“Even In The Littlest Things”, from my book Dark Matter – Poems of Horror and Depravity
With Samhain/Halloween/All Hallow’s Eve and Day of the Dead fast approaching, I’m doing readings from my book of horror poetry, called Dark Matter. Most of them will have some type of music and/or sound effects that accompany them, to lend to the experience.
However, for most of these, I won’t be doing anything fancy with the visual aspects. There will be some that have interesting video or photos to look at but this will be more of an auditory experience than a visual one.
This particular piece is different from most of the book, as it’s not really horror. I included it because it’s quite dark, indeed. I wrote it because it was a personal demon that I had to exorcise, get the poison out of my system. I personally find myself both fascinated and revolted by this poem, even though I’m the one who penned it.
This is because it deals with a heavy, human problem… that of deception and who can we trust? We’ve all found out the hard way that someone we cared deeply for was deceiving us about something. If that person meant enough to you, then you most likely considered it not just inconvenient or frustrating but literally horrible.
Lies can be even more efficient weapons than guns or knives, given the right circumstances and for this reason, Even In The Littlest Things rightfully earns its place in the book and into this series of recordings.
Even In The Littlest Things
Even in the littlest things, you lie Promises of civil courtesies so small, To fulfill them, one barely need try Even in the littlest things, you lie
So many pieces to your hate Some are hidden, some stand tall None create joy, only weight So many pieces to your hate
Your darkness is beyond blinding Wondering if there’s any light at all Mislabeling what I was finding Your darkness is beyond blinding
A forgery, nearly perfect, passing Mask chipped, the disguise did fall Recidivist, apology count surpassing A forgery, nearly perfect, passing
But hey, at least you got to try it Labeled thing, you renamed it all No one ever insisted you buy it But hey, at least you got to try it
And now, we all feel less than good Endless, useless, talking, small Nothing gained, nothing goes as it should, And now, we all feel less than good
This is a song that I wrote in my early twenties but until now, no proper recording of it existed.
In the past year, I’ve learned several truckloads about “desktop music production” and how to get studio-quality recordings, using only my computer DAW (audio recording program) a basic, two input audio interface and a simple, Shure-58, dynamic microphone.
Also, I finally got a decent pair of studio monitors, so I can hear what is actually going on in the mix, without it being colored too much by the automatic tweaking of frequencies that is present in most speaker systems.
These factors combined, I’m now putting out recordings that are vastly superior to what I was producing last year. The latest material is sonically improved at least a couple hundred percent.
Sometimes I find out things about me Just a little bit more than I’d ever want to know Kind of put a damper on a real good mood Just when I was sure I was on a roll
I was sure I was
In the face of greatness, we often feel small Yeah, the Full Moon, she spits in my eye And wouldn’t we all just love to know Ooh, yeah… exactly why
I know I would
I look for answers in the other dimensions I listen for stories that cannot be told I seek someone to take my confessions And if there is no one, then I want control
God knows, I could use some control
If you could only see what I saw You’d surely say that I’d lost my mind But I know it’s true that all are one and one is all I’ve seen it going on, all the time
Anyway you turn the question, It cannot be answered But anyway you turn the answer, It cannot be questioned I took a toothless profession in cancer On a slighted word, best not to mention
And I look for answers in the other dimensions I listen for stories that cannot be told And I’ll do anything for direction Anything short of sell my soul
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This is another song that I wrote in my early twenties but it’s only now getting a proper recording.
I played this tune with various bands over the years but we never got a usable recording, because they were usually done in dive bars with poor acoustics. There was no separation of the instruments, only the chaotic din of drunken idiots in the background.
I do still have the original, cassette demo that I recorded on a reel to reel tape machine. I no longer have that machine [insert sadness and woe, here] but I have the recording. It’s ok but it’s just guitar and vocals and covered in that old school, analog tape hiss.
This is a full treatment, with rhythm guitar, lead guitar, vocals, bass, all of which I’m doing. The lead guitar part is a first take improvisation. I’ve never played lead over this song before, because I was always busy playing the rhythm and singing the lead part.
Actually, I’d never even thought about what I’d want the lead guitar part to sound like, because keeping a band together was trouble enough to keep my mind thoroughly occupied. So, I just hit record and rolled with it. I’m pretty pleased with the result.
It’s also got drums and hand percussion, performed by Stinky the Robot drummer. I’ve got him trained pretty well at this point. He eats a small amount of electricity, sleeps in his little box and he only bites occasionally, now; I’ve even removed the shock collar.
It’s really one of the most simple, straightforward songs that I’ve ever written. There’s a main riff and a slight variation on it, toward the middle. Then, there’s the verse part, a two-measure figure that repeats, over and over.
