Art Matters

I wrote a post, over at ConjureWork.com that I feel is important. It pertains to art, poetry, music and accurate thinking and how we all need it more than we may realize.

Rather than recreate it here, I’m just linking it: Art Matters.

somewhere in wilmington

somewhere in wilmington

waiting and wilting

baiting and quilting

an intricate weave

an alluring network of delicacies

through hell bent phosphorescent mind

of elder kinsmen magician sort

what to say

of lovers and wise men,

scoundrels and boys in the sticks

and creative stories:

hey, is that true?

no. it’s made up and so

we believe it

because it’s a wonderful rose

that grows

incandescent strobe light wonderful

god, i love that word:

wonderful

it’s not quite said enough

yet, says enough

and yet, not 

and therefore…

much more, you see?

it’s simple

and silly, yes.

after all,

isn’t everything?

it is in wilmington

things often stated

rather matter-of-fact-ly 

like ideas that 

hit you in the lung,

real wonderful like;

something like joy

like knowing it will all be o.k.

even though you 

really don’t know that

it will all be o.k.;

like finding out that 

your brain will 

chase its own tail, if you let it

and not making that mistake again

and not hiring woe

to spend all your money

woe?

oh, no.

i apologize.

the subject was joy.

or was it wonderfulness? (;)

or was it wilmington? (;)

or was it silliness? (;)

i believe it may have been 

willingness;

willingness to accept certain things;

to accept the fact that

you is you 

and you

is the only you

you get, you.

they do forget you.

one way or another, brother,

they forget you

wake up

and you realize 

that this is the 

karmic scheme of things

and many dreams it brings,

in the wee small hours,

that seem like days

because you’ve been dreaming 

for years

that you were 

really here

but you were really

just asleep 

and dreaming 

that you were

awake

and

baked

somewhere

in 

wilmington

last day

in the days of short pencils

and long papers

an earned renunciation of earlier 

struggles

supernatural glimpse of a 

well cooked tomorrow,

lying on the plate 

beside the knife of

decision

bringing in the trot lines;

wrestling with those large, fat fish,

ready for the pan 

and the flame

no more kung-fu

arduous battle with 

quadratic equations

instead, glancing at a 

moldy clock,

I see that the 

little hand is on armistice 

and the big hand is on

congratulations


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.

Patreon

Magus & The Plastic Infinity

antiverse

blogspot

Conjure Work

quiet

an original poem

floating in a soup

of strange sounds.

listen to the track,

watch the video.

but do it quietly.

Here is an mp3 of the song,

free to download.

quiet_magus72_the_plastic_infinity.mp3

share liberally,

it’s better that way.

Copyright 2020, Kevin Trent Boswell (Magus)

a glass of yesterdays

at nineteen

I was smitten with a girl

who loved gin and tonic

she was a preacher’s daughter

in South Carolina

I discovered that 

all of what people say

about preacher’s daughters

is blissfully true

I introduced her to

the bubbly summer fizz

and she introduced me to…

well, let’s just say… 

I learned to mix 

a mean 

gin and tonic

as she lay beside me,

naked and asleep 

on that motel bed,

I took tequila shots 

and reveled in the majesty of 

Austin City Limits

the television and I,

both sloppy drunk 

with the sounds 

of John Hammond

slurring curses through 

a mouth harp,

the tube on his finger 

causing that steel guitar 

to scream bloody murder

and holler for its momma

I sat stupefied 

on the edge 

of a cheap mattress,

covered in awe 

and still coated 

with her

Delta Blues cut 

jagged holes

into my memory, 

with its muddy banks

flesh, sights, screams,

wailing demons

and wobbling fingers

only a cheap television screen

and a cigarette ash,

backlighting 

the carnal event

she, now quiet on the bed

Hammond on the screen,

now brutally howling 

as if in some type of 

infernal pain

a blistering welt 

from the bite of a hell hound,

now sulking somewhere 

in the mosquito-infested 

darkness

“Oh!!! Say, 

my momma don’t allow me…

to stay out 

aaaaall night long!”

I, now 

consumed completely 

by cactus juices 

and cascades 

of flaming guitar notes,

flying out of the 

Devil’s fingertips

I straighten my back 

and draw in closer 

to breathe in her hair

then, toward the television screen 

and I fall sleepily beneath 

the heavy spell 

of it all

now, 

standing in a friend’s kitchen,

I think back

on all of it

I spy a bottle of gin

with a little less than 

a shot left in it

I open the fridge

lo and behold,

a fresh bottle of 

tonic water

I mix the two

and raise 

a toast

to the various potions 

of summer’s forgetfulness…

to the southern gene pool, 

with its extraordinary ability

to produce the most 

exquisite specimens 

of the female form…

to the Delta blues

its vinyl static,

scratched into my soul…

to John Hammond,

masterful and 

merciless…

to the claw marks 

on my back…

to the fear 

of Jesus


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.

Patreon

Magus & The Plastic Infinity

antiverse

blogspot

Conjure Work