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.
Americans don’t play enough chess It’s the reason we’re in this political mess The Right has carefully studied for years Constitutional weaknesses, racist fears
They’ve put in long hours, learning the game Motivating their base, pointing the blame Spinning problems as the fault of their foes Scuttling each bill that would end those woes
Like Morphy, Alekhine, Karpov, Nimzowitsch Dangling carrots; a cheap bait-and-switch A Fischer sacrifice; playing the long-game The board no longer looks quite the same
Their rooks and bishops, now in key places We watch with horror, mud on our faces We slept through opening, developing play Their knights are posted; it seems they’ll stay
Kiss of Death at the Opera, then it’s too late Anastasia smiles, threatens Legal’s mate A double-bishop pin, a dovetail, strategic Is needed, or our king will be quadriplegic
Having good pawn structure is fundamental And theirs is proving to be quite instrumental Mate is possible with any piece on the board Except the other king, who may be ignored
Unless, that is, he works his way up the file Blocking the enemy king’s movement, while The officers sweep in to deliver last blows A game is often over before the loser knows
We’d better learn the game, or we’ll be through It’s less checkmate, more authoritarian coup A king can be smothered by his own pieces It only takes a few with deceptive caprices
If the game may be saved, our wits must return Or “How to lose everything” is all we will learn We scoffed at haughty, four-dimensional claims But, with distractions, they hit all their true aims
We’re playing an opponent who is happy to win By legal means, if possible; they’ll nod and grin Beaten fairly, he gives no handshake reward But balls up his fists, and knocks over the board
The only way to beat a cheating, spoiled brat Is to win fairly, but be ready to pick up a bat For this one believes they must win at all cost And will not admit or accept that they lost
The one sitting on the other side of this table Is wily, unscrupulous; cheats when he’s able Demanding to rewrite how the game is played Promoting a pawn, says “A new king is made!”
Yes, win… but don’t be surprised if the liar Pulls a gun or a knife, upon losing their desire We all must fight hard to get out of this mess We must become better at political chess
I’m hesitant to do any regular promotion today because of everything that is going on in America. My heart goes out to women everywhere, as well as all of the other minority groups that SCOTUS has in their sights to attack and marginalize next.
There is nothing I could possibly say or do that could make any of that madness seem less important. I’ll do anything that I can to help, but I am honestly clueless about how I might help, beyond voting and just being a supporter of equal rights for all people. Try to stay strong and please, take good care of yourselves; it’s easy to slip into depression and bad habits when we see our nation slipping toward authoritarianism.
All that said, somehow, someway, life has to trudge on forward. As you might already know, my new album is out, and that means part of my job is to promote the stupid thing. Actually, it’s not stupid at all—I’m exceedingly proud of it. I think it came out great. I’d love for it to be some kind of small escape from the harsh realities we’re facing.
Something in the Air – Music by Trent Boswell
Below, I’m providing some links to the bigger music streaming services that carry the album. If you subscribe to any of these, you can do me a huge favor by liking the tracks on all the services you have access to. You can of course purchase the album or individual tracks through most of these outlets. That’s excellent because it helps me to make more music for everyone.
However, it’s incredibly easy (and free) to just favorite, like, thumbs up 👍 the songs you like, and to add them to your favorite playlists on outlets like Spotify.
If you really want to help out, really go the extra mile, you can share the album or individual songs to your social media pages.
There’s also the YouTube channel, which provides interesting visuals for the music.
Something in the Air
Existential art rock for perspicacious psychonauts and connoisseurs of eclectic, eccentric soundscapes, chock full of the beautiful terrible. Ten original songs about things which are replaced by new, theoretical things that never arrive.
2 cups of Rock and Roll, ⅓ cup of Pop Music, 3 heaping tablespoons of psychedelics, and one fifteen inch subwoofer of pure Funkadelia. Use responsibly. May interact with certain medications. May be illegal in your area.
Napster – I don’t know the link because I’m not a subscriber, so I can’t look it up
There are plenty of other music services that carry the album; these are just the biggest ones.
And here’s a video of one the songs, track number three from Something in the Air. This one is called A Nice, Quiet Place to Die. Despite the seemingly dark title, it’s really a love song. It’s about loving other people, animals, and the Earth itself. Enjoy.
Most stories don’t have happy endings The brutal truth is that most do not For each hero who makes it home, In unknown ditches, a hundred more rot
For every song about some brave champion, There are endless graves without any bones For there was no body which they could bury Only lost names engraved on stones
We must admit if we’re honest about it, Eventually, Death claims them all Those who we celebrate after a battle And those who on the battlefield fall
Those who seem to be safe back at home Are also short candles in a night so late None escape the long-armed grasp, Of those pitiless stranglers, time and fate
Something in the Air – an album of 10 original songs from Trent Boswell, available on June 8th, 2022 at most major music streaming services like Amazon Music, Spotify, iTunes, etc.