There’s three, short verses, no chorus and no bridge. That’s because it was originally a poem and I had no desire to adapt the words, just to flesh out the musical bits.
The rhythm guitar part really emphasizes the drums and bass anyway, thus making it more of a groove tune than a standard, pop formula type of song. The lyrics take up only about the first third of it and the rest is just an excuse to do what musicians love to do… jam.
Pilgrimage to the mountain, On through a hurricane Going to pray for my family, And for those who lay in the clay I don’t know who will hear me But I will cry on the wind Grant me strength and compassion Give me self-discipline
Oh, the pressure and the pride, now They can split your skull When your best ain’t enough, now All you can do is let go A thousand years’ wisdom Will set it all straight A fool’s minute will erase it Ah, but that is the Way
I was tied to a tree And whipped like a dog It’s where I learned to be free And to trust in God In the center of the mountain You will find a ring When you wear that piece/peace No man’s words will sting
It’s only a string section, not an entire orchestra. But what sets this apart from anything that I’ve ever done before is that, in addition to writing the chord progression, the guitar and bass parts and the lyrics, I also wrote the string part. That’s a new one for me.
And I didn’t just write something on guitar and then transpose it for strings. Instead, I wrote it the way a classical composer would.
To do this, I had to draw on the part writing rules that we learned in music theory class in college, something that I thought I’d never actually use. It was a long time ago, so I feel sure that I broke some of those rules in various places but remembering the basics (no parallel 4ths or 5ths, etc) got me through it.
SomethingLike A Rainbow
Lost and alone and wandering Finding a true friend there, in the rain Hold fast, together Warmth in a lover’s arms Loving each other heals the pain
A soft and gentle light, to lead the way Something like a rainbow
So many things we were told we’d see Most of them never came to be But no one can explain the redeeming grace That shines from the light in your face
A soft and gentle light, it leads the way Something like a rainbow
And it shines into forever Walk in its light, into forever
So many things we were told we’d see Most of them never came to be Still, no one can explain the redeeming grace That shines when a smile is upon your face
A soft and gentle light, it leads the way Something like a rainbow Soft and gentle light, it leads the way Something like a rainbow
And its light goes into forever Ride the light into forever
This entire project is a wormhole born of grief. This is what I have been doing to channel the energy from the loss of a beloved pet, who was my best friend for sixteen years.
This is the dark music I needed to make, the underlying theme of which is time, structure and impermanence. The initial intention was a single, long piece of 12 minutes but it quickly turned into a much larger, longer and more complicated monster.
It’s been fraught with both artistic and technical difficulties at each and every step of the way and that’s perfectly fine with me, because every moment I’ve spent lost in this maze is a moment that I wasn’t keenly aware of a painful absence.
The music is heavy, dark and often angry. I’m not really a bass player but since I’m doing this by myself, I do the best I can with the bass lines.
The main guitar riff of the song is the only part that is rehearsed. The rest is all improvisation. I make multiple passes at the entire form and then string together the best parts of each one. As of right now, there are at least three pieces to this work; we’ll see how it goes.
in the sixties and seventies, everyone went over the top
musicians wore outlandish costumes and behaved as if they were invincible
sometimes, they believed it
but mostly, it was because they had seen through the facade of the system
they did lots of psychedelic drugs which taught them that everything… and yes, i do mean… everything… is utterly ridiculous
there’s literally nothing you can say, think, feel, believe, wear or do that isn’t… just plain silly
rather than take ourselves seriously, why not revel and delight in the temporal, inane shenanigans that are our lives…
these days, everyone is up their own asses, again
everyone is busy, twenty-four-seven, trying to convince everyone else that they’re the coolest, that they’ve got it all figured out
“if you’re into disco, you’re not cool, because disco was silly and they just thought it was cool, before everyone knew better”
“if you’re into _______, then you’re not cool, because ________.”
put whatever you want in there, classic rock, polka, country, surf music… whatever
someone is going to be actually offended that you like it
“if you’re into that, then you’re not cool, because that’s not what i’m doing and i’m pretty much the only one who’s doing what’s cool.”
it only tells us how terrified you are of our opinions of you
and that’s really the only thing that sets you apart as being truly ridiculous
it’s the not knowing that you’re ridiculous
that not knowing is what makes you comical, farcical
acting cool is cool but believing you’re cool… well, that just makes you kitschy instead of campy
but if you start right out of the gate, convinced that everything about you and what you’re doing is utterly ridiculous, with the intention of milking that silliness for everything it’s worth…
then it’s not ridiculous at all, however ridiculous it is
and it is
for the love of god, please stop trying to convince us that you’re cool and that what other people are doing isn’t
it only makes you into a sad caricature, a parody
you see, we really don’t care what you do, as long as you do it with all of your heart and soul
put on a ten gallon hat deck yourself out in wild makeup wear a smoking jacket sing out of key… in pig latin play bongos while tap dancing do the tango to speed metal dress in leather and do opera dress in drag and do gangsta rap wear a suit and tie while you sing outlaw country music
just know beyond any shadow of doubt, that before, during and after…
having stepped briefly outside for the dogs to tend their needs, between pockets of rain, buckets of it, steadily dropping, now halted for a short while; a temporary ceasefire, however tenuous
everything damp the cows, they look like cardboard cutouts, propped up in the fields
an air of patience leans in, whispering to me “the world will wait for you. it will wait.”
