Tales of War on Venus

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


©️2022 Kevin Trent Boswell


The .mp3 song file is available for patrons at:

Magus72 on Patreon, music, poetry and madness by Kevin Trent Boswell

Video Clips By:

cottonbro 

MART PRODUCTION  

KoolShooters 

RODNAE Productions 

Eugene Vasilevich 

and Alex Green, Timur Weber, Diva Plavalaguna, Gustavo Fring


Too

You’re too young

You’re too old

You’re too timid

You’re too bold

You’re too forgiving

You’re always holding grudges

You’re too straightforward

You’re all winks and nudges

You’re too kinky

You’re such a prude

You’re too nice

You’re terribly rude

You’re too poor

You’re way too rich

You’re too loyal

You’re a backstabbing bitch

You’re too punk

You’re too straight

You’re too early

You’re far too late

You’re too logical

You’re too black and white

You’re too much of a pacifist

You always pick a fight

You’re not broad enough

You’re too eclectic

You’re speed is too slow

You’re pace is too hectic

You’re the same, old, usual

You’re too avant-garde

You’re too soft

You’re just too hard

You’re too boring

You’re too, too much

You’re always gone

You’re here way too much

You’re too stupid

You’re a little too smart

You’re too far ahead

You’re too close to the start

You’re too involved

You’re too apathetic

You’re too fat

You’re too athletic

You rhyme too much

You’re too free-verse

You’re too offensive

You’re afraid to curse

You’re too angry

You’re too sad

You’re too worried

Why are you so glad?

You’re too sensitive

You’re too thick-skin

You’re too quick to finish

You’re too slow to begin

You’re too far gone

You’re too stable

You bite off too much

You don’t give all you’re able

You’re too frigid

You’re too horny

You’re too grabby and needy

You’re too distant and thorny

You’re too quiet

You’re too proud

You’re too humble

You’re too loud

You’re too unpredictable

You’re too strange

You’re too normal

You’re too subject to change

You’re too ambitious

You’re too restrained

You’re too big-boned

You’re too big-brained

You’re too reserved

You’re too outgoing

You second-guess too much

You think you’re all-knowing

You’re too brazen

You’re too fearful

You’re too cold and harsh

You’re too sentimental, tearful

You’re too specific

You’re too cryptic

You’re too Pollyanna

You’re too apocalyptic

You’re too masculine

You’re too effeminate

You’re too tight-assed

You’re too indiscriminate

You’re too hands-off

You’re too political

You don’t tend to details

You’re too analytical

You’re just way too picky

You always say “whatever”

