Kevin Trent “Magus” Boswell

Area 25

The new album is available. It’s called Area 25.

Below, you’ll find links to get your copy, music videos from Area 25, plus the super-interesting, totally true, absolutely not made up backstory behind the album.

Area 25 - new music by Trent Boswell — The excellent cover art was generously provided by **Dorian Strange**.

Area 25 is available on…

Area 25 is also available on Napster and all the major music streaming services.

Follow the Trent Boswell page, Magus Music

Subscribe ☑️ to the Trent Boswell on YouTube

It really helps me out a lot when you give the videos a thumbs up 👍 leave a comment 💭 and share your favorites on your social media pages ♥️

Videos from Area 25

Unchanged

Into the Fold

Three Day Beard

Hopium Blues

Scorpio

Tact

War on Venus

I Wasn’t Using It

All Around

Upbeat Dance Number

We’re All Gonna Fade Away

At the Bottom

Mandala of Sand, Pt. 1

Trent Boswell Bio

Kevin Trent Boswell is a thing that once blinked briefly in and out of existence. It made noises and gestures while it lasted. The exact nature of its demise is unclear. Some sources say it collapsed beneath the weight of entropy and time. Other tertiary facts suggest the possibility that it was destroyed by a predator, an accident, or perhaps even by itself. The truth of the matter is unknown. Luckily, no one cares.

The Story Behind Area 25

Area 25 is a traveler’s atlas for navigating endless, winding caves, wormholes, cracks in reality, tears in the space-time continuum, black holes, abysmal hellscapes, and all of the most common types of bottomless pits that comprise the modern world.

The somber, dystopian audio guidebook is delivered over an eclectic musical soundtrack of rock, psychedelia, pop, funk, and dire expressions of poetic mental illness.

Area 25 is an exorcist’s manual for the perils of life on Earth for Homo sapiens. It catalogues the sundry catastrophes that plague the upright ape, namely those of poverty, depression, rejection of the tribe, and failed attempts at relationships, friendships, and spiritual endeavors.

Not for the faint of heart (nor the “feint” of heart), Area 25 is a dark, gritty, and gloomy telling of the myriad ways in which hominids undo themselves, rend each other asunder, and even casually rip apart their sole means of survival, the ecosystem in which they habitat. Odd beings, at best; horrible monsters, at worst.

Genesis

An ancient evil spirit was once trapped for centuries inside a dybbuk. Through the foolish mistake of some human, the demon escaped.

The ghoul found amusement in tormenting one particular human critter, who’s name was Trent Boswell. The tortures took shape by possessing the human with an inescapable obsession to create something called “Area 25.”

The demon wanted the brainless exploits of humans captured on record, so it would have something to laugh about, later; much like you might watch an episode of Seinfeld, even though you’ve already seen it several times.

The dark cruelty of this promethean ordeal rested in the fact that the human was entirely lacking the necessary resources for the production of a proper, commercially viable product. It was working only with a ten-year-old Macintosh computer, an old version of GarageBand, an inexpensive condenser mic, a FocusRite preamp, a cheap bass guitar, a pair of 3 1/2” monitors, and a nice Fender Stratocaster.

What the demon didn’t expect, is that the human would actually persist through said tribulations of substandard working conditions, and complete the project. Much to the demon’s surprise, the human finished the project, despite the lack of access to a professional recording studio, or the backing of a major record label.

The end result, a tabulation of human follies and foibles, will now provide the escaped beastie with comedic entertainment for the coming aeons, long after humans have disappeared from the planet; which should be anytime within the next couple of decades.

Score one for the infernal realm.

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

Three Day Beard

“Three Day Beard”- music video from the new Trent Boswell album, Area 25

“Three Day Beard” from Area 25, by Trent Boswell

Release date is February 22, 2023. Note, it may be up to a week before the album starts showing up on the various music platforms.

Available on all the major music streaming services, like Apple Music, Spotify, Amazon Music, YouTube Music, and many more.

Album cover art by Dorian Strange.

Lyrics for “Three Day Beard”

Standing in a soup line
Sucking on a tail pipe
Working on a new crime;
Against myself,
How many times
Can I kill myself?
Before I die?
God knows I tried
To find out

II.

I wandered where the women went
Thought my soul could be at ease
I never lost my good intent
But found myself wishing
I’d never had it at all
Never had it at all
Is that what you’d call
A fall from
Grace?

III.

Listen here man and wo-man alike
I won’t tell you about all the cigarettes
And the booze, and the other scenarios
I won’t tell you about all the hard feelings
And the petty larcenies
I won’t tell you about all the
Broken bones and homes
Rendered in brutal beatings
And I won’t even tell you about the sadness;
The heavy, “wish we weren’t here” melancholy
But I will tell you this:
There are people who walk this earth
Who are so beautiful, on the inside,
They make angels blush
And you…
Ain’t one of them

IV.

Allow me some time
To be angry
I’ll shout, not speak my mind
I’m hungry;
Don’t wanna eat

Forgive my trespass
I’m not sorry
Thought maybe you had grown,
Just a little,
I was wrong
But don’t worry
You will

You will
Just not with me

VI.

If you wipe the slate clean,
Just kick back and dream:
Never learn a thing
About what you see

VII.

My license to be blind
Has been revoked
Just in time
And now I see the work
Cut out for me

©️2023 Kevin Trent Boswell

Toodles, Noodle

Tousle the soggy noodle
Stir it in the pot
It’s no longer stiff and sharp;
More inclined to rot

It’s decidedly well-seasoned;
Overly so, perhaps
More than oregano, salt and pepper;
Too many spices, in fistful slaps

Dusty, rotten crumbs, from kitchen floor
Grease, tracked in from the streets
As well as lint, and various perversions
That flaked off bedroom sheets

Along with the turmeric, garlic, and basil,
There’s a reduction of sweat and tears
The pot overflows with olive oil,
And existential fears

The noodle once stood proud and tall,
Looking sharp, in a new cardboard box
Advertising logos, and bright colors,
Like a shiny, gold brick in Fort Knox

Now, it’s soft, it’s overcooked,
Full of inconsistent flavors
And, the intense heat of the kitchen
Hasn’t done it any real favors

The noodle is tired and sickly now,
You’ll likely find it tasteless
It’s slathered in clashing sauces
The ingredient choices, baseless

Still, the noodle is all that is left,
And one must attempt to preserve it
It’s the only meal or means there is,
Whether or not you deserve it

The pot, too, has been banged about;
It’s hardly fit for duty
It’s been kicked more than a martial artist
In the head, and in the booty

It’s scratched, and chipped, soiled and bent,
The handle held in place by hope
Too look at all the permanent stains,
You’d think it was allergic to soap

But this, too, is necessary to keep
One can’t simply throw it away
Without this beat up utensil,
Where would the noodle stay?