it’s an enticing thought, though, steeped in bitter lies, it most certainly is
the world waits for no one
the world gives not a single, used damn for you
not for your upper respiratory infection not for your needing to heal, before you can move on and finish up all those projects
the world thinks nothing of burying your carcass in its garden
you’ll make good fertilizer for its flowers, it does care about those; far, far more than it does about you, at any rate
lots of useful minerals and nutrients in a decaying human body; should produce some prize petunias
but all this relaxed barometric pressure the gentle, lilting fog, the peaceful quiet, the slow, calm meandering of the dogs and these fake cows
today, it all conspires
enveloping me in pleasant, wistful fictions, treating me as its mushroom, kept in the dark of convalescence and fed the manure of untruth
back inside, now the humidifier is gurgling its gentle truths i dive into the recesses of its deep end swimming in the mists of vapor, hints of rosemary, clove, camphor and the other, colorful fish who lurk in its dark ocean
i take leisurely swims in the splintering, fingering streams of the internet and all its watery amusements it too, tells me wonderfully entertaining lies, everything i want to hear and more
but i know better… about the world and the possibility of it patiently waiting
i know how it will steamroll right over the slow, the weak, the poor, the infirm, the drowning;
those who are drowning in debt, drowning in heartbreak, drowning in their own lungs
the world is all too happy to step on their heads, with its heavy boots and its callous lack of caring
it cares not for your concerns of convenience
i know of the world, how it is how it always will be
i know of the world
i know that, at least for now, i will stay here, in this little, comfortable blindspot, a nook, a cranny which the world has somehow overlooked, somehow erroneously missed
the world be dammed
if you ask me, it has gotten its own way for far too long
Here is my cover of “Hoochie Coochie Man”. This tune was written by the preeminent Godfather of the Blues, Muddy Waters.
The lyrics are heavily laced with references to the Hoodoo conjure tradition of the American South. One commonly misunderstood line is:
I got the John the Conqueror Root
I’m gonna mess with you
To mess with someone was to put roots on them, meaning to cast spells on that person.
The root known as John the Conqueror (Ipomoea jalapa) is widely regarded as one of the most powerful roots or Plant Spirits; if not the most powerful.
The root, all by itself, was potent and to possess it was to hold power to exert one’s will. However, to possess a mojo hand (aka, mojo bag), made and empowered by a knowledgeable rootworker, was an awe-inspiring thing.
It was not a simple matter to travel to Louisiana and get a mojo, especially for a Black person, who had less opportunities and greater obstacles. If you wanted the magick, the only way to get it was to find a skilled doctor.
This was a man or woman who knew how to coerce the Spirits to work on their behalf. First, you had to find a rootworker and then you had to convince them to make a hand for you and pay them whatever their fee was, no questions asked.
Any rituals they prescribed you or tasks assigned must be followed scrupulously. But once you had a mojo hand, especially one containing John the Conqueror, it meant that you were a force to be reckoned with.
I’m doing all the guitar, bass and vocal parts on this track. I added Slight Return to the title as a little tip of the hat to another major influence of mine, the immortal Jimi Hendrix. Hendrix was well aware of the lore mentioned here and his song “Voodoo Child (Slight Return)” references similar themes.
During the last verse, you’ll see a quote, placed over a pic of Muddy Waters. It comes from the movie Crossroads, starring Ralph Machio; not to be confused with the movie Crossroads, starring Britney Spears.
It’s the story of a young, classical guitarist who dreams of nothing but playing the Mississippi Delta Blues. He’s a classical music major at The Juilliard School of Music but is mostly obsessed with Robert Johnson, arguably the greatest blues man ever.
It’s a 70s funk theme, set in outer space. So put on your best pair of corduroy bell bottoms and platform shoes, dip your head in a bucket of glitter and step out onto the launch pad. We’re about to take the funk to a whole new level.
Space, the final frontier. These are the voyages of the starship Funkalyze.
This is the video for Unchanged. The .mp3 song download is available for patrons, over at Patreon.
It’s an original, definitely in the vein of my signature brand, a type of madness so strange that I had to give it a new name. I call it Purple Mind Licorice Music®️.