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The poetry and music of Kevin Trent Boswell
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Magus72 on Patreon – the music, poetry, and madness of Kevin Trent Boswell
Hopium – an irrational, unfounded belief that a situation is going to improve, despite all evidence to the contrary.
New music from Trent Boswell
Here’s a new song. This one is a blues rock piece.
People usually say, “The vocal part isn’t loud enough,” so I made it nice and loud in this one. To my ears, I think it’s a little too loud. You can let me know in the comments what you think.
Either way, hit the thumbs up 👍 and share ⬆️ with your friends if you like it.
This song is written in the vein of old school punk rock and thrash metal, bands like the Sex Pistols, Misfits, Motorhead, etc. It’s deliberately noisy and brash. I didn’t try to use proper singing technique on the track; it’s not supposed to be pretty.
“I Wasn’t Using It” is brand new; it’s not on the new album that is becoming available on June 8th. However, it’s available for download to patrons on the Patreon page.
It helps a lot when you like 👍 and subscribe ✅ on YouTube. Ring that stupid little bell 🔔 and click “all,” so you get notifications. Share the video if you like it. If you don’t, it’s okay; nobody will be around to hear it, soon enough 🤷♂️
Lyrics
Don’t feel bad the stores are empty Or that food won’t grow anymore It’s not your fault; you had no other planet On which you could wage your war
Don’t feel bad that you broke it; No, really, it’s OK I really wasn’t using it It was an old world anyway
I don’t need no oceans Arctic ice or stupid bees It was really nice of you To cut down all those ugly trees
I don’t mind the heat Going up past 105° Anything to help with industry I don’t really need to stay alive
Don’t feel bad that you broke it; No, really, it’s OK I really wasn’t using It was an old world anyway
The world is on fire Disaster at the door But I’m running out of plastic Can you please make me some more?
Don’t feel bad that you broke it; No, really, it’s OK I really wasn’t using It was an old world anyway
Don’t feel bad that you broke it; Seriously, man, it’s OK It’s not like I was using the thing It was an old world anyway
This was a refreshingly positive experience. With every post I make on Instagram, I get hit up multiple times for paid promotions. It’s always a sleazy approach like “I love your stuff! Let’s work together!” even though you know they sent that message so fast, they couldn’t possibly have listened to the song.
This guy Bobby asked me on TikTok if he could review me on his show tonight. I said yes, but I was thinking, “Wait for it… he’s going to hit me with a dollar amount, a pay-to-play thing.” I don’t do those. But he didn’t ask for anything. He’s got a pretty intelligent approach to it, he offers pay-to-play, but also gives free plays and reviews, no questions asked.
A spin and review on The Crockpot Cartel Show
He played a few minutes of my song (the format is that each song gets roughly two minutes, so he can fit more into the show). He gave some kind feedback on it and all he asks is that viewers stay active in the chats, giving ratings for each song (he uses a 1-1,000 rating scale). Even though most of what got played was either hip hop or rap, he stayed open to other genres. My music is really different from everything else I heard tonight, but he gave it equal time and thoughtful consideration.
In the chats, it looks like people rated my tune anywhere from 600 to 1,000 with an average of maybe 800 or 900. One person said 2,000 but that’s not inside the range you’re supposed to use 🤷♂️🙃
I was pleased, especially since most of the people there were making hip hop music. He asked everyone to add constructive criticism to any songs that they rated low, and said no hating on anyone. The overall thing was a nice surprise for sure.
You can catch his show and submit your music for consideration at: Bobby Everything
New Album on June 8th
June 8th release date
This album has the song on it that was reviewed in the show. The song is called “White Elephant.” You can watch the full video here:
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!
This piece of prose is from a book of horror poetry. What is horror poetry? Imagine that Stephen King wrote poetry and prose instead of novels and short stories.
This particular piece is about the climate crisis. It’s an imaginary interview with an American farmer in the not so distant future, a dystopian vision of the runaway effects of climate change.
I posted this song before, but I have entirely remixed it. The new mix sounds far superior to the original. I also shortened the title from “Tales of War On Venus” to “War on Venus.”