This kitchen debacle is a catastrophe
Of lowbrow, modern cuisine
But, a noodle in a pot is all we’ve got
And, I know that you know what I mean

©Kevin Trent Boswell

Patreon

we

in desiring ourselves,
we desire to fancy
ourselves as creations
of god’s divine light
it is true, we are first;
shattered and broken
vessels of sound,
which could not hold light

dance with us, come
come, and be joyful
be mirthful, be drunken
come, and forget
we are the new wine
the skins, having bursted
the host could not drink
and, did sorely lament

let us throw shadows
in every direction
join us in the song
which shall never be heard
the cheerless dirge
of uncelebrated things
a melody of madness,
fallen short of the word

for, nothing is anything
if anything is nothing
and, what is our reward
if we have not control?
so, let us pretend
that we are the light,
not the darkness
which shall never be whole

telling all those
who would stop to listen
how they, and not we,
fell into disrepair
how they, and not us,
are the lost, lonely devils
whose deeds caused the light
to weep in despair

let us join in agreement
and be not divided
details of narrative,
we shall conceive
and, dividing all things,
we fall into slumber
allowing ourselves
a story, to believe

Patreon

from the forthcoming book,

mandala, versicles of heaven and hell

Florida Is Where One Goes to Die

Florida is where one goes to die,
Not to reset, and start again
Death waits in orange groves, to strike
But, one knows not, where or when

Biding their time, a thousand things,
Patiently hoping to kill you dead
Gators, lurking in the murky swamp
To eat you whole, from toe to head

Hell, they have genuine crocodiles
They immigrated; who knows how
They came for the delicious buffet that is you
To eat as much as time will allow

The brutal sun will bleach your bones
And, what’s more, no one will care
Florida is not the nicest of places,
The grim reaper spends each winter there

If the gators and crocs somehow miss you,
In the woods are a great many other beasts
Watching, stalking, ready to pounce
Eager for tasty human feasts

The black bear is one of them
Yes, they’re common in many states
But panthers… now, that’s a singular way
For Americans to meet untimely fates

Florida is where you go to die
All manner of ghoulish demise awaits
Everything there wants to end you;
It’s the Australia of the United States

And, tiny things, like the brown recluse
The black widow, far more ubiquitous
And, if you should sit still too long,
The fire ants are most ravenous

Wild boar will pierce, cut you to ribbons
Their tusks loaded with bacterial goo
If you don’t bleed out, then soon enough
Disease will be the thing that gets you

Watch where you step, careless human
The copperhead, and eastern diamondback
Poison’s a thing these efficient vipers
Most assuredly do not lack

A curious name for something so deadly,
The “kissing bug” spreads a foul parasite
It’s perfectly willing and able to kill you
And, it knows how to do it right

Just off the coast, in the ocean surf
Bull sharks, and deadly box jellyfish
Barracudas take quite sizable chunks
And, they’ll do it whenever they wish

And, let’s not forget the biggest of all
The one whose movie freaked us all out
The one and only great white shark
He’s there, too, swimming about

Florida is where you go to die,
Not where you try to start again
Murder is plentiful, comes in all sizes
And, you’ll never know where, or when

It’s not just the critters that want you dead
The people are willing to rub you out
There are drug cartels, and serial killers
And, Florida Man is skulking about

Of all the baleful, lethal creatures,
Florida Man is among the top three
He’s responsible for the lion’s share
Of death headlines in the news you see

If the citizens or critters don’t do the job,
Of putting an end to you, just for a thrill,
If torturous heat doesn’t manage to kill you,
I imagine that the governor will

Not a place to slip away peacefully,
It will not let you, though you may try
Not exactly a storybook ending,
Florida is where one one goes to die

The Patreon Page

Feed the Beast

Feed the beast in little ways,
So in its prison is where it stays
This helps you keep the beast in check
Or else, your life, it will rule, and wreck

Feed the beast with morsels, tiny
Distract it with the bright and shiny
You must give it something, however slight
Or its strength and rage, you will ignite

A starving beast snarls and raves
Doesn’t take orders, never behaves
Denied all sustenance, thinks it’s dying
At the locks, it picks; cell bars, prying

A daring escape; you’d try it, too
If your stomach, you could see right through
But a monster fed with… just… enough
Stays weak, and doesn’t grow too tough

It waits, content, for the next meager spoon
Against its power, you remain immune
Feed the beast the smallest part
Or, it will rip out, and eat your heart

Wean it on tidbits, the worst parts of you
Sample-size snacks of indulgent taboo
Otherwise, the creature… well, it just may
Take hold of your deeds, the words you say

You see, each of us, every single one
Is a no-good, worthless son-of-a-gun
Anyone who says different is lying to you
Or perhaps, to themselves, as so many do

We’re horrible things, down, deep in the core,
With lusts for lying, theft, and gore
Incestuous, selfish, conniving creeps
In daylight, our true nature hides, and sleeps

We’re bullies, crooks; we cheat on our taxes
We’d gladly chop up our neighbors with axes
That is, if we thought we wouldn’t take a fall
But, knowing we will, we don’t try at all

If not for society, we’d be twice as mean,
Three times as lazy, rude, and obscene;
Running over each other, no second thought
Breaking and taking what others have bought

These horrid perversions reside down low
In the parts where most are too afraid to go
But, the thirst is still there; we cannot escape
Our secret desires for pillage, and rape

All that a civilized person can do
Is to keep it all chained, not let it get through
Most try to ignore it, they try really hard
Whistling nervously through the graveyard