It combines alternative rock, funk, jazz, folk, blues, heavy metal and psychedelia. It’s a long name but Parliament already has Funkadelic and well, let’s face it, Alterna-Funk-N-Roll isn’t nearly as sexy as Purple Mind Licorice Music. Why yes, I do tend to talk about my music like James Brown talked about his. Thank you for noticing.
Side note, if you haven’t seen the filmGet On Up, it’s surprisingly good. I’m a big fan of The Godfather of Soul, The Minister Of New New Super Heavy Funk (even if he was a total wacko, in real life). But for whatever reason, I didn’t think the movie would be all that great. I was delightfully wrong.
Besides, alternative is a lousy category. Any genre that contains Nirvana, REM, Alice In Chains, Weezer, Coldplay and Bush isn’t particularly helpful in guiding listeners’ decisions. They seriously need to scrap that garbage and revisit the drawing board.Back to the business at hand. I’ve played this song live in my band but we just never managed to get a decent recording of it.
I’m doing the vocal and all the bass and guitar parts. Here, I abandoned my memories of how we played it in the band and just started from scratch, all by myself, just me and my computer drummer, Stinky the Robot.
Fake It ‘Til You Break It
I’ve got a habit of improvising my lead guitar parts, as opposed to writing out a solo in advance. There are songs that I write solos for but those are special cases. Usually, I just improvise and keep the bits that I like.
If anyone takes issue with that, many years ago I read an interview with David Gilmour (Pink Floyd) in a guitar magazine. He said that’s the same process he uses in the studio.
He would take several, improv passes at a song, then cut and paste the bits he liked. Later, he’d go back and learn those parts for the live shows.
Comfortably Numb was done that way and I think that song did alright. It sold like over a thousand copies or something. Trust me… in my head, that joke was hysterical.
Of course, I also have a habit of keeping what I regard as being some of “the more charming mistakes“, for better or for worse. There’s one or two of those in the jam section at the end of this tune. I was tempted to re-record those bits but if they make me giggle, then they stay. Giggles are a precious commodity, not to be wasted.
These wounds, open and tender Reveal your face to me Into the chalice of my arms The blood of your suffering flows free
It’s a mild mannered possession, This waiting for the rain Encumbered by the spell and Groggy in the slumbering delay
A scrap of ribbon, fallen From a lover’s hair Found by the boots of boredom Lament for things not yet dead
A piece of my soul floats there Down in the puddle below Somewhere in a watch pocket An insane notion explodes
This is my cover of the song “The Weight” by that excellent group known simply as The Band.
“It consisted of four Canadians and one American: Rick Danko (bass guitar, vocals, fiddle), Garth Hudson (keyboards, accordion, saxophone), Richard Manuel (keyboards, drums, vocals), Robbie Robertson (guitar, vocals), and Levon Helm (drums, vocals, mandolin, guitar).”
I’ve had a deep love of this song for as long as I can remember. It’s got a fun, upbeat vibe to the music but the lyrics (as the title suggests) are very heavy.
It’s a song about loneliness, disappointment and suffering. It’s about asking where you turn when all your best laid plans have fallen apart.
When I do a cover song, I usually try to reinvent it to some degree. I try to put something of my own mark on it. In this case, it didn’t feel right to completely reshape the song. There are really only two ways that I’ve wandered away from the original.
One is that I had to somehow fill up the empty space left by Garth’s piano playing. I chose to do that with harmony guitar parts, because guitar is my instrument and I gave them a simple and slightly somber quality, to accent the lyrics.
The other is that I shortened the chorus and used heavy effects on the vocal harmonies. I’m doing all the vocal, guitar and bass parts on this. The drums are by Stinky the Robot, my computer-based drummer, who is even more difficult to work with than a real drummer, if that’s even possible.
Special thanks to the following people for providing the evocative video footage that helps bring to light our social problem of the lost and disenfranchised. Homelessness and mental illness are entirely too prevalent and much more needs to be done.
We can’t be a healthy society unless we take care of our own and that means everyone, however unpleasant it might be to look into that chasm and think “There, but for the grace of God, go I.” We must do more… much more.
If you have the means to do so, please donate your money and your volunteer time to one or more of the many quality organizations that offer help to the homeless, the mentally challenged and to stray animals. Most of the people and animals on the street got there by bad luck and they deserve a second chance.
Here is my cover of The Velvet Underground’s excellent song, Sweet Jane.
The images in the video are “famous Janes”, with the exception of course of the two photos of the old Stutz brand motorcar, which is referenced in the lyrics.
All bass, guitar and vocals are me.