Lyrics:
We sit, swapping war stories We’ve barred all the windows and doors Each of us covered in blood Half of it mine, half of it yours
Two chairs, sitting face to face The room is bare, otherwise Suspiciously watching each other for Sudden movements, any shift in the eyes
There’s a word for why we’re here The trap, it fits us like a glove Explains all the mess and the misery And that four-letter word is love
Pause long enough to take a shot From the big bottle of poison We’re not much but we’re all that we’ve got We sweat bullets and swear “You’re the one. You’re the only one for me.”
Weapons at the ready, there in our laps Fingers never far from the trigger No one smiles, no one eats or sleeps Shots of whiskey and resentment get bigger
It’s no mystery how or where We both know who’s to blame, we insist Each of us swearing that the other struck first It was a case of love at first fist
There’s a word for why we’re here This trap, it fits us like a glove Explains all the mess and misery And that four-letter word is love
God Willin’ – an original, psychedelic, art rock tune by Magus (Kevin Trent Boswell)
God Willin’
Devil jump on ya When you least expect it With blood lust in his eyes
But you’ll pull through Like you always do… God willin’ and the creek don’t rise
Tax man poundin’ hard on your door Taking everything your money implies
Without turning to crime, You’ll survive on a dime… God willin’ and the creek don’t rise
Shacked up for love, but it didn’t work out Ain’t it painful when the love all dies?
But you’ll get off the street And find someone sweet… God willin’ and the creek don’t rise
Until the Lord himself Knocks you off your feet You keep on swingin’ And you can’t be beat God willin’
Screaming Boss Man Jack, ‘bout to break your back All your time out the window flies
You just smile and pick up his slack Because one day you’ll get him back… God willin’ and the creek don’t rise
The rivers can flood And the levies break But you know you gonna do Whatever it takes God willin’
To pay your bills, you need a little scratch So you borrow from Frankie But there’s just one catch: Frankie is one of them connected type guys
The juice is steep but you better not renege Less’n you want ol’ Frank to break your leg But you just know you’ll pay it off… God willin’ and the creek don’t rise
Drowning sorrows, feelin’ bereft You done lost a friend And didn’t have but one left And now that joker’s runnin’ around town, Spreading rumors and lies
Such a double crossin’ can’t happen twice Because after all, most folks is nice; At least that is… God willin’ and the creek don’t rise
Show ‘em a whole army Can’t ring your bell The devils, cheats and liars They can all go to hell God willin’
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
I see the blood that spills in the streets Can practically smell the gunpowder air Tasting the ashes, bitter on my tongue I hear the explosions, but I am not there
I cannot claim to fathom their fear Or say that I know the depth of their dread I’ve not had to bear the loss of loved ones Nor have I the need to step over the dead
I live far away from the noise of the horror I close my eyes with no fear of sleeping No aid raid sirens awaken me rudely I read in peace, tea silently steeping
Pictures and articles pour in daily Videos making me a bit more aware I know it’s happening; I know that it’s real But the sadness I feel does not compare
I hear children crying, and nothing stops it I see the confusion and pain in their eyes I smell the smoke and festering wounds But the foulest odor is the stench of lies
A well-heeled madman’s misinformation Distorted guile drips from his tongue Slanderous justifications for the slaughter Of unknown thousands, old and young
But my food is hot; my belly is full I don’t hide underground or need to run There are no tanks parked out on my lawn My hands are empty; they hold no gun
I don’t have a gas mask close at all times My roads are clear, my home is intact The power to stop the storm is not mine It rages on, and the sky is blacked
I cannot order the attack to halt And to send in support is not my decision I don’t determine the fate of anyone else I need not defend my political vision
No sons or daughters go off to fight Because of anything that I say or do But war will not cease of its own accord No moving of money makes it less true
I can say kind things and show my support The only thing worse is not even to care The words I say, meaningless, useless It’s easy for me, for I am not there
If I believed it, I’d say, “Wait. Do nothing; Or else he may set the whole world afire.” I could say I believe to hold back is better But were I to say it, I would be a liar
Powerless, unable to stop a mass murder Intervention may mean the death of us all So, we answer the cry for help by saying, “We pray for you and hope you don’t fall.”
