Uncategorized – Kevin Trent Boswell

conjunct saturn

This piece is new and is part of a book that I’m working on, called one pass by. The theme is one trip of the Moon through the lunar cycle.

The Moon is the protagonist of each poem, speaking directly to the reader or just thinking out loud. These are musings about the moods and experiences that come up each month, as Luna aspects the other planetary bodies in our solar system.

Our moon travels around the entire ecliptic (faster than any of the other, traditional planets) in roughly 29 days. That means She regularly conjoins (meets) all the other Planets, as well as forming what astrology calls aspects with them, such as sextile, square, trine and opposition.

Each of these angles prompts a different type of energy. Making sense of how these aspects affects us is a big part of what serious astrologers do.

In astrology, the word planet comes from the Greek, meaning “wanderer”. So yes, the Sun (Sol) and the Moon (Luna) are each a proper Planet (capitalized P for respect), even though they are not planets, in the astronomical sense.

In mythology, each of the Planets are ascribed as being the same energy or archetype of a particular God or Goddess. Our versions are named after the Roman Deities and correspond quite closely to their Greek counterparts.

In essence, these poems are the Goddess Luna, on her usual, monthly travels around Earth and Sol, the Sun. She’s talking about Her experiences with each of them, telling us the story of what can usually be expected, when She bumps into the other Gods in some way.

Each piece is written in lowercase, including the proper names, such as Saturn and Jupiter. This is a stylistic choice and nothing else. I probably read too much e.e. cummings and I’m just plain weird like that.

People who understand basic astrology will probably get a deeper meaning of each piece but they written simply enough that people with no astrological background can still get the gist of what’s happening and follow the stories.

The Moon is representative of many things and the easiest of these to grasp right away is emotions. Where the Moon is and how She is interacting with the other bodies out there determines a huge amount of what wee feel, collectively and individually.

This piece is about when Luna occupies the same bit of space as the Planet Saturn, who is the Lord of Time, restriction, boundaries, limitations, duty, architecture, crops (to some degree), geology, slavery and prisons. He also rules over contracts and institutions, especially in their more complex, bureaucratic and byzantine forms.

If you enjoy this and you want to see more of these produced, ha a look over the tier benefits on my Patreon page and become a patron, to support this work.

And now, I give you…

conjunct saturn

one of my least favorite bits
and each of us admits
jaws clench and grind
dutifully, as we try

to respect the old man;
but it crumbles, our plan
when near him, you find
you want to curl up in a ball and cry

i try hard to explain
in a language, most plain
my thoughts and feelings
and my needs, most dear

from his bed, every time,
of gravel, dirt and lime,
grumbles that these dealings
he just doesn’t care to hear

the only thing that i can say
of our meetings that’s okay
is that beside him, i discover
i seem to have the uncanny knack

for putting self into order,
defining clearly the border
between this, that and the other;
and it helps me to pick up the slack

but it’s tiresome work
for he’s a bit of a jerk
to be honest, he’s no fun
and no one really likes him

but as guardian, it’s clear
he inspires much fear,
so much so, that no one
ever dare strike him

into whatever room
floats our cloud of gloom,
they sit up straight and quick
and all take a somber notice

the vibe becomes serious
no drunk smiles, delirious
like jesus hitting you with a stick
or buddha, with a lead-filled lotus

folks get down and back to working
time for labor, not lurking
and he’s carefully checking
everyone’s to-do, check lists

if they’ve missed a thing or two,
as we all often do,
their rear ends, he’s wrecking;
his motivation-boot, it assists

my heavy heart hurts
at each weight he asserts;
the sad details he shows me
of the most dreary, depressing issues

though i attempt to retreat,
our little dates aren’t complete
until he calls me a baby and throws me
a box of camel-hair tissues

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Battle Against the Public

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

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

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

Mine ears have heard the glory of the

Omniscient, Orange Lord

He is trampling on the facts

About the PPE we’ve stored

He hath loosed the fateful virus

By the terrible signs, ignored

His untruth is marching on!

(Chorus)

Story, story, tell it to ya!

It ain’t no worse than the flu… duh!

Praise him or he’ll remove ya!

Our Nonsense marching on!

I have seen His message echoed in the

Online, Right-Wing camps,

They have builded Him an altar

Where truth‘s secured with iron clamps;

See through His dimwit message

By the light of Logic’s lamps

His toupée is marching on!

(Chorus)

Friends, who you thought really knew ya!

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

Sit and wait at home, like Buddha!

His Orange is marching on!

I have read a fiery gospel, writ

In CAPS of angry steel:

“Those who deal with My opponents,

Get respirators that might heal”

Let the Orange Nero, play the fiddle

Let Americans all kneel

Trump is God and nothing’s wrong!

(Chorus)

Derogatory, press is unfair to ya!

Common sense has got the blues-a!

From Miami and NY to Chattanooga!

The virus marches on!

He has sounded forth the trumpet

By Easter, we will have it beat;

Well, never mind… but admit,

That the idea was pretty neat!