The drums are by Stinky the Robot… because that’s a good name for the drummer who lives inside my computer. He plays only what I program him to play, he’s drunk only half as often as a human drummer and he smells better.
The .mp3 song file is available for patrons, over at:
Nothing like a crime of passion to spice up your Saturday night. Here’s a little bit of murderous rage, tucked into a nice, folk song for ya. This is “Hey Joe”, a live cover song video by my band, Magus & The Plastic Infinity.
Words and music to the original are by Billy Roberts. Obviously, Jimi Hendrix is who made the song famous.
Guitar and vocals – Trent Boswell
Support the creation of more music, poetry and madness by Trent Boswell, at:
Sometimes Nine was one of my old bands. This music video is for the song “A Thang”.
The song was mainly John’s idea but overall, still a collaboration. The lyrics were written by me. It’s called “A Thang” because it’s in the key of A and for a while, it had no name. We’d end up saying “Let’s play that A thing”. Goofy but true.
Memory soothe my mind With with endearments of a time A terrain, cool and kind Where we walked, unafraid
It’s hard to find a place To keep your memory I came to the crest of forever The edge of the wheel, far gone
In search of things that I held in my hand A palace of grandeur, it stands in a land A far off way from here, a man with Cool, candied celebrations… celebrations
Still on pause, no more Now, lambent angels, by the score No wounds beyond recall And joy adorns my eyes
If you’ve watched more than a couple of my music videos, then you’ve probably already figured out that I’m not exactly the go-to guy for upbeat, happy, cheerful stuff. No, I tend to gravitate towards a gritty type of realism that often steers drunkenly over the white line, into the oncoming traffic of blatant nihilism.
But I do have my occasional moments of peace, love, joy, the ultimate beauty of life and the universe… you know, all that happy, sappy shit. This is one of them.
So, get it while it’s hot, because I don’t usually serve this particular, gourmet dish in my joint. My greasy spoon typically sells cheeseburgers and beer, with a side of kick in the groin.
From the album Flagship by Trent Boswell. Full album and individual songs are available for streaming and/or purchase, at iTunes, Amazon Music, Spotify and other music services.
Trent Boswell – guitar, vocals
Words and music by Trent Boswell
Home At Last
Butterfly squadron, airborne children Sweet love and flowers, rain from above Tadpole navies trade guns for babies There ain’t no death here, no lies, only love
I’m in the fields of forgiveness, To the left of the sea Towering castle awareness, Summoning me
Butterfly squadron, airborne children Sweet love and flowers, rain from above Tadpole navies trade guns for babies There ain’t no death here, no lies, only love
World is awoken; all are attending With apologies spoken, All wounds are now mending High in the sky, we can see What we’ve strived for… We’re finally free
I’m in the fields of forgiveness, To the left of the sea Towering castle awareness, Summoning me
Ocean spray wonderful Freedom to laugh We’re in the land now We’re home at last
Here’s a Pink Floyd cover I did. This is the song “Childhood’s End” and it’s from their album, Obscured By Clouds.
Trent Boswell – vocals, guitar, bass
You shout in your sleep Perhaps the price was just too steep Is your conscience at rest If once put to the test? You awake with a start To just the beating of your heart Just one man beneath the sky Just two ears, just two eyes
You set sail across the sea Of long past thoughts and memories Childhood’s end, your fantasies Merge with harsh realities And then as the sail is hoist You find your eyes are growing moist All the fears never voiced Say you have to make the final choice
Who are you and who am I To say we know the reason why? Some are born; some men die Beneath one infinite sky There’ll be war, there’ll be peace But everything one day will cease All the iron turned to rust All the proud men turned to dust And so all things, time will mend So the song will end
Words and original music written by Pink Floyd. I’m covering the song but I’m not charging anything for it, because seriously… who can afford Pink Floyd royalties?!
But you can support the creation of more music, poetry and madness by Trent Boswell, at:
His original recording has the slick, studio mixing of the vocals and the instruments. The original gives all of the cool, background sound effects that give the impression of space travel. Bowie’s “Space Oddity“ is arguably a masterpiece.
Any attempt to re-create that would be an exercise in vanity, and one which is bound to end in failure and disappointment.
If it did somehow succeed, it would still be nothing more than a staid rehash of something that was already done and done incredibly well. So, I went the opposite way with this.
I think it’s safe to say that astronauts don’t get to take their guitars (if they have them) on space flights. But if they did… that’s what I wanted this to sound like.
I wanted to give the auditory impression of a lonely space traveler, Sitting inside a little capsule, out there, in the unknown. Therefore, The audio is nothing more than a guitar and vocal track.
It’s mixed in such a way as to sound small, like it’s being played from inside the rocket. It’s supposed to sound like it’s being transmitted on a frequency that the space traveler isn’t the least bit certain will ever be heard.