These are the ones you can’t really trust;
Can’t face their demons, although they must
Any part of you that’s even a little bit dark,
Is a mirror reflection of themselves, a spark

That spark ignites within them a fury
Appointing themselves both judge and jury,
Punish you, for guilty feelings of their own
Cravings they cannot shake from their bones

Afraid of their shadows, they cast them on you
A scapegoat for things that they’d like to do
Unable to admit they’d do it, if they could
Admit to your urges, they’ll say you’re no good

They tried to starve their monsters to death
Their monsters took over, stole their breath
Becoming beasts; the beasts having won,
Police not themselves, but instead, everyone

Others, they feed their phantom too much
So close to the ghoul, it can reach out and touch
The fiend strangles, once it takes hold
Turning them cruel, heartless, and cold

So, take the advice, and stay to the middle
Don’t run from the Devil, or play second fiddle
Seduce your succubus, incubus, or imp
Trick it, trap it, keep it weak, and limp

Feed the dark beast your unwanted scraps;
To prevent you from falling into its traps
Give it just enough, so that it doesn’t try
To feed off of you, to make you its supply

https://patreon.com/Magus72

Imminent

“Omnes una manet nox.”
The same night awaits us all
Loud or soft, when death, it knocks
Each, alone, must heed the call

On papyrus, the old Roman bard
Horace scrawled with ink and quill
All of us end, either soft or hard
Old or young, for good or ill

That night crawls to us, or races quick
The usurper puts another in place
Details wrapped in fog too thick
Erased by time, our name and face

Omnes une manet nox.

—Horace, Roman poet

The Latin approximately translates as, “The same night awaits us all.”

Coming September 30th, 2022

Area 25 – a new album of twelve original songs from Trent Boswell

Area 25 - music by Trent Boswell - coming September 30th — Area 25 by Trent Boswell – coming September 30th

The music and poetry of Kevin Trent Boswell.jpg — The music and poetry of Kevin Trent Boswell

Stand Trial

I do not deserve the swift, easy dying
I should go out suffering, cursing, weeping
No gentle slip into long, peaceful sleeping

I deserve harshness, for there is no denying
I’ve done terrible things, things all too horrid
Covetous, vengeful, hateful, and torrid

I’d get no comforts from friends or family
A slow, painful demise; lots of time to think
It’s too good for me, the “gone in a blink”

For my legacy is ugly, a shameful homily
A sad sack of blood and bones; all gone bad
A sour brain on a stick, and a soul, quite mad

I got in a little goodness, here and there
But these brief occasions, they came and went
In truth, half of them were by accident

I failed to be of use, and even less, to care
And, squeezing in the rare, unselfish act
Does not grant one release from a devil’s pact

Less honorable by the day, I should’ve quit
And yet, I’ve persisted, doing more and more
With sins innumerable; I cannot keep score

And yet, upon pondering, I must admit
As bad as I am, I can’t conceive; it’s true
What would be a fair and just fate for you

While I do not go in for all that silly stuff
Political yarns of heaven, hell, and purgatory
The guilt-tripping duress of bedtime story

Absolutes, ethics, and morals… all but a bluff
Inventions for feeling better about ourselves
But our deeds will not go back on the shelves

We could keep debating until all cows return
Where, who, or what made our foul kingdom
Whether it’s intelligent, impelled, or random

Bickering fictions; eternal bliss, or to burn
Regardless, one point is impossible to miss
And, try as we might, there’s no escaping this

Wherever we go, from wherever we came
We’re here while we’re here; as all the others
Failure is in failing our sisters and brothers

Allowing them to suffer, passing the blame
Holier-than-thou, and treating them as less;
The only real sin we’d ever need to confess

Fail or succeed, by any standard you choose
Any yardstick or metric of money or power
Cruelty and apathy are a waste of the hour

A precious moment, we soon enough lose
I should die kicking and screaming, it’s true
If I’m honest about things that I failed to do

A thousand missed kindnesses; this, I know
Things I could’ve done to ease pain or fear
Looking out for myself, covering my rear

I know what I deserve, and how I should go
I can’t say for certain if you’re bad or good
If you lift up others, or do as you should

Most of us will admit, once, we were wrong
Careful to leave out the details of those cases
The omission shows guilt, egg on our faces

We try to appear sweet, covering our tracks
But, I know what I’ve done, I cannot get away
From knowledge of things I did do, and say

Slander, both overt and behind people’s backs
All the times I chose, the other way to look
The times I was a liar, a scoundrel, a crook

Criminally negligent, someone should stop us
More awful by the hour, delusion and fantasy
Thinking self noble, in all of self’s infancy

I should suffer, if there’s a god, or any justice
I’ve got it coming; the blade shouldn’t swerve
But, I’ve still no idea about what you deserve

Support this work on Patreon:

Coming Soon

A new album from Trent Boswell, Area 25

Area 25 - music by Trent Boswell — Coming Soon – **Area 25** -new music from Trent Boswell

Cover art by the elusive Mr. Dorian Strange.

Area 25 – a witch’s brew; 12 original pieces of rock and roll, hard rock, and funk. It’s a psychedelic concoction of madness, lifted from the purse of Venus, pilfered from the wallet of Apollo, and heisted from Jupiter’s garage.

It will be available on all the major streaming services, like Apple Music, Deezer, Amazon Music, Spotify, YouTube Music, and many more.

