Tag: dark

Recording of “none” by Kevin Trent Boswell

in the current

The Open Mic Series – “none”

Here’s a really neat project that I’m pretty excited about!

I asked some of my friends to make recordings of themselves reading my poems. Quite a few thought it was a great idea and were more than happy to contribute.

The link here is the .mp3 of the first one I’ve chosen to present to you. You can click on it and just listen or right-click and save, if you want to keep it. It’s free!

By the way, if you want to help out and support more cool stuff like this, see my Patreon page, Magus72.

I’ll be posting them here, one at a time. I’ve had a lot of fun putting this together and I hope you enjoy listening to them.

The main thing I wanted to achieve here is get a variety of people, reading the pieces… in the way that they hear them.

None of the readers were given any prompts about how to read. A few people preferred to have something assigned to them and so I picked for them. But in most cases, they chose their own pieces to read.

This first poem is called “none” and it’s from my book in the current.

Our guest reader is Xander and he did a great job with it.

Recording of “none” by Kevin Trent Boswell

I’m posting the text, as well. That way, you can follow along or read it first, then listen or just listen and find out where it takes you… your choice. Enjoy.

none

mandala being nightmare…

nothing being curse…

still we strive for

something!

she cries

in her

elliptical

orbit

cycle of nothingness

somethingness

separation

dance

eros

chance

death,

arousal and

denial

correct,

of course

the role being

after all

seductress

how could one say

that she was wrong?

how could one argue

that anything

was ever

wrong?

polarities

cry of response

no avail

she is

in heat

hears

nothing

of my

dharma

portions of

infinity

etc.

no wrong

only difference

how must one

proceed in

seeking

to curse

the void?

from the book, in the current

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https://www.patreon.com/magus72

I cross-post the public works here. Patrons-only content is available, there.

Liber ex Liberi – The Book of Children

What’s Left

thundering jaws

of ten thousand locusts

precise darts of prejudice,

blood dragons, each

entering with passwords,

polite, unassuming…

a pair of waiting and frail,

glass, lidless eyes

a clamor of messages,

all tattered, forgotten

mentioned in the never

and not even one,

ever put to sweet rest

urgencies, oddly angled

in ambivalent anxiety

inked into the crumpled,

sticky papers that fell

behind tired yesterday,

underneath

that old

shoe

somehow this,

and less so, the twisting

of syllabic, golden emblems

who tumbled readily down,

out of that stiff mouth, stuffed full

with reproachful disgrace;

scrambling as it does,

against the mocking barb

of tinfoil and iron

and just a touch

of freshly picked parsley

a thing branded promise,

the pledge of a feather…

that soft and superfluous

(perhaps a touch prideful)

grace of a king

in evening’s repose,

enjoying the dessert

of golden balcony light

in the smooth, gilded sunset

and that trancelike, wild aura

that it sprinkles on the children,

who play in the courtyard

of royal toys,

down below

the come-hither awareness

of a flittering scent

which lingers on a fickle hint,

of watering breezes

in a dallying, broad summer,

now too late for the dance

soon these specters of brief visitation

become rusty, bent turnstiles,

small, awkward entry points

into the twisted wilderness,

swallowed by the clanging,

stormy, brown cupfuls

of dingy, soiled clouds,

spilling over, full

of their heart’s hateful sickness

and penance, kneeling quietly

at the headstone of dawn

these, and the falling of a

thousand yellow flakes

of crumbling memory

waiting there, as prude passers

of irascible judgements, harsh laws,

resting now more sternly

upon that shredded, old tongue;

the only one that remembers

how its meals were brought forward

on the silver and linen

and lovely, laced smile

determined, stayed flesh

all raked and peeling off,

at the tender, quick bone,

by white, stropped, dream blade

and its curled, new awakening

a thin, crisp snake

in its cool, keen infancy,

all smooth and glittery

and sly, to the touch

flying through the reels

of spring’s old, home movies

and bounding with gusto,

through autumn’s false reckonings

plunging into the downy,

limber, white gristle

that new, tinkling home

where all goes up with excitement

and is carried frenetically

into that ray of loud swiftness;