Much like the plaque that American astronauts placed on the Moon, all those years ago, it’s a statement to some thing, anything, that may be out there. It’s an isolated signal, announcing “I am here”, even if no one else ever knows that I was here. It’s the tree falling in the woods, with no one around to hear it.
The video attempts to capture what I can only imagine are the two predominant emotions astronauts must feel. One is the giddy, childlike exhilaration of exploring uncharted territory… “We’re going into space! We’re going to the Moon!”
The other is the dread, mortal fear of something going horribly, horribly wrong. When things go wrong in space, it’s no small matter. Errors in space often result in immediate, violent death.
Perhaps even worse, is the possibility of becoming stranded. It’s the fear of being all alone, with no possibility of rescue. It’s the real and present danger of being doomed to endless wandering, sitting and waiting to run out of oxygen, to run out of food and water… waiting to run out of hope.
My grateful thanks go to the following people, for providing the images that I used to (hopefully) convey these ideas. The musical performance will likely fall short of even the sparsest expectations. Yet, I believe that the visual imagery is more than enough to make it worth the four and a half minutes of your time. This is a credit which goes entirely to the photographers and videographers. The honor is all theirs.
When you lose control And door dogs yelp for your soul The world just frays apart But we know where to start To pull it back together And this time for the better Now we know we must let her Slip inside our minds She protects us in the climbs We climbed a little too high, Passed through the fear to die We know that space and time Is not where we stand Don’t you think we would understand? If we were supposed to know But here is the matter at hand We know how to roll We don’t need no control Over all that we have known We know how to roll
The world it moves too fast Then it moves too slow And then it moves too fast But don’t you think we know The confusion that we cast It all comes back together But never quite the same Now you’ve been and you know I was there and I saw you roll I watched you lose control Over all that you had known Watched you pull it back together And this time for the better Now you know you must let her Slip inside your mind She protects you in the climbs You climbed a little too high Passed through the fear to die But we know that space and time Is not where we stand Don’t you think we’d understand? If we were supposed to know Well here is the matter at hand We know how to roll We don’t need no control Over all that we have known We know how to roll
This song is a Pink Floyd song that we did. This one isn’t very well known, except by the most hardcore Floyd connoisseurs. The tune is from an album entitled More, which was the soundtrack to an even more obscure movie by the same name.
Recorded live by Magus & The Plastic Infinity, at a club in Wilmington, NC.
Trent Boswell – guitar, vocals
Skip Eames – drums
David Fleet – bass
Come on, my friends, let’s make for the hills They say there’s gold but I’m looking for thrills You can get your hands on whatever we find, Because I’m only coming along for the ride
Well, you go your way, I’ll go mine I don’t care if we get there on time Everybody’s searching for something, they say I’ll get my kicks on the way
Over the mountains, across the sea Who knows what will be waiting for me? I could sail forever to strange sounding names Faces of people and places don’t change
All I have to do is just close my eyes To see the seagulls wheeling In those far distant skies All I want to tell you, all I want to say Is count me in on the journey, Don’t expect me to stay
Music and lyrics written by Pink Floyd (Roger Waters, David Gilmour, Nick Mason and Richard Wright). All rights to the song belong to someone else, someone really, really rich.
Support the creation of more music, poetry and general madness by Trent Boswell at:
Many are they Who have whispered lies Many are they Who have made me despise Many are the lies And many who have heard She knows that I could love her If not for fear of that word
You know that I’ll try Put a little sunlight in your eye You know that I’ll try Put a little shine in your smile And you know that You can come with me, anytime But you know that I have fear Of the fear and the lies
This piece is from an upcoming collection of poems, called conjunct neptune. The details of the book are in the link, which is the first poem that I wrote in the series. If you haven’t been through that one, it might be more helpful to read it, first. There, I explain what the theme of the book is.
This piece is about Luna, our Moon, when She reaches the point in the roughly twenty-nine day, lunar cycle that She sits in the same space with Pluto… you know, that thing that wasn’t a Planet and then it was for a while… and then it wasn’t, again.
Pluto is similar in several ways to Saturn. The similarity resides in that both Saturn and Pluto/Hades represent a miserly, curmudgeonly, old and cranky energy. They’re both decidedly masculine in presentation but definitely not in a loving father kind of way. Saturn is said to have eaten his own younguns.
Pluto is the Roman God of Wealth. While not identical in nature to Hades, He is similar enough, in many respects.
He holds dominion over wealth, particularly anything that is obtained from the Earth. Since our whole economy is (or was or ought to be; you decide) based on the trading of gold, silver and thousands of other minerals, that’s arguably a rather huge amount of influence on money.