You’re not very bright

You’re think you’re so clever

You’re too pasty

You’re too tan

You’re too girlie

You’re too manly-man

You’re too dense

You notice too much

You never ask for help

You always need a crutch

You’re too red

You’re too blue

You’re too much of everything

You’re way too much you


©️2022 Kevin Trent Boswell

Magus72 on Patreon - music, poetry and madness

the others

dark nighttime
holds illusions,
all seeking
to guide you

into madness
and cringing 
under too-short,
coarse covers

trust your gut,
sweet child;
only light
is inside you

the same
may not always
be said
of the others

look 
before crossing
strange threshold, 
take care

there’s a light
that’s inside you
that light, 
true and bold

and then there’s
the everything 
else 
that’s out there

some lights
have gone out,
but haven’t yet
been told

devils 
can appear 
as angels,
so beware

they would
warm themselves
by the fires 
of your favors

they return 
your good deeds
with nothing
but despair

gratitude 
is absent;
all the usual, 
good flavors

are not nearly 
so much in them,
not so much 
as their needs

you’d help them
if you could
but you can’t…
nor can any

any goodness
you offer
is repaid with 
foul deeds

their love was
all strangled
by weeds, 
so many

caring is a
thing they’re
far too good
at feigning

but they’d not do 
so much
at all… 
were they able

to give you
assistance
they assist
by restraining

they’d have you 
assist by
being food 
on their table

in the dark place,
your kind rules 
won’t replace
good sense 

your eyes
fail to hear;
your sight goes 
deaf and dumb

you’re a good child
and a smart one;
always keep
strong defense

against the weaving
of webs 
that would have you
succumb

listen not, 
to easy tales 
of leisure
or love

be generous
be grateful,
but too much so,
one discovers

there’s humanity
in your heart
and it fits you,
like a glove

but the same
may not always
be said
of the others

listen closely
when light whispers
its soft,
gentle warning

go not lightly
where sternly 
it would guide you 
away

lean gently
upon your genteel 
manners
of good morning

shield carefully,
your beacon;
shining,
that it may

ward off those
hungry things, 
slinking in the 
twilight

committing
many crimes
to justify their
sadness

your large heart
would feed them
but the briefest time’s
highlight

your manners 
won’t give them
a single moment’s
gladness

a hunger,
baleful,
returns ever,
without pauses

more hot 
and more fierce,
much stronger
than before

opening you
slowly, 
hiding
true causes 

growing 
more bold
once you open
the door

in knowing
what nice, warm 
feelings 
spill out of you

on your noble, 
good faith
they’ll come again,
to dine

a stitch of
incredulous
keeps away 
death’s hue

after all is
said and done,
it almost always
saves nine

trim the wick
of your candle,
its bright light,
inspire

keep your powder 
all dry
and your lamp tinder 
lit

small steps
can lead you
into darkness, 
more dire

so, be careful
and wise
and don’t fall 
for it

odd misgivings
may cause you 
to shirk, 
with an attitude

even the
friendliest 
of those come-hither 
smiles

the first thing
to go, 
once they’re in,
is your mood

a lengthy 
and foul one
means you’re taken 
by their wiles

hold your memory
on tight
and never let them
touch

trust your
way-down-deep
when the good feeling 
lacks

harken 
which hands 
reach for you
too much

a bother 
in your belly
stops you dead 
in your tracks

your energy
will fail,
long before
their thirst

a visceral fear, 
in your 
tenderhearted,
warm guts

take the 
hooked bait
and you’ll soon see
their worst

suspicious
of yourself
and feeling like 
you’re nuts

when uneasy 
twinges
drive you back,
second-guessing

from a seemingly
obvious
act
of benevolence

they’re there
to warn you
of something bad, 
pressing

even daddy’s 
good breeding
can draw to you 
malevolence

some feed on daddy’s 
manners,
mother’s charm school 
propriety

it’s less commentary
on your love 
and more on their 
bleakness

in spite of all 
politeness
good intentions,
sobriety

resides in 
a maintenance
that guards against 
your own weakness

you are glowing 
with life, child;
remain balanced in 
your poises

stay out of 
the shadows
and out of 
the foolish

they’ll drag you
into dins of
the most horrible
noises

pulling you
from the light,
down into… 
the ghoulish

when your social
sensibilities
are suddenly
eviscerated

and it happens
without logical 
reasons,
not one

a thing which, 
on the surface,
seems
uncomplicated

do not question it, 
dear child;
instead… 
turn and run

when abdominal 
doubt
scorns the stranger’s 
handshaking

when something
inside of your 
knotted-up,
deep self

signals
a threat, with 
inexplicable
quaking

though they look
the good deal,
put them back
upon the shelf

never wander
too closely
to the edges
of the dark

shadows 
have been known to,
on occasion, 
jump through

to leap out,
swallow flickering, 
pretty things
that spark

the sparkling,
pretty lights 
in pretty things, 
like you

keep close
to the guard dogs
who growl
behind fierce eyes

when temptation
comes close,
offering you
strange favors

don’t lean in,
too closely
or listen 
to their lies

the keepers 
of darkness 
and light are 
close neighbors

and sometimes
those shaded
boundaries
fall open

since some always 
go there,
eager to 
steal keys

this may shock
or confuse you;
sensibilities,
all broken

but disappearance 
in the night 
happens with 
great ease

not all 
are so nice 
as you, child;
you must know

that some 
are the weight 
of a great, 
heavy stone

not all would 
have you live
or leave
or let go

but would gladly 
consume all,
even marrow 
of your bone

your mommy 
and daddy 
and friends want you 
to live

but monsters are
more common
than they bothered
to explain

taking each
precious drop 
of all the blood 
you could give

some quietly
feed on 
the wellbeing 
in your brain 

not keeping you in 
too good 
but rather too many, 
different shapes

creepers,
all slithering
down low,
out of light

until you break 
their spells 
and your spirit
escapes

well-hidden,
under coverings,
many put up 
no fight

but will linger
and drain you
until you rise up
and slay

some appear 
tricky,
as a lamp 
or a torch does

shielding you
from the bright,
good and sensible
day

storms,
wearing rainbows;
where color,
never was

any light that
splinters out
is artificially
made

those devils 
would lay you down
on razor-sharp 
pillows

dressing you
in black cloaks 
of drowning
in the shade

some wicks
take light easily, 
like dried-up, 
old willows

candles burning
through the night,
on first strike 
of one match

but some things 
only look like 
a flame 
or spark

but their sweet, 
sugar poisons, 
sharp, in the throat,
catch

you’d use up
all your matches
and still be
in the dark

they will never, ever
burn,
no matter how hard
you try

for they’re just 
not the good, 
useful, light
type of stuff

they will always 
break things
and take things
and lie

try to help them,
you’ll discover
that it’s never quite
enough

a mask-wearing 
face appears 
like innocence
and hope

lovely or kind
at first glance,
they may
look

but with a lot
of hard scrubbing
and a fair
amount of soap

you’ll discover
the ruse
and note all that
they took

i’m sorry to
have to say, child
not all is
as it seems

in fact, most things 
are not
at the bottom  
of this matter

in this world,
there are things
far worse than 
bad dreams

and the daylight
does not 
cause all of them 
to scatter

some things
are stubborn 
slow dying,
sowing trouble

and you’ll never
get back 
those things 
which were taken

it’s much better
when you’re older,
to pop 
your own bubble

childhood 
dies easier 
with your confidence,
unshaken

but die
it must do,
since it’s nothing 
but a blindness

the warm blanket
of sheltering,
by fathers
and mothers

the love you
possess, child
rewards kindness
with kindness

the same
may not always
be said
of the others


© 2021 Kevin Trent Boswell

From the black book of fiendishly foul, frightening things, Out On The Killing Floor

Out On The Killing Floor, by Kevin Trent Boswell

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Magus72 on Patreon

baby elephant

no one wants to talk about
the little, baby elephant
that wandered into the room
some decades ago

only now, the thing
has grown to full size
and everyone has to move away
from wherever the elephant chooses to go

still, no one mentions it
if you start to do so
you’re quickly told
to hush

it’s as if everyone believes
that discussing the thing
will somehow cause it
to rampage and crush

it’s a bit more than annoying
since it’s beginning to wreck
anything and everything
that’s in the house

lots of nervous smiling
and changing the subject
you’ll hear no mention of the elephant;
we’re all quiet as a mouse

everyone brightens right up
when you share a fun story
talk about a new movie
or tell a funny joke

but when you try to talk about
the elephant (or the weather)
it’s as if you were never there
and you never spoke

you’ll get a lot of
blank stares, shrugs
mostly, a lot of people
turning away

you’d think that since the beast
is destroying their home,
they might have an opinion,
a choice word or two, to say

but you would be wrong
for all is quiet
except for occasional whispers,
so brief

once the whispering stops,
all sigh and go back
to whatever they were doing
with a nervous relief

it’s more than just
a little bit puzzling
it’s far beyond being
just strange or odd

having everyone assure you
that we’re alone in the house
with a wink, a smile
and an anxious nod

this is all doubly,
if not triply or quadruply so…
or even to the power
of twenty-one

the elephant is angry,
bellowing loud, all the time
and people have been crushed;
more than just one

maybe it’s something about
how i was raised
or a skill that i never knew
that i needed before

something as big,
as destructive, imposing
as an elephant… to me…
is impossible to ignore


©2021 Kevin Trent Boswell


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

Out On The Killing Floor, poetry by Kevin Trent Boswell

355 pages, available now on Amazon


8 different titles available

Search for Kevin Trent Boswell poetry

The Poetry of Kevin Trent Boswell
The Poetry of Kevin Trent Boswell

Elephant photo by David Blackwell

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Magus72 on Patreon - the music, poetry and madness of Kevin Trent Boswell

Pariah

I’ve always been
Outside the norm

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’m weird

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 toosomething
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…

Well, then it’s clearly just time to leave


©2021 Kevin Trent Boswell


Photo by Arianna Jadé

Magus72 on Patreon

The Next Ones

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


©2021 Kevin Trent Boswell

Main photo by Alex Green

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

Out On The Killing Floor, Kevin Trent Boswell, poetry books
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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The Thing About Bunkers

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


©2021 Kevin Trent Boswell

From the black book of horrifying, awful, terrible things that will keep you up late at night and drive you to drink, 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 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.


Support the creation of more madness:

Magus72 on Patreon
Magus72 on Patreon – become a patron

There Are No Words

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.”


©2021 Kevin Trent Boswell

house of ghosts

it is a house of ghosts

every corridor
veers into shadows

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

it still is

this house has
never been empty


©2021 Kevin Trent Boswell


Magus72 on Patreon

End of Winter

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


© 2021 Kevin Trent Boswell

Magus72 on Patreon

From the book Out On The Killing Floor

Out On The Killing Floor, by Kevin Trent Boswell

End of Days

I.
We could have changed
In so many, small ways
So much for which
There was to aspire

II.
Was a time we had options
Moves and plays
To climb out of the hole
Find someplace higher

III.
Having opened the door
The beast enters and slays
Its hunger, endless
Its destruction, entire

IV.
No plans to retreat
Once inside, it stays
It does not sleep
Or pause or tire

V.
Opting out of truth
Believing false displays
The twisted words
Of talented liar

VI.
Fear of speaking out
Mute with delays
With webs of deceit
Would truth, retire

VII.
Insecure children
In desperate need of praise
And any fleeting comforts
They might acquire

VIII.
Fearful of reproach
The disapproving gaze
In secret would
Against all, conspire

VIIII.
The world, itself
Now glances sideways
Its displeasure hot
Worse than anything prior

X.
Events blunting senses
Into stumbling daze
Mouth of inferno
Funeral pyre

XI.
Prophecy unfolds
However one prays
Indulgence to Pope
Or penance of friar

XII.
Entrusted with a gift
Foolish steward betrays
Comprehending not
The quantifier

XIII.
Slave of Mammon sits
Rolls over, obeys
Right up to bitter end
Chasing after desire

XIV.
A drunk compass, slurring
Off course, it strays
Into gutter, wearing black
Mourning attire

XV.
Reaping what we’ve sown
On death’s harvest, to graze
Famine and plague
The new supplier

XVI.
Trumpets sounding
They startle, amaze
Broken seals in hands
Of angelic choir

XVII.
Choking in the heat
Sun’s blistering rays
Unseen, exponential
A mad multiplier

XVIII.
A scroll unrolling
The hell hound bays
Revelation in the ear
Of the testifier

XVIIII.
Heels by its master
Whose scale, justice weighs
The same who brought waters
As Earth’s purifier

XX.
For perjury and murder
The wages it pays
Tribulations certain
And soon to transpire

XXI.
Removed from God’s sight
At the end of days
The second judgement
Is a judgement of fire


©2021 Kevin Trent Boswell


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.