To cover our fears of atomic destruction Supportive words hang on digital display Perhaps if we allow the bully his toy He’ll go no further after getting his way
If only it were true that a taste of victory Made conquerors quit; one land controlled The wanton wishes of children who know Nothing of madmen, bloodthirsty, bold
I cannot assist in their hour of darkness Or insist that others answer the pleading My heart hurts for those brave defenders But my pain is painless; I am not bleeding
I cannot say “Fight,” nor can I say “Wait.” It’s not my problem or burden to bear After all, it’s easy to speak in abstractions It’s easy for me because I am not there
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
how dare i take you by lascivious force boss you around play the pirate, tie you up treat you roughly as my possession force upon you my will make you drink from my cup
for then, you would not be free to do as you like i’d be a curse for you to endure and whatever then would you do?
how dare i worship you as a goddess, divinity’s source respect your opinions hear your voice let you run free give you space and respect yield to your whims whatever your choice
for then, you would not be attracted to me no desire, masculine, primal passion no naughty novelties, obscene, obscure and whatever then would you do?
how dare i stay the middle course walk the fine line weigh situations, each independent, with thoughtful care read moods, assess accordingly to act whether i should listen or teach
for then, tepid, neither cold nor hot is how you’d find me indecisive, wavering weak and spineless, insecure and whatever then would you do?
I think the reason this time of Venus Retrograde in Capricorn hasn’t been more popular with the people is that it was lacking something. I think what it was lacking is a tune, one that the people can hum.
I’ve taken it upon myself to remedy this situation by creating one for this very purpose. Now, this thing should really get off the ground and fly. Now, people will no longer have to argue with their romantic partners, families and friends… without a soundtrack.
Now, they will be able to argue with soundtrack backing them up. Something to make the whole thing really groove and move along, with a steady beat and some catchy lyrics.
Tales of War on Venus
Tales of War on Venus
We sit, swapping war stories We’ve barred all the windows and doors Each of us covered in blood Half of it mine, half of it yours
Two chairs, sitting face to face The room is bare, otherwise Suspiciously watching each other for Sudden movements, any shift in the eyes
There’s a word for why we’re here The trap, it fits us like a glove Explains all the mess and the misery And that four-letter word is love
Pause long enough to take a shot From the big bottle of poison We’re not much but we’re all that we’ve got We sweat bullets and swear “You’re the one. You’re the only one for me.”
Weapons at the ready, there in our laps Fingers never far from the trigger No one smiles, no one eats or sleeps Shots of whiskey and resentment get bigger
It’s no mystery how or where We both know who’s to blame, we insist Each of us swearing that the other struck first It was a case of love at first fist
There’s a word for why we’re here This trap, it fits us like a glove Explains all the mess and misery And that four-letter word is love
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.
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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.
There are no words, none that suffice None that may cover or explain None that express the loss of loved ones Or which help to heal the pain
Anything that we might say Anything we try to do It all falls short, next to the grief And only grief shows through
When someone has lost a special someone A lover, family, pet or friend There’s not one, single word we can speak That will put them on the mend
No expression of condolence helps Or will the pain, forestall The only thing worse than feeble attempts Is to say nothing at all
In times of loss, in times of grief We’re not much use to those we hold dear It’s best that we assume as much And say only “I am here.”
Speak nothing, hoping your speech is useful Know that we hold no such power Say only “I am here with you, In this, your darkest hour.”
The most that we might possibly do For a friend who has a broken heart Is to demonstrate respect, by saying “I don’t even know where to start.”
To offer our humility, saying “I can only imagine the weight of your pain. I can do nothing for you, except be here. And for you, here, I will remain.”
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
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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
It’s almost Halloween, kids. So, gather around, for a little story. It’s about some of the strange things that go on, out in the deepest parts of the woods, where people rarely go.
But there are always those who think it will be nice to have a cozy, little cabin, way down in the valley, where no one ever goes. Sometimes, something bad happens to those people. But what exactly, it was that happened… well, no one knows.
Enjoy the story, kids. And sleep well, tonight… especially those of you who live way out in the woods.