All that goes into the making of the things we buy and sell and trade, it all comes out of the Earth. Even services use material resources (offices, paper recording keeping and endless cups of coffee). This means that they, too, are part of Pluto’s territory.
The Greek equivalent of Pluto is Hades, who is famous for presiding over the Underworld, as it was laid out in Greek mythology. While Hades is not synonymous with Christian concepts of Satan or the Devil, He was still considered to have a brooding, intense personality. It’s said that He was the least-liked of all the gods and usually called upon only for curses.
One thing is sure enough, when astrologers look to Pluto, when other planets are aspecting that body, the effect is one of intensification. Whatever it is, the force of Pluto is one that assists in creating wealth; many uber-rich folks have a Jupiter/Pluto conjunction in their natal chart. But that same energy acts as a multiplier of other ideas and behaviors, as well. Not all of them are good, by anyone’s yardstick.
Pluto generally gives a dark, rather gruff and grumbly, moody tone, one which is keenly interested in power, information, serious research, the accumulation of large amounts of money and so on. The characters of Scrooge and Dr. Frankenstein both come to mind.
Pluto’s influence is the stuff that spy novels, governmental coups and hostile corporate takeovers are made of. So when the lovely, sweet and nurturing energy of the Moon meets with the Lord of Hell, the mood tends to turn a little dark.
This is compounded by the fact that (among Her sweeter qualities) Luna is also a harbinger of mystery, confusion and sometimes, even madness. These are usually (although by no means, always) in reference to initiations and rites of passage. But sometimes, it’s the plain ol’ garden variety crazies.
When Luna conjoins Pluto, attitudes in general lean toward the more greedy, distrustful and even the downright paranoid.
This is not to say that a person who has Luna conjunct Pluto in their chart would have these terrible (or the more positive) traits. A person has many Planets and aspects between them, each thing acting as a counterweight against the others.
Here’s a neat list of famous peeps who have this aspect. They’re a wide mix of personality types, though it’s safe to say that most of them lean toward the intense side of things, even when it’s a positive flavor of intensity. So this piece isn’t about bashing anyone who has that aspect (nor is any other piece in the collection).
No, this is about the energy of these two stellar bodies, by themselves, if we were somehow able to isolate them from everything else. We cannot, obviously. In this hypothetical case, the nurturing of the Moon is almost always degraded and polluted by the the obsession that Pluto represents. The wealth multiplication of Pluto is deranged by the comfort-seeking of Luna and results in “I need all of it, so I can feel good.”
If you enjoy the poem, consider supporting more such creative madness and lunar/plutonian madness, by yours truly, over at Patreon/Magus72.
Now, bearing all of these arcane ideas in mind, I give you (or rather, I row you across the river Styx, to the dark, forlorn shores of)…
what fresh hell is this?
of what use, is your clever array of pointless words?
when all, soon enough, becomes kindling for the black flames of unforgiving abyss?
sour not, my tired ear, you tiny, petulant slug
muddle not, what little respite is left, of sweet, peaceful silence with all your futile mumblings of hope and dreams and other, such soap opera nonsenses
leave me alone
and keep all your words… all those pathetic, condemned souls, standing foolish on the gallows, as if last words were ever anything more than last
ask me no favors
i expect you to lie
for i see into the murky heart of all your dark, shady schemes all your plotting and planning to stab me in the back once i am not looking
and because of this, i am always looking
i am always watching
i never sleep
i have cameras and listening devices, bugs planted everywhere and a legion of spies
because one must take great care, and use only a measure of the mean, an average of what intelligence they offer using only the most plausible bits of what the bulk of them say
never place all your bets on the words of any one, particular spy because you cannot trust spies nor words, nor people, nor intelligence
nor anything else, for that matter; not that anything matters
the only thing that you can trust is that trust in anything is, in itself… untrustworthy
trust only that things will always break and that they must be repaired trust only that things will die and that the burial of these things is expensive
the undertaker is himself, always on the take and hence, i abstain from the taking on of anything that has a pulse because such things are merely mouths to feed they are things which get sick and doctors, too, are expensive and they are things which disappoint you, break your heart
but i’m more sensible than all that; i paid the doctor to remove my heart
most sensible purchase i ever made, that surgery
hearts and souls and conscience, these are luxuries that are far too expensive too many sick days, lost wages and worries which are not worth the wear and tear
but the point is…
i’m watching you because i know your ways
you and your patiently, waiting for me to die or to slip up or fumble, so that you may usurp my power
i know of all your clandestine, assassin’s designs your machinations for the taking of all that i have all that i have worked for and all that i have stolen all that i have swindled away from the trusting all that i have, only because i possessed the backbone, the fortitude, to slay the meek to take what was theirs and make it my own
in short… i know you
because i see the bitter truth of things, how all are self-concerned, consumed with self and nothing, nor anyone else
therefore, i keep to myself and i keep everything for myself i retain all that is, as my own
since when did anyone ever do anything for me?