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

Support

Special thanks to the patrons on Patreon, who make this possible. You can be part of it, too.

Magus72 on Patreon
Magus72 on Patreon
music, poetry and other, assorted types of madness

H. H.

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


©2021 Kevin Trent Boswell


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

Out On The Killing Floor
Available on Amazon

Support

You can be a part of the support for more music and poetry, here:

Magus72 on Patreon
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More Machine

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


©2021 Kevin Trent Boswell


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

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

Support

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

Magus72 on Patreon
Magus72 on Patreon

Sumus Solum

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

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

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

“Hurry up, Father.
We’re lonely.”

the words beating
in his ear like a drum

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

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

“Let me show you,
all that you can have”

and reaching into his mind,
showed him his every desire

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


©2021 Kevin Trent Boswell 


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

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

Main photo by Khoa Võ


Support for This Work

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

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

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

Down, Down

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


©2021 Kevin Trent Boswell 


This piece is part of the anthology of dark, horror poetry, called Out On The Killing Floor.

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

Photo by Louis Vizet

So Much Blood

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

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

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

So Much Blood

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


©2021 Kevin Trent Boswell


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

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

Photo by cottonbro

Smothered Mate

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


©2021 Kevin Trent Boswell

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.

Coming Soon

The image is the property of Chess.com

The Duel

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⠀
⠀


©2021 Kevin Trent Boswell

From the black book of unimaginably horrible, terrifying things, Out On The Killing Floor

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

Blood In The Glass

“Blood In The Glass” – An original song by Magus (Kevin Trent Boswell). All guitar, bass and vocal parts, plus the recording and mixing of the song, were done by Magus.

Lyrics

You’d only call it a disaster
If you were trying extra hard to be nice
But all the niceties were crushed up for the mix drinks
Because the party was all out of ice

Hush, little baby.. don’t you bitch, now
We’ve laid waste to all your pesky fears
Just listen to the soft voice of certain death
How it whispers such sweet things in your ears

I woke this morning to the sweet sounds
Of everything falling apart
I can’t find the glue, anywhere I look
And I know better than to look in my heart

Doom arrived late night at the soirée
As I passed by, I kicked it in the clutch
I wasn’t mad at all about what it planned to do
Only that a few, it wouldn’t touch

Gentleman and ladies all line up now
To stab the eyes, each one has a go
Don’t waste your breath, explaining to them how
They only blind themselves… they already know

Don’t stop the show, it’s all too much fun
Admission price is all the useful parts
We sold it all off, dirt cheap, no reservations
And long ago, we emptied out our hearts

I remember sunny days and bird songs
But all these things are swiftly brushed aside
For the sounds of ourselves, the images of others
Both from which, we vainly seek to hide

I found a thousand beautiful reasons
Then, was told I needed one thousand and one
Things like joy, a heart full of kindness,
A chameleon face and a gun

Blood in the glass, broken glass on the ground
Broken glass and blood on the blade
Note the irony with a wry, little smile
It’s the finest contribution that I’ve made
Watch the smoke rising, a sigh of contentment
The finest contribution that I’ve made

It’s getting much harder to keep it all down
Throwing it away might be smart
When all of it is burned, black, full of poison
Most especially in the heart

I woke this morning to the sweet sounds
Of everything falling apart
I can’t find the glue, anywhere I look
And I know better than to look in the heart

We all know there’s nothing
There to find, in our hearts


©2021 Kevin Trent Boswell


Support this work on Patreon. Click the picture below to check out the benefit tiers.

Magus72 on Patreon
Magus72 on Patreon

Thanks

Special thanks to the following people for contributions of video and photos:

Sunsetoned

Tom Fisk

Mikhail Nilov

Sandip Rai

cottonbro

MART PRODUCTION

RODNAE Productions

Vyacheslav Prisichev

Kelly Lacy

Justin Ashon

Merlin Lightpainting

Eva Elijas

Kindel Media

Nataliya Vaitkevich

ROMAN ODINTSOV

Matthias Groeneveld

SHVETS production

Anthony Shkraba

As well as Timur Weber, Ron Lach and Esmanur Ekşi

Seven Spanish Angels

Seven Spanish Angels

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

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

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

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

https://Patreon.com/Magus72

Magus72 on Patreon
Magus72 on Patreon

Seven Spanish Angels

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

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

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

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

Words and music by Willie Nelson


Special Thanks

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

Brett Sayles

Karl MPhotography

Gela Del Rosario

Kalen Kemp

Bhargava Marripati

Thirdman

Los Muertos Crew

Alena Darmel

Esau Magos

Sosa Films

Kelly Lacy

MART PRODUCTION

Anderson Juarez

Jose Lorenzo Muñoz

Dorota Semla

Gabriel Bazán

and Jeff Ross

That One Time

Happy first day of Halloween. I put something dark and sweet into your pumpkin for you.

That One Time

Your belongings will not likely be stolen
In the times you watched them like a hawk
But rather, they up and run away
The one time that you forget about the lock

Your blessings will surely not come to an end
In those times in which you’re praying a lot
No, your blessing well will only run dry
Because of the one time you did not

You’re unlikely to be brutally murdered,
Your corpse buried beneath someone’s floor
On most days, that is…
Unless, of course, you forget to latch the door

©2021 Kevin Trent Boswell


Photo by Faruk Tokluoğlu


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

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

Support

Magus72 on Patreon
Magus72 on Patreon

Even In The Littlest Things

“Even In The Littlest Things”, from my book Dark Matter – Poems of Horror and Depravity

Even In The Littlest Things – from Dark Matter

With Samhain/Halloween/All Hallow’s Eve and Day of the Dead fast approaching, I’m doing readings from my book of horror poetry, called Dark Matter. Most of them will have some type of music and/or sound effects that accompany them, to lend to the experience.

However, for most of these, I won’t be doing anything fancy with the visual aspects. There will be some that have interesting video or photos to look at but this will be more of an auditory experience than a visual one.

This particular piece is different from most of the book, as it’s not really horror. I included it because it’s quite dark, indeed. I wrote it because it was a personal demon that I had to exorcise, get the poison out of my system. I personally find myself both fascinated and revolted by this poem, even though I’m the one who penned it.

This is because it deals with a heavy, human problem… that of deception and who can we trust? We’ve all found out the hard way that someone we cared deeply for was deceiving us about something. If that person meant enough to you, then you most likely considered it not just inconvenient or frustrating but literally horrible.