A preview from Area 25

Americans Don’t Play Chess

Americans don’t play enough chess
It’s the reason we’re in this political mess
The Right has carefully studied for years
Constitutional weaknesses, racist fears

They’ve put in long hours, learning the game
Motivating their base, pointing the blame
Spinning problems as the fault of their foes
Scuttling each bill that would end those woes

Like Morphy, Alekhine, Karpov, Nimzowitsch
Dangling carrots; a cheap bait-and-switch
A Fischer sacrifice; playing the long-game
The board no longer looks quite the same

Their rooks and bishops, now in key places
We watch with horror, mud on our faces
We slept through opening, developing play
Their knights are posted; it seems they’ll stay

Kiss of Death at the Opera, then it’s too late
Anastasia smiles, threatens Legal’s mate
A double-bishop pin, a dovetail, strategic
Is needed, or our king will be quadriplegic

Having good pawn structure is fundamental
And theirs is proving to be quite instrumental
Mate is possible with any piece on the board
Except the other king, who may be ignored

Unless, that is, he works his way up the file
Blocking the enemy king’s movement, while
The officers sweep in to deliver last blows
A game is often over before the loser knows

We’d better learn the game, or we’ll be through
It’s less checkmate, more authoritarian coup
A king can be smothered by his own pieces
It only takes a few with deceptive caprices

If the game may be saved, our wits must return
Or “How to lose everything” is all we will learn
We scoffed at haughty, four-dimensional claims
But, with distractions, they hit all their true aims

We’re playing an opponent who is happy to win
By legal means, if possible; they’ll nod and grin
Beaten fairly, he gives no handshake reward
But balls up his fists, and knocks over the board

The only way to beat a cheating, spoiled brat
Is to win fairly, but be ready to pick up a bat
For this one believes they must win at all cost
And will not admit or accept that they lost

The one sitting on the other side of this table
Is wily, unscrupulous; cheats when he’s able
Demanding to rewrite how the game is played
Promoting a pawn, says “A new king is made!”

Yes, win… but don’t be surprised if the liar
Pulls a gun or a knife, upon losing their desire
We all must fight hard to get out of this mess
We must become better at political chess

Support this work on Patreon:

Something in the Air – Links

I’m hesitant to do any regular promotion today because of everything that is going on in America. My heart goes out to women everywhere, as well as all of the other minority groups that SCOTUS has in their sights to attack and marginalize next.

There is nothing I could possibly say or do that could make any of that madness seem less important. I’ll do anything that I can to help, but I am honestly clueless about how I might help, beyond voting and just being a supporter of equal rights for all people. Try to stay strong and please, take good care of yourselves; it’s easy to slip into depression and bad habits when we see our nation slipping toward authoritarianism.

All that said, somehow, someway, life has to trudge on forward. As you might already know, my new album is out, and that means part of my job is to promote the stupid thing. Actually, it’s not stupid at all—I’m exceedingly proud of it. I think it came out great. I’d love for it to be some kind of small escape from the harsh realities we’re facing.

Something in the Air, a new music album by Trent Boswell — Something in the Air – Music by Trent Boswell

Below, I’m providing some links to the bigger music streaming services that carry the album. If you subscribe to any of these, you can do me a huge favor by liking the tracks on all the services you have access to. You can of course purchase the album or individual tracks through most of these outlets. That’s excellent because it helps me to make more music for everyone.

However, it’s incredibly easy (and free) to just favorite, like, thumbs up 👍 the songs you like, and to add them to your favorite playlists on outlets like Spotify.

If you really want to help out, really go the extra mile, you can share the album or individual songs to your social media pages.

There’s also the YouTube channel, which provides interesting visuals for the music.

Something in the Air

Existential art rock for perspicacious psychonauts and connoisseurs of eclectic, eccentric soundscapes, chock full of the beautiful terrible. Ten original songs about things which are replaced by new, theoretical things that never arrive.

2 cups of Rock and Roll, ⅓ cup of Pop Music, 3 heaping tablespoons of psychedelics, and one fifteen inch subwoofer of pure Funkadelia. Use responsibly. May interact with certain medications. May be illegal in your area.

Links

Amazon Music – Something in the Air

Apple Music – Something in the Air

Spotify – Something in the Air

Pandora – Something in the Air by Trent Boswell

YouTube Music – Something in the Air

iHeart Radio – Something in the Air

Deezer – Something in the Air by Trent Boswell

Napster – I don’t know the link because I’m not a subscriber, so I can’t look it up

There are plenty of other music services that carry the album; these are just the biggest ones.

And here’s a video of one the songs, track number three from Something in the Air. This one is called A Nice, Quiet Place to Die. Despite the seemingly dark title, it’s really a love song. It’s about loving other people, animals, and the Earth itself. Enjoy.

A Nice, Quiet Place to Die, by Trent Boswell

Most

Most stories don’t have happy endings
The brutal truth is that most do not
For each hero who makes it home,
In unknown ditches, a hundred more rot

For every song about some brave champion,
There are endless graves without any bones
For there was no body which they could bury
Only lost names engraved on stones

We must admit if we’re honest about it,
Eventually, Death claims them all
Those who we celebrate after a battle
And those who on the battlefield fall

Those who seem to be safe back at home
Are also short candles in a night so late
None escape the long-armed grasp,
Of those pitiless stranglers, time and fate

New Music Album on June 8th

Something in the Air – an album of 10 original songs from Trent Boswell, available on June 8th, 2022 at most major music streaming services like Amazon Music, Spotify, iTunes, etc.

Published Works

The poetry and music of Kevin Trent Boswell

Support This Work on Patreon

Hopium Blues

Hopium – an irrational, unfounded belief that a situation is going to improve, despite all evidence to the contrary.

New music from Trent Boswell

Here’s a new song. This one is a blues rock piece.

People usually say, “The vocal part isn’t loud enough,” so I made it nice and loud in this one. To my ears, I think it’s a little too loud. You can let me know in the comments what you think.

Either way, hit the thumbs up 👍 and share ⬆️ with your friends if you like it.

Subscribe ✅ ring the bell 🔔 and click “All.”

Lyrics are in the comments section of the video.

New album available on Saturday, June 8th

Something in the Air, new music from Trent Boswell

Bonus Material

Get exclusive material and help support the creation of more madness from Trent Boswell

Punk Rock, Climate Extinction

Some Punk Rock for the Existential Climate Crisis

This song is written in the vein of old school punk rock and thrash metal, bands like the Sex Pistols, Misfits, Motorhead, etc. It’s deliberately noisy and brash. I didn’t try to use proper singing technique on the track; it’s not supposed to be pretty.

“I Wasn’t Using It” is brand new; it’s not on the new album that is becoming available on June 8th. However, it’s available for download to patrons on the Patreon page.