a focused, clear light

and tiny ringlets of dew,

a moistening of the jowls

of those murderous, howling,

mad beasts of oblivion

gathered early, for supper

at the table of long privilege

and tall, wealthy poise

where several chairs down

is still a praiseworthy elevator

shortened only by a skip

and a contract of devotion

and that signature handshake

which might allow one, if lucky,

to scramble into a hurried,

apathetic bliss

onto the next,

of those stained flights

of narrow steps,

hammered into place

with the gigantic, steel bones

of ruthless, porcelain dolls

archways of ascension

leading the feeble militia

into pathways of plenty

of sweat and spilt blood

and on, to the pined-for illusion

of the every bit

Titles now available on Amazon

Dark Matter – Poems of Horror and Depravity

in the current

Next

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Conjure Work

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SoundCloud

My album, “Flagship”, on CDBaby

Antiverse

Wednesday Night Group

during his therapy session,
while each were sharing,
respectively, what they felt
was their higher purpose in life…
Jerry spoke up

undeterred by his own rudeness
in cutting off a fellow confessor’s
heart-wrenching story
of loss and liquid lament,
mid-sentence

Jerry spouted out,
with a strangely calm resolve,

I think that I was meant to do a lot of cocaine.

it was peculiar that he raised his hand,
since he clearly wasn’t willing to wait even one more second;
he’d started speaking, before his arm had even reached
full extension

there was, after that…
a noticeably uncomfortable
five or so seconds of…
silence

numb jaws,
flushed faces
perplexed looks

Jerry continued

I believe in the perfect perfection of God’s Will.

Nothing has ever occurred
that was not originally
of God’s intent.

Furthermore,

and here, he smiled broadly,
clearly pleased with his own, peculiar, thought process

God is nothing at all
like people have assumed.
God is like a reliable toaster
and He always pops out perfectly toasted bread.

I do a lot of cocaine.
And so I conclude that
I was meant to do a lot of cocaine.
Because, if it wasn’t God’s will,
then God wouldn’t allow it.
God wants me to do a lot of coke.
It’s part of the divine plan.

quite a bit more…
silence

those in attendance checked in,
with the inside of themselves,
that yes, they were indeed awake
and not just dreaming
in their beds

the woman sitting beside Jerry
felt her tongue
growing heavy and thick

the usually quite reliable and familiar-feeling
muscle in her mouth
now plummeting down into new,
strange unfamiliarity,
functioning as little more than a
old, motel carpet with a bad, floral pattern;
lying in the way of her breathing,
collecting fuzz and dirt and hair
from the boots and flip-flops of loud, annoying vacationers
and conventioneers from Indiana, police conferences

one throat cleared…

this sound was a decidedly clear signal, as if the
all-clear flare had just been fired up into the newly interesting air,
signaling to the combat-weary troops that they could,
once again, raise their heads out of the tired trenches

a solitary cigarette ash fell onto a designer shoe knockoff
one, older man shifted angrily in his wobbly chair
and managed to slosh a bit of coffee
on his brand new, polo shirt

several others nervously sipped their own coffees and sodas
while others sat in amazement
and some in a giddy but hushed, chuckling amusement

Tom, the group’s bemused leader arched forward in his chair,
placed his elbows on his knees
with an unusual force,
trying to anchor his anger
and remain diplomatic, despite the outburst against order
and after releasing his clenched jaw,
he somehow allowed himself to say

Thank you for sharing, Jerry.

Anyone else have anything…
anything…
at all?

Kevin Trent Boswell

From the new book, Next

Now available, on Amazon

stun

cigarette ash
burning long,
conical
the way it happens
when you draw
hard and fast

nothing else
moves

arm lifts
to mouth
lips purse
an exhale of smoke
arm drops

eyes still
fixed
on reflections
dancing on
automobile glass

the news
is still news

frozen
words
moving…
streaming
nonstop
through the mind
on auto play
over and over

eventually
the message,
heavy,
will settle
into place

Kevin Trent Boswell

Now available, on Amazon:

in the current

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

I cross-post the public works here. Patrons-only content is available, there.

Liber ex Liberi; The Book of Children

lovely thing

inspired
a poem

lesser fortune,
it drips
blood

slight,
the wound

crude,
its cause

as such,
it shall
remain
ever so

brief

Kevin Trent Boswell

Now available, on Amazon:

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.

Liber ex Liberi; The Book of Children

2020

Death’s message heralded on dragonfly wings

Silent trumpet sounding, the whole day long

Loss, now the winner of so many things,

Lords over the grieving, threatening the strong

Kevin Trent Boswell

Now available, on Amazon:

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.