Doctors say… he’s a mo-ron!

(Chorus)

Gory, the doctors all conclude-a!

Fateful end, you’ll come to-a!

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

The buck He’s passing on!

In reports that came from China,

South Korea, Italy

The Donald was duly warned

Of illness, born across the sea,

With mighty golf club in his hand,

He said “Let’s wait and see”

As He lied to make men wealthy,

Let us try to make men see,

While the President blathers on!

(Chorus)

Glory, brave souls who blew the!

Whistle, sorry no supplies get to ya!

Your on your own, He never knew ya!

Our health care, shat upon!

Kevin Trent Boswell

The new book is out now, on Amazon:

Chaos Comes Apart

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

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

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Conjure Work

sweeping

Author’s Note: this piece is NOT a forecast of doom, not in any way.

That is incredibly important to note. Instead, it’s two things.

First, it’s a snapshot of things which have already happened, as well as my disappointment and anger about how the situation has been handled, thus far. It is one artist, responding to real world situations, through the medium of art. That should be easy enough to grasp.

Second, it is a warning NOT to behave as if nothing is wrong or different and NOT to behave as if the world is ending. Neither extreme view is correct. Something real and dangerous is here but need not be catastrophic.

I write poetry for a variety of reasons, one of which is what I refer to as a personal “exorcism“. It’s one of the ways that I personally get my thoughts together, for what needs to be done.

In writing out worst case scenarios, I get poisonous thoughts out of my head and onto paper, where they might be properly dealt with, in an adult manner.

That being said, the following is not at all a pretty picture. Fear is a constructive tool, when properly guided toward preparedness and prudence.

So, I encourage you to allow yourself just a few moments to wallow in the fear, as well. Then get busily back to the business of a productive life.

Happy Friday the 13th!