It helps a lot when you like 👍 and subscribe ✅ on YouTube. Ring that stupid little bell 🔔 and click “all,” so you get notifications. Share the video if you like it. If you don’t, it’s okay; nobody will be around to hear it, soon enough 🤷‍♂️

Lyrics

Don’t feel bad the stores are empty
Or that food won’t grow anymore
It’s not your fault; you had no other planet
On which you could wage your war

Don’t feel bad that you broke it;
No, really, it’s OK
I really wasn’t using it
It was an old world anyway

I don’t need no oceans
Arctic ice or stupid bees
It was really nice of you
To cut down all those ugly trees

I don’t mind the heat
Going up past 105°
Anything to help with industry
I don’t really need to stay alive

Don’t feel bad that you broke it;
No, really, it’s OK
I really wasn’t using
It was an old world anyway

The world is on fire
Disaster at the door
But I’m running out of plastic
Can you please make me some more?

Don’t feel bad that you broke it;
No, really, it’s OK
I really wasn’t using
It was an old world anyway

Don’t feel bad that you broke it;
Seriously, man, it’s OK
It’s not like I was using the thing
It was an old world anyway

New Album on June 8th

Available June 8th on Amazon, iTunes, Spotify, and many other major streaming services

Support

Get exclusive bonus content at the Patreon page.

The Crockpot Cartel

This was a refreshingly positive experience. With every post I make on Instagram, I get hit up multiple times for paid promotions. It’s always a sleazy approach like “I love your stuff! Let’s work together!” even though you know they sent that message so fast, they couldn’t possibly have listened to the song.

This guy Bobby asked me on TikTok if he could review me on his show tonight. I said yes, but I was thinking, “Wait for it… he’s going to hit me with a dollar amount, a pay-to-play thing.” I don’t do those. But he didn’t ask for anything. He’s got a pretty intelligent approach to it, he offers pay-to-play, but also gives free plays and reviews, no questions asked.

A spin and review on The Crockpot Cartel Show

He played a few minutes of my song (the format is that each song gets roughly two minutes, so he can fit more into the show). He gave some kind feedback on it and all he asks is that viewers stay active in the chats, giving ratings for each song (he uses a 1-1,000 rating scale). Even though most of what got played was either hip hop or rap, he stayed open to other genres. My music is really different from everything else I heard tonight, but he gave it equal time and thoughtful consideration.

In the chats, it looks like people rated my tune anywhere from 600 to 1,000 with an average of maybe 800 or 900. One person said 2,000 but that’s not inside the range you’re supposed to use 🤷‍♂️🙃

I was pleased, especially since most of the people there were making hip hop music. He asked everyone to add constructive criticism to any songs that they rated low, and said no hating on anyone. The overall thing was a nice surprise for sure.

You can catch his show and submit your music for consideration at: Bobby Everything

New Album on June 8th

This album has the song on it that was reviewed in the show. The song is called “White Elephant.” You can watch the full video here:

Support

Get exclusive bonus material at Patreon

Special Offer

I’m offering a special package deal. Below, you’ll find a list of all my poetry titles, as well as my album Flagship. For just $72, I’ll send you a copy of one of each of the poetry books AND a copy of the Flagship CD.

That’s $39.21 off the cover price. Better still, this flat price includes FREE S&H.

The free shipping offer applies only as long as it’s in the continental U.S. If you want international shipping, you can contact me privately so that I can calculate a specific S&H price for you.

Time for Nothing $8.88

Chaos Comes Apart $7.77

on the page – poems for artists, writers, and other hooligans $12.50

Liber ex Liberi – the Book of Children $7.77

in the current $8.44

Dark Matter – Poems of Horror and Depravity $9.99

remission $12.72

Next $15.72

Out on the Killing Floor $18.42

Flagship CD $9.00

Total: $111.21

How To Take Advantage of the Deal

To get this deal, send $72 to

this PayPal link

Please make sure your shipping address is up to date in your PayPal account.

If you would like any of them signed, let me know in the notes with your purchase.

Time for Nothing, by Kevin Trent Boswell — The newest poetry title, Time for Nothing- Poetry, Prose, and Song Lyrics

New Album on June 8th

10 songs from Trent Boswell, coming June 8th

Preview trailer for Something in the Air

Something in the Air

available on major music streaming services like iTunes, Spotify, Apple Music, iHeart Radio, Amazon Music, and many others

Follow on:

All Around

“All Around” – music by Trent Boswell

I can’t find it I don’t see it
Though I’ve looked nowhere over
I was certain I’d have found it
By now

Thought I had it once
In my hand like a clover
But it flew away
Somehow

I’ve rubbed out my eyes
Squinting through the dark
But my eyes are too full
Of dreams

Want nothing so much
Thoughts of self not a spark
And I still do not know
What it means

Collecting each one
Not mine in a moment
All tomorrow’s
Forgotten yesterday

Yourself saw you with them
You know of the torment
A sideways hello
Didn’t say

Slippery little thing
So many to climb
Fall so fast and without
A sound

Never had your gift
Of yours all this time
Wrapped tight and spilling
On the ground

All time gone by
Flirting with the dawn
Seeking for a higher
High score

Those things which remain
To this day are long gone
These things are all things
No more

Don’t know why I bother
I bother not to know
It’s never too much
Not to say

A slight tinge of joy
In each thing to show
Everything never came
This way

The secret only shared
Never told never kept
All the smiles that cannot
Be got

Always not moving
Ever happy it wept
In the open it hides
Where it’s not

Close the window my friend
Despite how it looks
It is going to be
A fine day

For it has the good sense
In verbose old books
All words refraining
To say

A slight tiny sting
Four missing leaves of clover
Ending all applause
Curtain bow

Can’t find it don’t see it
Having looked all over
Was certain I’d have lost it
By now

Lyrics available in print:

Time for Nothing - Poetry, Prose, and Song Lyrics, by Kevin Trent Boswell — Time for Nothing – Poetry, Prose, and Song Lyrics, by Kevin Trent Boswell

Support This Work on Patreon

Dirt

“Dirt” from Out on the Killing Floor

“Dirt” – prose from Out on the Killing Floor by Kevin Trent Boswell

This piece of prose is from a book of horror poetry. What is horror poetry? Imagine that Stephen King wrote poetry and prose instead of novels and short stories.