you must take by force and by fakery by clever graft and by hard work and by brute force and by the bloody blade and you must never give anything away, not ever, not to anyone and never sell anything that you may need, later and never keep anything that you can sell and never sell anything too cheaply but never hold onto anything that is cheap and will depreciate in value, over time but never spend too much on anything
you must be wily and wise and clever and most of all, ruthless and cunning
for all that there is, in this barren world, is the having of things and the having, not of things
there is the taking and the being took and nothing else
and they’ll all try to take everything that you took from someone else
they’ll try to take it for themselves in a heartbeat, leaving you with nothing but an empty basket of space, where things used to be
except that there will be no basket, because they’ll have taken that, too
and so, mark my words, you dying insect…
not that words were ever anything worth marking down, unless they were the words on the deeds to land and bank accounts…
you mark my words…
you’d better take and take quickly or else be took from
and you’ll be left not a solitary crumb, not a single morsel, to put into the greedy, little mouths of all your expensive, insect offspring
now, off and away with you
i’ve no time for you
i’m terribly busy, watching everything that was or is or ever will be
watching it all burn and crumble into ash and blow away, into oblivion
Author’s Note: This piece is brand new. This piece is ancient. It speaks of things which happen daily. It shares memories of the long, long ago. It is deeply rooted in yesterday. It is severed from everything except tomorrow.
No more crawling, borrowed knees To beg or steal a parched penance Privilege of chewing Tiny, tinfoil excuses
Receipts, all signed Cuneiform zero There, in the register Where it speaks of the balance Which is long overdue A large and loud emptiness
The slaying of pragmatism And the prodigal son The wisest of investments Healthy, constant dividends Since there are no returns
Assets freely traded On the scales in the marketplace Sacrifices, invisible, smoking On strange altars of doubt
Multiplication of manna eaten in secret Loaves baked, foreign recipes Nets tossed into distant waters Plucking up fishes, filling the nets Pouring floods out of the wide mouth Fleeing the estate, belly of greater fish Absconding from duty Tariffs of masticating consummation
Cutting off the heads of what was, Peeling away, shedding foul-smelling skin, Pulling off all those silvery flakes of armor Toss carcasses in frying pan, Serve with herbs grown in new earth Feast, fructifying small kingdom And a table for one
No more buried talents All now upon display A day of rest is earned In the refusing of yesterday’s complacency Tossing out its tired labors
Cutting down the vines Which brought decades of wine Wine that choked those throats which drank In the seeking of blindness Attempting to drown out All hearing of familiar, droning complaints
A fatted calf not missed, From the cool, shaded hammock That swings peacefully in a calm, quiet Where the only shadow cast Is that of the grand, old oak tree Whose face is always welcome Who speaks only and ever Kindly of its kin Or not at all
Wait now, at the oasis, For the promised bride’s coming Who brings the cool water from the well, For a desert weary camel
All is soon to be right, For the steadfast resistance Against worldly temptations
Sovereignty steps out Dropping the broken, black irons Of miserable bondage Lead, flowing through the river veins Of miserly brothers Cruel rage of bad blood
New, mazel tov celebrations Of kaphar, divine grace Selah and hallelujah In a day of jubilee
The god of forgetfulness, Is ever gracious and joyful Drunk on the charms Of plentiful, good company
Regaled today, by delightful tales, Told by they who arrive on the morrow During a banquet, yet to bloom Banking on its promise Of them and their warm presence
A toast is drunk daily To what is seen Which is nothing For what is In the eyes Most of which Is good
A steward, in secret Stealing everything that was sacred Receives all, in due course New master’s blessings Of themselves, a fine reward
And spared a death, daily The stoning of harsh, marble law Seven generations Removed from the sight And all senses
Tools of old bone Hand me down worries Covet, instead, that wild courage Which rails against the unknown
Naked, cast out No starved, gulag wages Demanding the whole The lion’s share of nary A single thing
Punished sin of necromancy Crime of insisting upon the rubric Of a heritage of heresy Brooding there, in the long lines Where impatient fools bicker and stew Wrestling with the dogs over scraps
A hindsight, an insight A bird advances, eagerly Plopping itself into the hand
The exiling of perdition Raises up its secret children High above the floods Where the true blessings of heaven May kiss them upon their heads Sealing in immunity against sorrow
That these should never dwell In that place of woeful wandering Stone gardens of Golgotha Where is never and nothingness Only long, dusky shades Commiserating with the dead
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Kevin Trent Boswell has many seven books of poetry published, all available on Amazon and at Conjure Work.