Lies can be even more efficient weapons than guns or knives, given the right circumstances and for this reason, Even In The Littlest Things rightfully earns its place in the book and into this series of recordings.

Even In The Littlest Things

Even in the littlest things, you lie
Promises of civil courtesies so small,
To fulfill them, one barely need try
Even in the littlest things, you lie

So many pieces to your hate
Some are hidden, some stand tall
None create joy, only weight
So many pieces to your hate

Your darkness is beyond blinding
Wondering if there’s any light at all
Mislabeling what I was finding
Your darkness is beyond blinding

A forgery, nearly perfect, passing
Mask chipped, the disguise did fall
Recidivist, apology count surpassing
A forgery, nearly perfect, passing

But hey, at least you got to try it
Labeled thing, you renamed it all
No one ever insisted you buy it
But hey, at least you got to try it

And now, we all feel less than good
Endless, useless, talking, small
Nothing gained, nothing goes as it should,
And now, we all feel less than good


©2021 Kevin Trent Boswell


Dark Matter  - Poems of Horror and Depravity, by Kevin Trent Boswell
Dark Matter – Poems of Horror and Depravity

Dark Matter – Poems of Horror and Depravity

Available on Amazon

Support for this work

Help me make more music, poetry and other kinds of madness, by becoming a patron.

Get early access, patrons-only content, music downloads, books, my undying love and backstage passes for the end of the world.

Magus72 on Patreon
Magus72 on Patreon

Full Moon Song

This is a song that I wrote in my early twenties but until now, no proper recording of it existed.

Magus – Full Moon Song

In the past year, I’ve learned several truckloads about “desktop music production” and how to get studio-quality recordings, using only my computer DAW (audio recording program) a basic, two input audio interface and a simple, Shure-58, dynamic microphone.

Also, I finally got a decent pair of studio monitors, so I can hear what is actually going on in the mix, without it being colored too much by the automatic tweaking of frequencies that is present in most speaker systems.

These factors combined, I’m now putting out recordings that are vastly superior to what I was producing last year. The latest material is sonically improved at least a couple hundred percent.

Lyrics

Sometimes I find out things about me
Just a little bit more than I’d ever want to know
Kind of put a damper on a real good mood
Just when I was sure I was on a roll

I was sure I was

In the face of greatness, we often feel small
Yeah, the Full Moon, she spits in my eye
And wouldn’t we all just love to know
Ooh, yeah… exactly why

I know I would

I look for answers in the other dimensions
I listen for stories that cannot be told
I seek someone to take my confessions
And if there is no one, then I want control

God knows, I could use some control

Control

If you could only see what I saw
You’d surely say that I’d lost my mind
But I know it’s true that all are one and one is all
I’ve seen it going on, all the time

Anyway you turn the question,
It cannot be answered
But anyway you turn the answer,
It cannot be questioned
I took a toothless profession in cancer
On a slighted word, best not to mention

No, no

And I look for answers in the other dimensions
I listen for stories that cannot be told
And I’ll do anything for direction
Anything short of sell my soul

If I’ve got one to bargain away

Away

Away


All words and music
©2021 Kevin Trent Boswell


Support for the Work

Support this work by becoming a patron and get perks like patrons-only releases, early access free music, poetry and other artistic goodies that help keep us from sliding into the abyss of modern commercialization of the arts.

Magus72 on Patreon
Magus72 on Patreon

Thank You

Special thanks to the following people for their video contributions:

cottonbro

Sosa Films

Mikhail Nilov

Tom Fisk

Sarowar Hussain

Anastasia Shuraeva

MART PRODUCTION

Space Space

sabrina

Samphan Korwonghttps://instagram.com/kws636

Osman

Frank Cone

Endiae Genius

Gaurav Joshi

Vishva Patel

Lay-Z Owl

Aviv Perets

A Nice, Quiet Place To Die

Magus – A Nice, Quiet Place To Die

I searched high and low, trying to find
A little comfort and peace of mind
Of all the places I’ve been, I have to say
This is the one where I’d most like to stay

Tracing over all my memory
I can’t recall any place I’d rather be
So many places, so many names
So many dreams that went up in flames

I’ve thought it over and I can’t deny
Your arms feel like a nice, quiet place to die
You feel like a nice, quiet place to die
I’ll wait right here and let it all pass by

Search all you want but you’ll never see
A place that’s always trouble free
This is as good as it ever gets to be
This right here, you and me

I’ve thought it over and I won’t lie
Your arms feel like a nice, quiet place to die
You feel like a nice, quiet place to die
I’ll wait right here and watch it all pass by

A nice, quiet place to die
A nice, quiet place to die
A nice, quiet place to die
Let it all pass on by


©2021 Kevin Trent Boswell


You Can Help

Support the music, poetry and madness of Magus on Patreon:

Magus72 on Patreon , music , poetry and madness
Magus72 on Patreon

Thanks

Special thanks for the video portion of this goes to:

cottonbro

Kampus Production

Lay-Z Owl

SHVETS production

PNW Production

Gramos Vuçiterna

RODNAE Productions

Kindel Media

Video Kickstarter

Nathan Cowley

German Korb

Matthias Groeneveld

Mike

Yaroslav Shuraev

Deeana Creates

Alexander Lutkov

Also: Pressmaster, Amina Filkins, Jyoti Pur and Ambient Nature Atmosphere

This Is A Suicide Note

This Is A Suicide Note

This Is A Suicide Note – spoken word poetry, from my book, Dark Matter; Poems of Horror and Depravity.

With Halloween on the way, doing pieces from Dark Matter just makes sense.


This Is A Suicide Note

This is a suicide note.

If the time ever comes that I decide to off myself,
I am almost certain that it will be
On a very bad day.

I will most likely not be in any mood
To be jotting down correspondences.

So, ever vigilant boy scout that I am
(Or was),
I have prepared one in advance.

So, here goes:

I suppose it’s just fine, being alive and all.
Just the same, I have grown tired of it and so,
I leave it to you. ALL of it.

Take it.

This is my last will and testament.

There. Now, everyone can get back to
whatever it is that they were doing.


©2021 Kevin Trent Boswell

Dark Matter – Poems of Horror and Depravity. Available on Amazon.

Dark Matter  - Poems of Horror and Depravity, by Kevin Trent Boswell
Dark Matter by Kevin Trent Boswell

Help me make more music, poetry and other kinds of madness, by becoming a patron. Get early access, patrons-only content, music downloads, books, my undying love and backstage passes for the end of the world.

Magus72 on Patreon
Magus72 on Patreon

Special thanks to the following people for contributing video for this project:

cottonbro

RODNAE Productions

Matthias Groeneveld

Karolina Grabowska

Alex Pelsh

Tact

This is another song that I wrote in my early twenties but it’s only now getting a proper recording.

Magus – Tact

Back Story

I played this tune with various bands over the years but we never got a usable recording, because they were usually done in dive bars with poor acoustics. There was no separation of the instruments, only the chaotic din of drunken idiots in the background.

I do still have the original, cassette demo that I recorded on a reel to reel tape machine. I no longer have that machine [insert sadness and woe, here] but I have the recording. It’s ok but it’s just guitar and vocals and covered in that old school, analog tape hiss.

This is a full treatment, with rhythm guitar, lead guitar, vocals, bass, all of which I’m doing. The lead guitar part is a first take improvisation. I’ve never played lead over this song before, because I was always busy playing the rhythm and singing the lead part.