This particular piece is about the climate crisis. It’s an imaginary interview with an American farmer in the not so distant future, a dystopian vision of the runaway effects of climate change.

The book is available here:

Out on the Killing Floor

– Bleak, dark, dismal apocalyptic poetry of the most depressing possible variety

– The end of all life on Earth & other children’s stories

Remix – War On Venus

War on Venus – Original music by Magus

I posted this song before, but I have entirely remixed it. The new mix sounds far superior to the original. I also shortened the title from “Tales of War On Venus” to “War on Venus.”

Lyrics:

We sit, swapping war stories
We’ve barred all the windows and doors
Each of us covered in blood
Half of it mine, half of it yours

Two chairs, sitting face to face
The room is bare, otherwise
Suspiciously watching each other for
Sudden movements, any shift in the eyes

There’s a word for why we’re here
The trap, it fits us like a glove
Explains all the mess and the misery
And that four-letter word is love

Pause long enough to take a shot
From the big bottle of poison
We’re not much but we’re all that we’ve got
We sweat bullets and swear “You’re the one.
You’re the only one for me.”

Weapons at the ready, there in our laps
Fingers never far from the trigger
No one smiles, no one eats or sleeps
Shots of whiskey and resentment get bigger

It’s no mystery how or where
We both know who’s to blame, we insist
Each of us swearing that the other struck first
It was a case of love at first fist

There’s a word for why we’re here
This trap, it fits us like a glove
Explains all the mess and misery
And that four-letter word is love

©️2022 Kevin Trent Boswell

Video clips by:

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

God Willin’

God Willin’ from the album Something in the Air

God Willin’ – an original, psychedelic, art rock tune by Magus (Kevin Trent Boswell)

God Willin’

Devil jump on ya
When you least expect it
With blood lust in his eyes

But you’ll pull through
Like you always do…
God willin’ and the creek don’t rise

Tax man poundin’ hard on your door
Taking everything your money implies

Without turning to crime,
You’ll survive on a dime…
God willin’ and the creek don’t rise

Shacked up for love, but it didn’t work out
Ain’t it painful when the love all dies?

But you’ll get off the street
And find someone sweet…
God willin’ and the creek don’t rise

Until the Lord himself
Knocks you off your feet
You keep on swingin’
And you can’t be beat
God willin’

Screaming Boss Man Jack,
‘bout to break your back
All your time out the window flies

You just smile and pick up his slack
Because one day you’ll get him back…
God willin’ and the creek don’t rise

The rivers can flood
And the levies break
But you know you gonna do
Whatever it takes
God willin’

To pay your bills, you need a little scratch
So you borrow from Frankie
But there’s just one catch:
Frankie is one of them connected type guys

The juice is steep but you better not renege
Less’n you want ol’ Frank to break your leg
But you just know you’ll pay it off…
God willin’ and the creek don’t rise

Drowning sorrows, feelin’ bereft
You done lost a friend
And didn’t have but one left
And now that joker’s runnin’ around town,
Spreading rumors and lies

Such a double crossin’ can’t happen twice
Because after all, most folks is nice;
At least that is…
God willin’ and the creek don’t rise

Show ‘em a whole army
Can’t ring your bell
The devils, cheats and liars
They can all go to hell
God willin’

Vocals, bass, and all guitar parts by Magus

Slumber

“Slumber“ by Trent Boswell

“Slumber” – original rock/pop by Trent Boswell

Slumber

Sand filling up the tired eyes
All things fall now into slumber
Drifting down on hazy memories
Of many bright things when we were younger

Falling from the trembling hands
Long, forgetful dance of forever
I thought for a moment of you
Of how you smiled and said “Never”

Sing to me one more time, softly
That sweet tune of all this
So when I close my eyes to wander
The thing I recall will be your kiss

Listen now for the footsteps
Of what draws closer to claim
A boundary too clear to miss
Even when you try hard not to aim

Wonderful it was; full of wonder
Nothing speaks so plain
Sparks drifting into endless space
Stillness throughout all these remains

Plucked a bright star out of the darkness
Watched it flicker as long as I could
Nothing holds this light forever
Everything goes as it should

Sing to me one more time, so softly
That sweet, sweet tune of all this
So when I close my eyes to wander
The last thing I know is your kiss

Inside Job

Author’s Note: This one is a little more fun if you read it in Tony Soprano’s voice.

I always defended my inner child
Even when change, he’d slow or shunt
I spoke to him softly, sweet and kind
Never too harsh, rude, or blunt

But his juvenile ways sabotage me
Constantly force me to fall back and punt
It’s time for him to grow the hell up
My progress, the crybaby tries to stunt

If I’m ever gonna get ahead in this world
Any luck in life, the brutal hunt
I can’t afford to have this kid in my way
His juvenile tantrums, I gotta confront

All this baby does is worry, complain
He fights reality, finds truth an affront
His childish attitudes are holding me back
I say, fuck that bratty, squawkin’ cunt

I know a guy; he paints houses, wetwork
A reliable button man to bear the brunt
He knows how to handle these things
A backdoor man; alibi and solid front

I’m sick of his shit, bellyachin’, moanin’
I gotta do it; I’m putting out a hit on the runt
I’ll murder this punk and bury his body
In a shallow grave by the waterfront

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

good dog

i need to run
pleeze set me loose
to run in the yard
i am a good dog
im not too bryte
you beat me but its ok
i was bad
i still love you
i takes cares of you bestest i can
i wrap my teefs around the bones
of any bad peoples trys to harm you
i rip the balls off anybody
tries to hurt you
ill live on one meal a week
its ok
i dont need no mental stima-lashuns
i dont know what dem things is
no persunal space
them are just words
i dont know what thems mean
anyway
i will lick your feet
you will be happy
i will be happy
i dont need no time
time dont ezist for me
ezept when you gos away
then i am a very sad
if i had hands i would
clean up my poop
so you wouldnt
have to stoop down and do it
becuz its beneath you
it must be beneath you
becuz you dont do it much
as littel as possibal
i wish i could do it for you
i dont need nuthin
i wantz to run in sercals for you
make you laff
beg fer your attenshunz
pleeze may i do tricks for you
lick your face
you snatch me up
scruff of my neck
i dont make no fuss
yor the boss
i deserve to be choked
you warned me last time
i already learn that lesson
wounds almost healed up now
its ok
it was my fault
i will not be bad no more
sorry i interupted
your favrit show
with my dumb stuff
my thirsties
my hungerz
me bein chokd on the chain
around my neck
i was just bein selfish
i sorry
i do better next time
pet me pleeze
i love you