sweeping

uninformed leaves rustle a bit

and roll over the usual yard

nothing yet, appears to sit

in a space entirely too soft, nor hard

while standing in the cues

of what sounds already are,

in the distance, hear the clues

of misery, sweeping wide and far

an invisible, mushroom leverage

lays its breaking boot of

concrete and leaden sole

atop the teeter totter

leans down, shifting its tonnage

with devastation under its

unforgiving weight

bar graphs fly off their easels

ticker tapes spin out and fizzle

time cards shred themselves with panic

and punch clocks fall off walls

to dive bomb the rows of empty desks,

which explode into kindling

all around

file cabinets are set ablaze and

the rodents are overworked,

spinning all those little,

interlocking wheels

of the intercom system

it’s entirely too loud

in the staff room

and the commandant

can get no sleep

despite his bedtime story

being piped through

the loudspeaker

outside is the warm normal,

a blue sky, serene balm of certainty

a textbook spring,

assurance nestled

in the obvious dream

but some strange worm

has crept into the ear of the dreamer

and wiggles its way

down to the lungs

where it cripples

the casual breath

combat is hand to hand,

through negotiations

sterilization weaponization

settling old scores,

between complete strangers

the best assassin is always

one the target

already knows well

taking dinosaurs

right out, at the knees

pyramids and castles

close their doors

refusing to check the coats

of the newly and arriving guests,

the overloaded sled of dead,

pulled by black, wheezing horses

turned away at the door,

on account of their

inconsiderate lack

of a reservation

or at least the common decency

to drag along a chest of gold

with which to bribe the bellhop,

he who rings that iron bell

that sullen, tolls,

reverberating and shaking

the whole of the kingdom

wide and through

a brown bag sandwich lunch

sits near the front door and goes stale

there are no baby cubs to suckle

at the teet of intelligence

since, all the babies‘ eyes

have been pulled out

and stapled to screens,

screen doors and screened mouths

and boxes of screens of varying sizes

each drawing buckets

of unhealthy surprises

from the freshly dug,

poisoned well

trees, a currency, vital commodity

their crushed skins all disappeared,

the traders find none of their

hides in the markets

now more prized than gold,

is a simple mop

to wipe away the mess

circles form and fall apart

sticks fly at one or the other

or both at once

funny how the numbers

play their cruel tricks

allocating the meals of the masses

to boards of a few dozen

or six

as digits of ones become thousands,

billions divide into segregated pockets

of six, five, four or less

eventually,

someone

or something

must come along

and mop up

the mess

kings decry and verily decree

a restless tribe

casts lots,

to question the gods

whether to dig in or to flee

but the answers are yes,

to each and every question,

so sayeth the oracles,

in throwing up their hands,

choosing instead,

to call in for a sick day

no parades pound the streets

one must turn the earth to gather eats

wall off the oceans, sink all the fleets

dim the lights, freeze the meats

a foul wind wails over the dizzy heads

and through the nervous heart

scout upon the watchtower and wait

as machine belches and cranks to start

a breeze blows in

unhappy news from the east

a mad king crumples up the paper,

stoning the raven messenger, dead

as if it mattered, not in the least

soon ancestors say their prayers

closing their eyes, just for practice

all the ice rafts are full

and shoving off, with final waves

their lanterns go dark

over a feverish horizon

quell, if you, will the wild rumor beasts

it stops not the hunger,

nor the need for the priests,

for divine protection and

rites of passage

into the never

of night and time

emptied halls and banquets broken

plays where nary a word is spoken

cold feet frozen,

chapel coughs up people

stockpiles of goods and caskets

confusion, gratis, in gift baskets

and praying hands, pried from steeple

minds blinking, frozen, in their tracks

the wood chipper roars

for more easy snacks

like lining up dominoes

or graham crackers

the wounded’s IV unit,

given to campaign backers

since some lonesome despot,

wrapped in mist

must sit the wake with what remains,

rule with the iron fist,

over the land of the dead but free

the endless hordes of weeping

hungry, Dickensian urchins are we

hand me down frowns

and mouth to mouth, creeping

beat and fan the furnace flames

ideas, flailing and failing

burn all those treasured sames

arson greedily replaces sailing

as the new sport of official Rome

gather wood and gather tinders

slaughter the calf

and smoke over cinders

and nail down the doors,

seal off the hearth of home

leap now, two whole seasons far

and spy with that digital, electric glass

what evil now, cometh nigh

and just how twisted

is that monstrous thing?

the Heavens hold an angry star

Titans conduct a foul, black mass

Distracted by pointing fingers at why

a wretched agenda for the blacklisted

who bear worst, the brunt of the sting

when mansions, missions,

shacks and shelters

close all their fearful shutters tight

to ward off invaders

riding on gargantuan wings,

hydra heads

hunting through the choking day

consuming through the ravenous night

the monument must,

by necessity, be

simple and we imagine that it might say

there once was, here,

long ago, that is, ‘til today

a clueless band of marauders

who conspired to steal the fires

of eternal life

now they vanish

more each day,

leaving a legacy

of fledgling understanding

and a salty, palpable,

useless strife

nothing

is ever anyone’s

to steal

or to

own the right

at most,

all things

we briefly borrow,

to quickly stroke

and hold

what hubris, it is

placing strings

on a temporal,

flickering light

one so easily

blown out

by a simple, new

draught of cold

Kevin Trent Boswell

(Magus)

The new book is out now, on Amazon:

Chaos Comes Apart

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

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

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Magus & The Plastic Infinity

Conjure Work

antiverse

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Zero

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Zero

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

Woke up to a Monday morning, drenched in usualness

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

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

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

To the day before All Hallow’s Eve

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

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

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

Woke up to probation officers and community service and possible prisons

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Woke up to remember that my memory is not that reliable

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

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

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

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

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

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

Magus

(Kevin Trent Boswell)

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

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

Patreon

Magus & The Plastic Infinity

Conjure Work

antiverse

blogspot

The Nascent Magician

Hoodoo, Ceremonial Magick, witchcraft

I don’t normally use this forum to talk about my esoteric practices.

But I have received the nudge to cast a wider net, because there are some searchers out there, looking for where they belong. So I’m putting up this one post, essentially it looks like an advertisement… and it is.

But look deeper and you’ll see that deep down inside, in between the words, there’s a message. It’s not for everyone. In fact, it’s not even for most. It’s only for a few. They will know who they are because they will feel it gnawing in their bones and churning in their guts.

So read this little ad and if it isn’t calling to you, just ignore it. I’ll post a poem right after this to make it up to you 😉

Through Monday night only… automatically get upgraded on The Nascent Magician magickal correspondence course.

The Nascent Magician

Get the Survey Student package and you will automatically be upgraded to the Graduate Student package.

If you get the Graduate Student package, then you will automatically be upgraded to the Complete Package!

Through Monday at midnight. Don’t miss the opportunity to practice the arts of Ceremonial, Hoodoo, Pagan magick and Sorcery. Learn to walk the walk.

Observationist

He concluded then,

After seeing the starry night

Unfold –

Cluing in

On times of old

– And expelling smoke

That all the universe

Dwelled within himself

(Perception is ALL)

At least until,

The hammock broke and

He took a fall

Suddenly, he felt

VERY small;

Became aware

Of what he did not know

So, he retreated

To the house

To watch

The late show

——–

Written by Magus of Conjure Work

(Kevin Trent Boswell)

last day

in the days of short pencils

and long papers

an earned renunciation of earlier

struggles

supernatural glimpse of a

well cooked tomorrow,

lying on the plate

beside the knife of

decision

bringing in the trot lines;

wrestling with those large, fat fish,

ready for the pan

and the flame

no more kung-fu,

arduous battle with

quadratic equations

instead, glancing at a

moldy clock,

I see that the

little hand is on armistice

and the big hand is on

congratulations

By Kevin Trent Boswell

How High The Moon

The 1940 jazz standard written by Nancy Hamilton, music by Morgan Lewis.

Here performed by Magus (Kevin Trent Boswell) as a chord-melody, instrumental guitar solo. It’s not my own arrangement, just one I picked up from a book of jazz standards. Enjoy.

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