Actually, I’d never even thought about what I’d want the lead guitar part to sound like, because keeping a band together was trouble enough to keep my mind thoroughly occupied. So, I just hit record and rolled with it. I’m pretty pleased with the result.

It’s also got drums and hand percussion, performed by Stinky the Robot drummer. I’ve got him trained pretty well at this point. He eats a small amount of electricity, sleeps in his little box and he only bites occasionally, now; I’ve even removed the shock collar.

It’s really one of the most simple, straightforward songs that I’ve ever written. There’s a main riff and a slight variation on it, toward the middle. Then, there’s the verse part, a two-measure figure that repeats, over and over.

There’s three, short verses, no chorus and no bridge. That’s because it was originally a poem and I had no desire to adapt the words, just to flesh out the musical bits.

The rhythm guitar part really emphasizes the drums and bass anyway, thus making it more of a groove tune than a standard, pop formula type of song. The lyrics take up only about the first third of it and the rest is just an excuse to do what musicians love to do… jam.


Lyrics

Pilgrimage to the mountain,
On through a hurricane
Going to pray for my family,
And for those who lay in the clay
I don’t know who will hear me
But I will cry on the wind
Grant me strength and compassion
Give me self-discipline

Oh, the pressure and the pride, now
They can split your skull
When your best ain’t enough, now
All you can do is let go
A thousand years’ wisdom
Will set it all straight
A fool’s minute will erase it
Ah, but that is the Way

I was tied to a tree
And whipped like a dog
It’s where I learned to be free
And to trust in God
In the center of the mountain
You will find a ring
When you wear that piece/peace
No man’s words will sting


All words and music
©2021 Kevin Trent Boswell


Thank you!

Special thanks to my wonderful supporters on Patreon.

If you like what you hear and see, help me make more of my weird music, poetry and other, assorted types of madness, by becoming a patron today.

Patrons get early access, super neato, patrons-only content, music downloads, books, my undying love and backstage passes to the end of the world.

Magus - Kevin Trent Boswell on Patreon - Magus72
Magus72 on Patreon

More special thanks, to the following for their video contributions:

cottonbro

Monstera

Jakob Lundvall

Anastasia Shuraeva

RODNAE Productions

Kindel Media

Pavel Danilyuk

MART PRODUCTION

Alena Darmel

Matthias Groeneveld

Welton Souza

As well as: Ivan Samkov, Mikhail Nilov, Joffray Jouve, Tima Miroshnichenko, Nitin Arya, Daniel Absi, Ron Lach, Timur Weber

Contact any of them about making a professional video or graphics for your next project. They deserve the work, as you can see.

Something Like A Rainbow

Something Like A Rainbow

This is “Something Like A Rainbow”, my first Orchestral Pop song.

It’s only a string section, not an entire orchestra. But what sets this apart from anything that I’ve ever done before is that, in addition to writing the chord progression, the guitar and bass parts and the lyrics, I also wrote the string part. That’s a new one for me.

And I didn’t just write something on guitar and then transpose it for strings. Instead, I wrote it the way a classical composer would.

To do this, I had to draw on the part writing rules that we learned in music theory class in college, something that I thought I’d never actually use. It was a long time ago, so I feel sure that I broke some of those rules in various places but remembering the basics (no parallel 4ths or 5ths, etc) got me through it.

Something Like A Rainbow

Lost and alone and wandering
Finding a true friend there, in the rain
Hold fast, together
Warmth in a lover’s arms
Loving each other heals the pain

A soft and gentle light, to lead the way
Something like a rainbow

So many things we were told we’d see
Most of them never came to be
But no one can explain the redeeming grace
That shines from the light in your face

A soft and gentle light, it leads the way
Something like a rainbow

And it shines into forever
Walk in its light, into forever

So many things we were told we’d see
Most of them never came to be
Still, no one can explain the redeeming grace
That shines when a smile is upon your face

A soft and gentle light, it leads the way
Something like a rainbow
Soft and gentle light, it leads the way
Something like a rainbow

And its light goes into forever
Ride the light into forever


All music and lyrics ©2021 Kevin Trent Boswell

Support This Work:

Magus72 on Patreon
Magus72 on Patreon

Special Thanks

Much appreciation goes to the people who provided video footage:

Mikhail Nilov

cottonbro

Anna Shvets

Anastasia Shuraeva

Miguel Á. Padriñán

PNW Production

Mikita Yo

Marc Onana

Alex Kad

Zuzanna Musial, Stefano Barbieri

Mandala of Sand – Part I.

This entire project is a wormhole born of grief. This is what I have been doing to channel the energy from the loss of a beloved pet, who was my best friend for sixteen years.

This is the dark music I needed to make, the underlying theme of which is time, structure and impermanence. The initial intention was a single, long piece of 12 minutes but it quickly turned into a much larger, longer and more complicated monster. 

It’s been fraught with both artistic and technical difficulties at each and every step of the way and that’s perfectly fine with me, because every moment I’ve spent lost in this maze is a moment that I wasn’t keenly aware of a painful absence. 

The music is heavy, dark and often angry. I’m not really a bass player but since I’m doing this by myself, I do the best I can with the bass lines. 

The main guitar riff of the song is the only part that is rehearsed. The rest is all improvisation. I make multiple passes at the entire form and then string together the best parts of each one. As of right now, there are at least three pieces to this work; we’ll see how it goes.


©2021 Kevin Trent Boswell


Video segments provided by the following:

Ron Lach

Luis Quintero  

Engin Akyurt  

GamOl 

Ricardo Esquivel 

Free Creative Stuff 

Stef 

Rostislav Uzunov 

MART PRODUCTION 

Dmitry Varennikov 

Jess Loiterton 

Eva Elijas 

Artem Beliaikin 

emirkhan bal 

Ivan Khmelyuk


Support the creation of more music,

poetry and other madness by Magus at:

Magus72 on Patreon

Get Yourself a Dog

Everything crumbles, fails and breaks
All of it in shambles, all in due time
Crushing, the endless slew of heartbreaks
Before that long nap we take in the lime

One plan works out and we give many thanks
Success, daring us to dream more grand
Shedding tears, when another one tanks,
Going not-at-all how we’d imagined or planned

Through all of the ups, downs and plateaus
At the end of each, long, tired day
There’s some place that each of us goes
Where to rest, our heads down, we do lay

Some sleep in luxury, like kings and queens
Lovers in silk sheets, fathers and mothers
With children nearby, in comfortable means
Dreaming of futures, brighter than others’

Those on whom fortune never gives a call
More than just some, a much larger number
In hovels, which are hardly homes at all
In cars, shelters or alleys, they slumber

Each type faces their own, unique struggles
Days, a mix of good and bad, one discovers
Either one goes down easier with snuggles
With a little love, one more quickly recovers

Turbulent, these unplanned ups and downs
Coming home, victorious or beaten by the fight
Smiles are always more welcome than frowns
But not everyone thinks you’re such a delight

People are critters possessed of great capacity
For cruelty, murder, greed and deceit
But a dog is a true friend and lacks the ability
To ignore you, to lie, betray or mistreat

A puppy is always ecstatic to see you
When you’re gone for minutes or many an hour
And there’s very few things one can do
To cause their opinion of their master to sour