From the book remission

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

pennyworth

dime store shopaholic
purpose is dying
thousands more reliable
than the single
or the none

little tick-tock remains
to garner the gains
gouge the special killing
double barrel
price gun

one for all
and everything event
pressure, systolic
tying stakes to the ground
taping nails into place

boatloads of saving
coupons for barrels
of monkey fish laurels
trips and great prizes
sale signs and wonders
red tags of grace

cometh thee first
oh ye saved, special items
vip members, apostolic
way buffed and paved
golden, hyperbolic
and warned, were they
who heeded not, the news

crumbling, the chances
to make quick advances
power grab rostrum
no sleeping possum
who, missing bargain bus,
sits at home
with the blues

come antsy and itching
tense and hot twitching
lucky thunder ball ticket
lightning begged
from the sky

iron, hot and free lunch
with cookies and punch
waking neighbors from naps
pay full price
for scraps
no savings for me?
oh, dear lord, why not i?

the thrifty and clever
with leverage on the lever
get a long life extended
warranty protection
of dustcover case

it’s so sweet and juicy
tried to tell sister lucy
that hot tongue, bickering
in flickering fashion
but unlike lucy, whose lips
drip skeptical passion
it’s only a big, fat deal
that you’re dickering
and sizable discounts
are what you embrace

all top-shelf stuff
proof, more than enough
taste it and see
jump, shout, and sing
promise satisfaction
join in on our action
a product, superior
above any other

get in the door
while there’s going
left to get
and still some
to be got
don’t burn with regret
wishing you’d bought
shiny, fresh feeling
bargains, ground to ceiling
and truthfully,
there will never
ever be another

From the book remission

Photo by cottonbro

But I Am Not There

I see the blood that spills in the streets
Can practically smell the gunpowder air
Tasting the ashes, bitter on my tongue
I hear the explosions, but I am not there

I cannot claim to fathom their fear
Or say that I know the depth of their dread
I’ve not had to bear the loss of loved ones
Nor have I the need to step over the dead

I live far away from the noise of the horror
I close my eyes with no fear of sleeping
No aid raid sirens awaken me rudely
I read in peace, tea silently steeping

Pictures and articles pour in daily
Videos making me a bit more aware
I know it’s happening; I know that it’s real
But the sadness I feel does not compare

I hear children crying, and nothing stops it
I see the confusion and pain in their eyes
I smell the smoke and festering wounds
But the foulest odor is the stench of lies

A well-heeled madman’s misinformation
Distorted guile drips from his tongue
Slanderous justifications for the slaughter
Of unknown thousands, old and young

But my food is hot; my belly is full
I don’t hide underground or need to run
There are no tanks parked out on my lawn
My hands are empty; they hold no gun

I don’t have a gas mask close at all times
My roads are clear, my home is intact
The power to stop the storm is not mine
It rages on, and the sky is blacked

I cannot order the attack to halt
And to send in support is not my decision
I don’t determine the fate of anyone else
I need not defend my political vision

No sons or daughters go off to fight
Because of anything that I say or do
But war will not cease of its own accord
No moving of money makes it less true

I can say kind things and show my support
The only thing worse is not even to care
The words I say, meaningless, useless
It’s easy for me, for I am not there

If I believed it, I’d say, “Wait. Do nothing;
Or else he may set the whole world afire.”
I could say I believe to hold back is better
But were I to say it, I would be a liar

Powerless, unable to stop a mass murder
Intervention may mean the death of us all
So, we answer the cry for help by saying,
“We pray for you and hope you don’t fall.”

To cover our fears of atomic destruction
Supportive words hang on digital display
Perhaps if we allow the bully his toy
He’ll go no further after getting his way

If only it were true that a taste of victory
Made conquerors quit; one land controlled
The wanton wishes of children who know
Nothing of madmen, bloodthirsty, bold

I cannot assist in their hour of darkness
Or insist that others answer the pleading
My heart hurts for those brave defenders
But my pain is painless; I am not bleeding

I cannot say “Fight,” nor can I say “Wait.”
It’s not my problem or burden to bear
After all, it’s easy to speak in abstractions
It’s easy for me because I am not there

Photo by Алесь Усцінаў

my friends

good morning, all you beautiful people
you lovely, angelic folks i call friend
i want you to know that i’m thinking of you
though fiery days, together, do blend

whirling quick, down the drain of time
not seeing your faces, hearing your voices
distance and schedules demand this of us
circumstance offering no other choices

i want to take this brief opportunity
to say that you still mean a great deal to me
i’d rather that we were conversing, laughing
than where and how we happen to be

more often now, do i have these thoughts
since all appears to be coming apart
the wretched state of things all around us…
i think of you, how i miss your heart

each moment is truly a blessing, unique
neither taken for granted nor guaranteed
i’d pray for you to have happiness, joy
if i thought it helpful to request or plead

but alas, our time on the big, blue marble
ephemeral, flickering, fleeting, concise
disappears quickly, precious little warning
like a glass of sunsets, smiles and ice

tumbler, carelessly knocked from our hands
by a stupid stranger, passing by in a roar
an ignorant ogre with a love of wealth
a disdain of beauty and a love for war

beastly creatures, not one, but many
loving too much, to climb and to fall
punching holes in our collective boat
though surely it sinks and dooms us all

the cup of this world, spills over with promise
wonders of nature, so much opportunity
carelessly ruined by the madness of kings
who with stolen gold, kill with impunity

we, being lovers of kindness and good
seeing their greed, the destruction it brings
it hurts our hearts, we sigh and conclude
“i guess that we just can’t have nice things”

as we watch them ripping it all into pieces
everything beautiful, too soon to die
i want you to know how much i love you
i’d hate if the chance were to slip idly by

i want to tell you that you’re all in my heart
and in my thoughts, your memories glow
i’d not forgive myself if i wasted
the opportunity to let each of you know

just over the horizon, a banshee wails
as we near the welkin, do smile, once more
i’ll be thinking of you, as we take that step
through the long, strange and endless door