SoMuchBlood
They was so much blood On them walls, the carpets, even the ceilin’ Hardly anythang in the room That t’weren’t coated with gore
What sorta person… what sorta creature… Could do such a thing? Whatever t’was, it looks as if it come Up from out that thar hole, in the floor
I reckon it coulda been human But I doubt that’s the case ‘Cause there ain’t no bodies… Just them awful, red stains
Sick fellers, they’ll sometimes kidnap folks And some of ‘em’ll kill you In either case, they leave somethin’ Some type a clues or remains
But there ain’t no footprints, nowhare And they’d have to be some In all of this blood, if anyone Was ta walk out that door
But they ain’t nothin’ Just them nasty trails of slime An some type of excrement I ain’t never seent before
Whatever it t’was, It was slow but fearful strong Theys signs a strugglin’ Pert much everwhare
It weren’t quick… poor bastards died slow Y’all see where they tried fer the doors, Tried climbin’ out the winders But couldn’t get there
Y’all see, right here and over yonder How they was grabbin’ fer weapons Whatever was close, them scissors That pistol and that there knife
The poor souls all this blood belonged to, Looks as though they fought hard To defend themselves but it t’weren’t Enough to save their life
Them locks was all still bolted There ain’t no evidence of nuthin’ Comin’ into the house From anywhare, outside
And from the looks of that hole, Whatever t’was, it ain’t here, no more T’was somethin’ godawful big Too damn big to just up and hide
Whatever left them bite marks In the top a that bedpost, T’was something mighty huge Somethin’ with a heap a sharp teeth
It looks as if this feller was… eaten Right here on the bed frame Theys half a man’s shirt And an eyeball, underneath
Y’all ‘member them strange stories Them that great-granddaddy use’ta tell? Them whoppers, we all reckoned Weren’t nuthin’ but senile dementia
We just assumed they was just Tall tales to get us to behave They said that once, ever hundert years, “Them critters… they’ll come to getcha”
They said that’s why no one ought never To live here, in this here valley “Don’t build there.” they’d say, Soundin’ all mysterious
‘Course we all reckoned it was nothin’ Just hallucinations they’d had On account a when they was younguns That flu had all them folks so sick and delirious
I ‘member this feller tellin’ great-grandaddy, Some twenty years back, how he was fixin’ ta Build hisself a house here, wanted to know If they was any money he could borry
I ‘member the look on great-granddaddy’s face When he tolt ‘im “No, I shan’t do it.” But what was truly strange was How he said “You’ll be sorry.”
It seem’t sensible to dismiss all them tales As a bunch a dammed nonsense Just a heap a stories, to get the younguns To mind and act right
But ‘member how, a few generations back, A handful of our kinfolk lived in this valley They went missin’ without no explanation That were a hundert years ago, as of last night
Now, I ain’t never been known To be a superstitious man Y’all know I ain’t a scare’t a no man And I’ll fight a feller at the drop of a hat
I’m gettin’ the hell outta Dodge, never to return And I strongly suggest y’all do the same Ain’t never seent such a mess as this And that’s all I reckon I got to say about that
The Queen nestles up snuggly, next to the King Behind her, the Rook shuts the door The Knight seizes upon his opportunity To seal the King’s fate, evermore
Through the open window, the Knight, he spies The King, cornered and exposed in his room Bending his bow, the Knight looses a bolt Thereby making the King’s chamber a tomb
A King now lay naked as the day he was born Except for that single arrow, through his heart The Queen in cahoots and the Knight’s fine aim The King was quite clearly doomed from the start
Author’s Note: “Smothered mate” is a chess tactic, whereby checkmate is achieved through a Queen sacrifice. The Queen moves in between the Rook and the King (in the case in the picture above, this happens on the G8 square; although this can also occur on the other side of the board, as well).
Since the King is in the corner, behind a row of pawns, there’s no legal move except to capture the Queen, with the Rook.
The King cannot capture her, because there is a Knight in place, making it an illegal square for the King to move into. After the Queen is captured, the Knight moves again and it’s checkmate; the King has been “smothered”, unable to move because he is trapped on all sides, by his own pieces.
This makes for a clear parallel with an old school assassination plot, as might occur in Game Of Thrones… and did occur in a great many places, throughout history.
This piece will be in the new book of dark poetry, Out On The Killing Floor, coming soon.
A glove left its hand and loudly it met Another gentleman’s shocked, available cheek ⠀ Gauntlet thrown down, it was then announced ⠀ That tomorrow would host a duel to the death⠀
The news spread fast and the gamblers all bet On whichever man they thought less weak ⠀ One way or another, one would be trounced Just after sunrise, would take his last breath
Each man chose a second, a solid friend An assistant to ready his charge for the fight To tend to the details and help steady his mind To see to it that his pistol is clean and powder, dry
Even to dress him; for when a man meets his end ⠀ He wants to look sharp, in the new morning’s light Only one is to conquer and victory, to find The other, in a pool of his own blood, would lie
After a night of sweaty and troubled sleep They adorned themselves in the fine, regal trend ⠀ And adjourned on field of battle, according to plan Rules were explained and readiness, discerned
Rude remarks were exchanged, cutting deep Enraged, ready to deliver an untimely end Each with his back to the other, once counting began, With grave face, took his ten paces and turned
Here at last, was the decisive moment The climax, a champion would soon overcome ⠀ Besting his adversary and winning the rights To brag upon himself, of how he was more skilled
A contest, it was, as the gentry would later lament When the smoke had all cleared, the crowd was numb Each superb marksman had the other in his sights, Two bullseye shots and both men were killed⠀ ⠀
Kevin Trent Boswell 