Get yourself a dog and to it, commit
Good food and walks, like clockwork
Never hit it or neglect, the least little bit
Remember well that dogs don’t speak Jerk

Every day, that dog, you have to be earning
Their kindness, something we don’t deserve
Train yourself, lots and lots of learning
How a happy, healthy dog, to preserve

Get your lazy butt up, take it on a walk
Read everything you can find about training
Give it routine and real love, not just talk
When they misbehave, your anger, restraining

Don’t try to reason with a dog, silly human
Learn their language, don’t angrily assume…
It doesn’t speak English, you have to illumine
You have to be the adult in the room

Pay no attention when they do naughty stuff
Lavish them with praise whenever they do right
Patiently teach them, never yell or be gruff
And you’ll know in the end, it was right

Because days… you’re going to have all kinds
Tragedies and celebrations, galore
Friends come and go and lovers lose their minds
But a dog will adore you now and evermore

Where we humans go, when our lights go out
Is a thing that we hotly debate and discuss
But all dogs go to heaven, without any doubt
Because dogs are far better people than us


©2021 Kevin Trent Boswell

No Rules

Grief possesses no blueprints
There is no schematic
For how to remember
Or to forget

While walking the gray path of
All the scattered leaves and ash
Of what was

There is no rhythm
To which you might match your steps

No beat
To keep time

There is only the labored,
Slouching forward,
Whenever one’s strength allows;
Coming and going as it does,
In sloppy, uneven, hot flashes

There is no wrong way to lament

There is no proper sequence
For when to laugh,
To cry or to sleep

There is no cutout pattern
For your sack cloth

No clock chimes,
Letting you know that it is now time
To rend your garments,
To rub dirt in your hair

Anyway, time itself is mourning,
Right alongside you

Put your ear to the clock,
Listen closely…
You will hear it quietly sobbing

But time is only an illusion
And being an illusion,
It can only mean that…

Time…
Is nothing more
Than you

So, like you, time is
Absolutely beside itself with sadness

All formalities have fallen by the wayside

It flops, impotently, like a fish
One that miscalculated its angle,
On the jump for a mosquito;
It has now managed to strand itself,
On a parcel of ground

No idea which way it should
Violently spasm,
That it might get back
Into the good, wet stuff

Time grieves with you,
Throttling too quickly
In this

Grinding clumsily along
In that

Fortunately,
Since time is nothing…
Nothing more than you…
It is always the
Perfect time to do
Whatsoever your
Stunned spirit
Feels like doing

Sleep
Or do not

Eat
Or wait for a while

Wail
Or be silent

Work
Or linger in lethargic stupor

Laugh
Or find joy in nothing

Do whatever is best
Or worst

And the rest will wait

There is no hurry

For, in the end,
There is nothing
That we can do
For the dead

They all wait,
Patiently, quietly…
To be us

And we,
Them


©2021 Kevin Trent Boswell


Photo courtesy of Ekaterina

Support the creation of more poetry, music and madness by Kevin Trent Boswell at Patreon:

Magus72 on Patreon
Magus72 on Patreon

White Elephant

Here’s the music video for my song White Elephant.

Collegiate Definition

White Elephant
noun

  • 1: an Asian elephant of a pale color that is sometimes venerated in India, Sri Lanka, Thailand, and Myanmar
  • 2a: a property requiring much care and expense and yielding little profit
  • b: an object no longer of value to its owner but of value to others
  • c: something of little or no value

If I’d known all of this, back then,
I’d have learned how to leave
Arguing for something
In which you never believed

Hidden beneath gifts and gestures
And a sexy smile
Promises of forever,
Dipped in poison and guile

“Nothing is wrong.”
A comforting lie you could sell
I vaguely recall something about
Good intentions in hell

The dark witch’s oracle warned,
I shouldn’t let you pass
I taught myself to trust your love
And it bit me in the ass

White elephant on the bed
Whispers softly
“Come hide in the silence
Of secrets and shadows, with me.”

Mocked me at every chance,
Made sure everyone heard
For cruelty such as this,
I’m not sure that I know the word

Revenge is ill-suited to love
And so, I decline
The idea that mercy is weakness
Is yours and not mine

The way you spit venom
At those who tried to help you
I’ve no need to raise my bitten hand,
Your destroyer is you

The dark witch’s oracle warned,
I shouldn’t let you pass
I taught myself to trust your love
And it bit me in the ass

White elephant on the bed
Whispers softly
“Come hide in the silence
Of secrets and shadows, with me.”

All words and music
©2021 Kevin Trent Boswell


Support the creation of more music, poetry and madness by Trent Boswell, at:

Magus72 on Patreon
https://Patreon.com/Magus72


Special thanks to the following people for providing the video footage and photos. If you enjoyed the visual aspects of the video, the credit is all theirs.

cottonbro

ROMAN ODINTSOV

Kei Scampa

Artyom Saqib

RODNAE Productions

Anastasia Shuraeva

parody

in the sixties and seventies,
everyone went over the top

musicians wore outlandish costumes
and behaved as if they were invincible

sometimes, they believed it

but mostly, it was because they had
seen through the facade of the system

they did lots of psychedelic drugs
which taught them that everything…
and yes, i do mean… everything
is utterly ridiculous

there’s literally nothing you can say,
think, feel, believe, wear or do
that isn’t… just plain silly

rather than take ourselves seriously,
why not revel and delight
in the temporal, inane
shenanigans that are
our lives…

ourselves

these days, everyone is
up their own asses,
again

everyone is busy, twenty-four-seven,
trying to convince everyone else
that they’re the coolest, that they’ve
got it all figured out

“if you’re into disco, you’re not cool,
because disco was silly and they just thought it was cool, before everyone knew better”

or

“if you’re into _______,
then you’re not cool, because ________.”

put whatever you want in there,
classic rock, polka, country, surf music…
whatever

someone is going to be
actually offended
that you like it

“if you’re into that, then you’re not cool,
because that’s not what i’m doing
and i’m pretty much the only one
who’s doing what’s cool.”

it only tells us
how terrified you are
of our opinions
of you

and that’s really
the only thing
that sets you apart as being
truly ridiculous

it’s the
not knowing
that you’re ridiculous

that not knowing
is what makes you comical, farcical

acting cool is cool
but believing you’re cool…
well, that just makes you
kitschy instead of campy

but if you start right out of the gate,
convinced that everything about you
and what you’re doing
is utterly ridiculous,
with the intention of milking that silliness
for everything it’s worth…

then it’s not ridiculous at all,
however ridiculous it is

and it is

for the love of god,
please stop trying to convince us
that you’re cool
and that what other people are doing
isn’t

it only makes you into
a sad caricature,
a parody

you see, we really don’t care
what you do,
as long as you do it
with all of your heart
and soul

put on a ten gallon hat
deck yourself out in wild makeup
wear a smoking jacket
sing out of key… in pig latin
play bongos while tap dancing
do the tango to speed metal
dress in leather and do opera
dress in drag and do gangsta rap
wear a suit and tie while you
sing outlaw country music

just know
beyond any shadow of doubt,
that before,
during
and
after

that you were,
you are and you
always will be

ridiculous

and we’ll absolutely
love you for it


©2021 Kevin Trent Boswell

Support the creation of more ridiculousness by Kevin Trent Boswell, at:

Magus72 on Patreon
Magus72 on Patreon, a very silly place.

patience

patience

there’s an air of it
all about the farm, today

having stepped briefly outside
for the dogs to tend their needs,
between pockets of rain,
buckets of it, steadily dropping,
now halted for a short while;
a temporary ceasefire,
however tenuous

everything damp
the cows,
they look like cardboard cutouts,
propped up in the fields

an air of patience leans in,
whispering to me
“the world will wait for you. it will wait.”

it’s an enticing thought,
though, steeped in bitter lies,
it most certainly is

the world waits for no one

the world gives not a single, used damn for you

not for your upper respiratory infection
not for your needing to heal, before you can
move on and finish up all those projects

the world thinks nothing
of burying your carcass in its garden

you’ll make good fertilizer
for its flowers,
it does care about those;
far, far more than it does about you,
at any rate

lots of useful minerals and nutrients
in a decaying human body;
should produce some prize petunias

but all this relaxed barometric pressure
the gentle, lilting fog,
the peaceful quiet,
the slow, calm meandering
of the dogs
and these fake cows

today, it all conspires

enveloping me
in pleasant, wistful fictions,
treating me as its mushroom,
kept in the dark of convalescence
and fed the manure of untruth

back inside, now
the humidifier is gurgling its gentle truths
i dive into the recesses of its deep end
swimming in the mists of vapor,
hints of rosemary, clove, camphor
and the other, colorful fish
who lurk in its dark ocean

i take leisurely swims
in the splintering, fingering streams
of the internet
and all its watery amusements
it too, tells me
wonderfully entertaining lies,
everything i want to hear
and more

but i know better…
about the world
and the possibility of it
patiently waiting

i know how it will steamroll
right over the slow,
the weak, the poor, the infirm,
the drowning;

those who are drowning in debt,
drowning in heartbreak,
drowning in their own lungs

the world is all too happy
to step on their heads,
with its heavy boots
and its callous lack of caring

it cares not
for your concerns
of convenience

i know of the world,
how it is
how it always
will be

i know of the world

i know that,
at least for now,
i will stay here,
in this little, comfortable blindspot,
a nook, a cranny
which the world has
somehow overlooked,
somehow erroneously
missed

the world
be dammed

if you ask me,
it has gotten
its own way
for far
too long


©2021 Kevin Trent Boswell


Support the creation of more music, poetry and madness from Kevin Trent Boswell, over at:

Magus72 on Patreon

Hoochie Coochie Man (Slight Return)

Here is my cover of “Hoochie Coochie Man”. This tune was written by the preeminent Godfather of the Blues, Muddy Waters.

Muddy Waters, The Godfather of the Blues
Muddy Waters, The Godfather of the Blues

The lyrics are heavily laced with references to the Hoodoo conjure tradition of the American South. One commonly misunderstood line is:

I got the John the Conqueror Root

I’m gonna mess with you

To mess with someone was to put roots on them, meaning to cast spells on that person.

The root known as John the Conqueror (Ipomoea jalapa) is widely regarded as one of the most powerful roots or Plant Spirits; if not the most powerful.

The root, all by itself, was potent and to possess it was to hold power to exert one’s will. However, to possess a mojo hand (aka, mojo bag), made and empowered by a knowledgeable rootworker, was an awe-inspiring thing.

It was not a simple matter to travel to Louisiana and get a mojo, especially for a Black person, who had less opportunities and greater obstacles. If you wanted the magick, the only way to get it was to find a skilled doctor.

This was a man or woman who knew how to coerce the Spirits to work on their behalf. First, you had to find a rootworker and then you had to convince them to make a hand for you and pay them whatever their fee was, no questions asked.

Any rituals they prescribed you or tasks assigned must be followed scrupulously. But once you had a mojo hand, especially one containing John the Conqueror, it meant that you were a force to be reckoned with.


I’m doing all the guitar, bass and vocal parts on this track. I added Slight Return to the title as a little tip of the hat to another major influence of mine, the immortal Jimi Hendrix. Hendrix was well aware of the lore mentioned here and his song “Voodoo Child (Slight Return)” references similar themes.

During the last verse, you’ll see a quote, placed over a pic of Muddy Waters. It comes from the movie Crossroads, starring Ralph Machio; not to be confused with the movie Crossroads, starring Britney Spears.

It’s the story of a young, classical guitarist who dreams of nothing but playing the Mississippi Delta Blues. He’s a classical music major at The Juilliard School of Music but is mostly obsessed with Robert Johnson, arguably the greatest blues man ever.

Robert Johnson, King of the Mississippi Delta Blues
Robert Johnson

Support the creation of more

music, poetry and madness

by Magus, at:

https://Patreon.com/Magus72

Magus72 on Patreon; music, poetry and assorted madness

The images in this video are

1) historic pictures of famous, Hoodoo rootworkers and practitioners of Voodoo (or Voudon, Voodou, etc) and a few that just look the part.

2) pictures of myself playing guitar

3) personal photos and video of workings I’ve done

4) random, “bluesy” stuff that gives the appropriate, Mississippi Blues vibe or the Hoodoo/Voodoo, sorcery vibe

5) images from The Key of Solomon, a European magickal grimoire (which became highly important in Hoodoo.

6) stock footage, provided by:

Thanks to the following, for some of the images in the video.

cottonbro 

Artem Podrez 

ANTHONY SHKRABA

Mick Haupt 

https://commons.m.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Voodoo_Altar_New_Orleans.jpg

Intergalactic Funk #72

Yesterday was my birthday but don’t worry, you didn’t miss the party. I’m bringing the party straight to you:

Intergalactic Funk #72

It’s a 70s funk theme, set in outer space. So put on your best pair of corduroy bell bottoms and platform shoes, dip your head in a bucket of glitter and step out onto the launch pad. We’re about to take the funk to a whole new level.

Space, the final frontier. These are the voyages of the starship Funkalyze.

© 2021 Kevin Trent Boswell


I don’t do drugs anymore… than, say, the average touring funk band.

—Bill Hicks

Whenever I think about funk music, it has a look… and that’s how it sounds.

—Erykah Badu

I come equipped with stereophonic funk producin‘ disco inducin´ twin magnetic rock receptors.

—Bootsy Collins


Support the creation of new music, poetry and general madness, at:

Special thanks to the following people for providing the video footage and photos. If you enjoyed the visual aspects of the video, the credit is all theirs:

Engin Akyurt 

cottonbro 

Stef 

ANTHONY SHKRABA production 

KoolShooters 

RODNAE Productions 

Kime Freedom 

Anna Tarazevich 

Yan Krukov 

Anthony 

Atakan Ozkan 

Rostislav Uzunov 

Mikhail Nilov 

JACK AND GOD IS GRACIOUS 

Polina Tankilevitch 

olia danilevich 

SHVETS production 

Monstera 

Artem Beliaikin 

Also: Pressmaster, Greta Hoffman, Askar Abayev, fauxels and Norma Mortenson

Unchanged

This is the video for Unchanged. The .mp3 song download is available for patrons, over at Patreon.

It’s an original, definitely in the vein of my signature brand, a type of madness so strange that I had to give it a new name. I call it Purple Mind Licorice Music®️.