Photo by Mo

When I Think About Tomorrow

When I think about tomorrow
I only see one thing
A day laden with the sorrow
And the trouble it will bring

My heart is full of fear
My mind is full of dread
My hands are full of jelly
My feet are full of lead

The day coming after this one
Is one I’d gladly do without
But it’s ridiculous to run
And it’s of no use to shout

On the head of this stickpin
No promised angels dance
Much to my chagrin
Just the devil’s half-a-chance

He said tomorrow’s fruit is rotten
To enjoy it is to fake it
It’s the only offer that I’ve gotten
So, I guess I’ll have to take it

Kevin Trent Boswell on Instagram

Main photo by Gabriel Hohol

how dare i

how dare i take you
by lascivious force
boss you around
play the pirate, tie you up
treat you roughly
as my possession
force upon you my will
make you drink from my cup

for then,
you would not
be free
to do as you like
i’d be a curse for you to endure
and whatever then
would you do?

how dare i worship you
as a goddess, divinity’s source
respect your opinions
hear your voice
let you run free
give you space and respect
yield to your whims
whatever your choice

for then,
you would not
be attracted to me
no desire, masculine, primal passion
no naughty novelties, obscene, obscure
and whatever then
would you do?

how dare i
stay the middle course
walk the fine line
weigh situations, each
independent, with thoughtful care
read moods, assess
accordingly to act
whether i should listen or teach

for then,
tepid, neither cold nor hot
is how you’d find me
indecisive, wavering
weak and spineless, insecure
and whatever then
would you do?

©️2022 Kevin Trent Boswell

Magus72 on Patreon - Music, Poetry and Madness — Magus72 on Patreon – Music, Poetry and Madness

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

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:

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

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

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

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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

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

Elephant photo by David Blackwell

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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 too… something
For their tastes

I don’t play or follow sports
So, there went any conversation
With three-fourths of the
Male population, right there

I’m accepting of all religions
But I don’t belong to any
So, I don’t have any of the neat, lapel buttons
To get me into those meetings

I hate bullies
So, I never get invited to the hate crimes
Instead, I’m the idiot who will
Stand with the guy who is outnumbered,
Just because he’s outnumbered

But I think everyone is fair game
When it comes to rude jokes
Especially me
Because, if you can’t laugh at me
Then, who the hell can you laugh at?

But I sort of suck at political correctness
So, I piss off most of the woke crowd

It’s OK, the feeling is mutual

I don’t get into cosplay or anime
I’m not a Star Trek guy, though I like the show
I don’t collect or read comics or manga
I don’t keep up with most television

I advocate healthy eating but I’m not vegan

I can dance but don’t really like to
I can cook but don’t really like to
I can small talk but don’t really like to

I only comment on politics
When it looks like my country
Is about to shift into fascism;
I’ve talked way too much about politics
In the last four years

I’m no fan of hatred
So, I don’t get to sit with any of
Those guys in the white sheets
Or the black boots, bald heads and suspenders

But I’m a little too strange of a white guy
For most minorities to feel
Totally at ease around me

It’s probably safer to have
“Normal” white friends
And I actually get that;
I don’t take any offense to it

I’m not fluent in any other languages,
Despite having taken both French and Spanish
So, I don’t get to play interpreter for anyone

I think the climate crisis is way more severe
Than nine out of ten people do
Want to clear out a room fast?
Bring that up and watch them all scurry

I’m not a cat person
So, that rules out about three-fourths
Of the female population, right there

But I can always talk about dogs
With other dog lovers
And there’s a saving grace, for certain

I’m into martial arts and that’s too violent
For many people
But I’m not a black belt in anything I studied
So, I’m not important enough to listen to
In those groups
And even the style I’m most into,
Jeet Kune Do, is controversial,
Because it’s extremely eclectic
And it thumbs its nose at any type of
Tradition, purely for the sake of tradition
So, that pisses off a lot of people
Who practice traditional styles

I’m not a Right-Wing nut job but I support
The second amendment and I own guns
So, I just ostracized myself from
Both the Right and the Left,
Right there

I don’t surf or skate or snow ski
I’m not a connoisseur of fine wines
Or fine cuisine
I don’t read anything on best-seller book lists

I’ve always been either
Lower class or lower, middle class
So, I can’t get into any of the swank affairs

But I’m a bit too odd to get invited to
Most of the cool kids’ parties

It doesn’t really help that
I don’t smoke weed and I don’t usually drink
The lack of these habits raises many eyebrows

I don’t fit hand-in-hand with most, other people

Even my closet friends,
Dear, dear, beloved friends
Would readily admit:

“Yes, he’s an odd one.
Oh, we love him.
We just don’t claim to really
Understand him.

We think it’s probably quite enough
To just love him
And let it go at that.”

And with that statement, I’d completely agree

I’m perfectly content to be
The black sheep, the odd man out
The different one

But all this lack of fitting in
Has helped me, in one, very clear way

It has compelled me to develop
A desperately needed survival skill
And that is

Good listening

Because I learned early on
That if I was going to last
More than ten minutes
In any conversation,
In any room,
Anywhere

I did much better if I
Kept my rather strange opinions,
Beliefs and attitudes
To myself

But I did even better, still

When I could repeat back the opinions,
Beliefs and attitudes that someone else
Had just expressed to me

Everyone appreciates being
Truly heard

Not everyone needs to be agreed with
It isn’t even everyone who
Needs to be appreciated

But everyone
Likes to know that you were
Actually listening

And if they say anything at all
About music, martial arts, chess, poetry
Or anything else I’m interested in
Well, I might have just bought myself
Ten more minutes of friendly conversation

And when all else fails,
When I’m talking to someone and I can’t find
Any common ground… at all

I can always punt
I default to the saving grace of
Dogs

But if it becomes clear
That they don’t like dogs…

Well, then it’s clearly just time to leave

Photo by Arianna Jadé

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

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

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

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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.”

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

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

From the book Out On The Killing Floor

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

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.

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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

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

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