It combines alternative rock, funk, jazz, folk, blues, heavy metal and psychedelia. It’s a long name but Parliament already has Funkadelic and well, let’s face it, Alterna-Funk-N-Roll isn’t nearly as sexy as Purple Mind Licorice Music. Why yes, I do tend to talk about my music like James Brown talked about his. Thank you for noticing.

Side note, if you haven’t seen the film Get On Up, it’s surprisingly good. I’m a big fan of The Godfather of Soul, The Minister Of New New Super Heavy Funk (even if he was a total wacko, in real life). But for whatever reason, I didn’t think the movie would be all that great. I was delightfully wrong.

Besides, alternative is a lousy category. Any genre that contains Nirvana, REM, Alice In Chains, Weezer, Coldplay and Bush isn’t particularly helpful in guiding listeners’ decisions. They seriously need to scrap that garbage and revisit the drawing board.Back to the business at hand. I’ve played this song live in my band but we just never managed to get a decent recording of it.

I’m doing the vocal and all the bass and guitar parts. Here, I abandoned my memories of how we played it in the band and just started from scratch, all by myself, just me and my computer drummer, Stinky the Robot.

Fake It ‘Til You Break It

I’ve got a habit of improvising my lead guitar parts, as opposed to writing out a solo in advance. There are songs that I write solos for but those are special cases. Usually, I just improvise and keep the bits that I like.

If anyone takes issue with that, many years ago I read an interview with David Gilmour (Pink Floyd) in a guitar magazine. He said that’s the same process he uses in the studio.

He would take several, improv passes at a song, then cut and paste the bits he liked. Later, he’d go back and learn those parts for the live shows.

Comfortably Numb was done that way and I think that song did alright. It sold like over a thousand copies or something. Trust me… in my head, that joke was hysterical.

Of course, I also have a habit of keeping what I regard as being some of “the more charming mistakes“, for better or for worse. There’s one or two of those in the jam section at the end of this tune. I was tempted to re-record those bits but if they make me giggle, then they stay. Giggles are a precious commodity, not to be wasted.

Unchanged

These wounds, open and tender
Reveal your face to me
Into the chalice of my arms
The blood of your suffering flows free

It’s a mild mannered possession,
This waiting for the rain
Encumbered by the spell and
Groggy in the slumbering delay

A scrap of ribbon, fallen
From a lover’s hair
Found by the boots of boredom
Lament for things not yet dead

A piece of my soul floats there
Down in the puddle below
Somewhere in a watch pocket
An insane notion explodes


All words and music
© 2021 Kevin Trent Boswell

Thank You

Special thanks to the following people for providing the video footage and photos. If you enjoyed the visual aspects of the video, the credit is all theirs.

cottonbro

Yaroslav Shuraev

Pavel Danilyuk

Polina Tankilevitch

Vlada Karpovich

Relaxing Guru & Co.

Alena Darmel

The Weight

This is my cover of the song “The Weight” by that excellent group known simply as The Band.

“It consisted of four Canadians and one American: Rick Danko (bass guitar, vocals, fiddle), Garth Hudson (keyboards, accordion, saxophone), Richard Manuel (keyboards, drums, vocals), Robbie Robertson (guitar, vocals), and Levon Helm (drums, vocals, mandolin, guitar).”

Source: https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Band

I’ve had a deep love of this song for as long as I can remember. It’s got a fun, upbeat vibe to the music but the lyrics (as the title suggests) are very heavy.

It’s a song about loneliness, disappointment and suffering. It’s about asking where you turn when all your best laid plans have fallen apart.

When I do a cover song, I usually try to reinvent it to some degree. I try to put something of my own mark on it. In this case, it didn’t feel right to completely reshape the song. There are really only two ways that I’ve wandered away from the original.

One is that I had to somehow fill up the empty space left by Garth’s piano playing. I chose to do that with harmony guitar parts, because guitar is my instrument and I gave them a simple and slightly somber quality, to accent the lyrics.

The other is that I shortened the chorus and used heavy effects on the vocal harmonies. I’m doing all the vocal, guitar and bass parts on this. The drums are by Stinky the Robot, my computer-based drummer, who is even more difficult to work with than a real drummer, if that’s even possible.

Gratitude

Special thanks to the following people for providing the evocative video footage that helps bring to light our social problem of the lost and disenfranchised. Homelessness and mental illness are entirely too prevalent and much more needs to be done.

We can’t be a healthy society unless we take care of our own and that means everyone, however unpleasant it might be to look into that chasm and think “There, but for the grace of God, go I.” We must do more… much more.

If you have the means to do so, please donate your money and your volunteer time to one or more of the many quality organizations that offer help to the homeless, the mentally challenged and to stray animals. Most of the people and animals on the street got there by bad luck and they deserve a second chance.

MART PRODUCTION

RODNAE Productions

Mental Health America (MHA)

Anastasia Shuraeva

Support the creation of more music, poetry and madness by Trent Boswell, at:

https://Patreon.com/Magus72

Sweet Jane

Here is my cover of The Velvet Underground’s excellent song, Sweet Jane.

The images in the video are “famous Janes”, with the exception of course of the two photos of the old Stutz brand motorcar, which is referenced in the lyrics.

All bass, guitar and vocals are me.

The drums are by Stinky the Robot… because that’s a good name for the drummer who lives inside my computer. He plays only what I program him to play, he’s drunk only half as often as a human drummer and he smells better.

The .mp3 song file is available for patrons, over at:

https://patreon.com/magus72

Magus72 on Patreon
Magus72 on Patreon

Hey Joe

Nothing like a crime of passion to spice up your Saturday night. Here’s a little bit of murderous rage, tucked into a nice, folk song for ya. This is “Hey Joe”, a live cover song video by my band, Magus & The Plastic Infinity.

Words and music to the original are by Billy Roberts. Obviously, Jimi Hendrix is who made the song famous.


Guitar and vocals – Trent Boswell

Support the creation of more music, poetry and madness by Trent Boswell, at:

Magus72 on Patreon, the music, poetry and madness of Kevin Trent Boswell
Magus72 on Patreon

https://Patreon.com/Magus72


Many thanks to the following, for the images in the video. You may or may not like the music but if you like the video, the credit for that is all theirs.

cottonbro

Los Muertos Crew

MART PRODUCTION

Tima Miroshnichenko

Sergio

Bhargava Marripati

Mikhail Nilov

kat wilcox

Ni.Pen.

A Thang

Sometimes Nine was one of my old bands. This music video is for the song “A Thang”.

The song was mainly John’s idea but overall, still a collaboration. The lyrics were written by me. It’s called “A Thang” because it’s in the key of A and for a while, it had no name. We’d end up saying “Let’s play that A thing”. Goofy but true.


Lyrics

A Thang

Memory soothe my mind
With with endearments of a time
A terrain, cool and kind
Where we walked, unafraid

It’s hard to find a place
To keep your memory
I came to the crest of forever
The edge of the wheel, far gone

In search of things that I held in my hand
A palace of grandeur, it stands in a land
A far off way from here, a man with
Cool, candied celebrations… celebrations

Still on pause, no more
Now, lambent angels, by the score
No wounds beyond recall
And joy adorns my eyes

© 2021 Kevin Trent Boswell


Support the creation of more music, poetry and general madness by Trent Boswell at:

Magus72 on Patreon
Magus72 on Patreon

https://patreon.com/magus72


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