Enthusiasm

The Divine Healer works through their hands
Those hands wrapped in latex,
Connecting and disconnecting tubes,
Wires, IVs, pushing gurneys, handing out tools,
Pulling charts close to see through the tears
Holding up those who are no longer able
To stand for themselves
Holding the hands of the terrified mothers,
Fathers, brothers, sisters, wives and husbands
As they check the vitals
Wiping away the sweat from patient’s brows
Giving their colleagues a thumbs up
When they manage to wrestle one back,
However briefly,
From the infinite void
Wringing those hands into fists
As the frustration and fear and
Righteous anger hit the boiling point
Stroking the cheeks of those who are
In the very throes of death

Through those nauseated nostrils,
God endures the stench of bleach, blood,
Latex, alcohol and unidentifiable cleaners
Pushing through that palpable sense of fear,
Usually noted only by dogs
Now an ever present part of
The olfactory landscape
The scent of patients who have
Shit themselves or pissed themselves
The nervous farts in close quarters
That somehow make their way past the masks
The strange, surreal scent of fresh flowers
Coming from out of nowhere,
As the Angel of Death slips quietly,
Unseen into room 318
Those noses that itch but cannot be scratched
That need desperately to wipe away the snot
But cannot be wiped

God moves through their legs,
Running them down the halls
For the fifteenth time, just this morning,
To answer the incessant, mad calls of
Code after code after code after code after…
Lifting patients from gurney to bed
Then from bed to stretcher, go the dead
Those muscles holding them up,
Refusing to quiver and wilt
Under the weight of an
Obvious abandonment
Refusing to crumple up into a ball
And cry themselves to sleep
Because supplies are needed on the next floor
And someone must take them and
There is no one else to do it
Walking on eggshells at home,
Careful not to touch anything
That their loved ones might touch
Resting those weary limbs on
Uncomfortable cots and pullout couches,
Instead of resting in between those soft,
Cotton sheets on memory foam mattresses,
For the dread fear of infecting their families

God speaks through those mouths,
Slipping into their cars to go home,
After impossibly long shifts
After inscrutable regimens of scrubbing,
Decontaminating, full of the mortal terror
That some spot might be missed…
Out, out! The invisible blood,
Staining the hands, full of imagined guilt
Which is not truly theirs, to bear
Screaming in those parking lots,
Inside otherwise normal cars,
Station wagons and sedans
Minivans and trucks,
Bloodcurdling moans of sadness
A helpless sense of futility,
Beginning as words but crumbling
At last, into spirals of gibberish
A chasm of meaningless mumbles
And heartbroken sobs
God speaks through those mouths,
Calmly reassuring those who have come,
Reluctantly into the belly of the beast itself
Knowing the dread shock of lying side by side
With those who are almost certainly doomed
Speaking softly in friendly tones,
Half for the benefit of the patient and
Half to convince themselves that
“Everything is going to be ok.
We just have to put this tube in,
So you can breathe”
God makes stupid jokes
Through those mouths,
Little, ridiculous comments,
In an attempt to keep everyone’s
Spirits up and to keep them focused
To keep them from completely collapsing
The Angels prophesy through those tongues
Whispering discreetly to one another
In those sullen hallways
“This one won’t last much longer.
We need to discuss who gets that machine next”
The Spirit of love talks through those mouths,
Insisting to themselves that after only a few,
Restless hours of tortured sleep,
Full of sweat and nightmares,
That they MUST roll out of bed and
Force something into their bellies,
To strengthen them for the fight
Assuring themselves that yes,
It is the right thing to do,
To walk back into the mouth of the whale,
To surrender themselves
To its insatiable hunger for more bodies
Those hungry mouths, that cannot eat
Until the end of a 12 or 16 hour shift
Those mouths, full of the
Acid of a gut that produces inordinate
Amounts of stress
Those mouths, dry and thirsty,
Unable to stop at the water fountain
Because they cannot touch their mask
The tongues of insane healers, willing
To dwell in Death’s living room,
For complete strangers
Informing dosages, calling out instructions,
Calling for tools and esoteric medicines,
Strange cyphers, in languages
That only the minds of Angels
Could ever comprehend
God whispers,
One Holy mouth to another Divine ear
“I know.
You did your best.
There was nothing more you could have done”
The Holy Spirit delivers
Those impossibly awful messages
To the bereaved
Speaking the
Unspeakable news to the families,
Telling them how truly sorry they are
For their loss and how
They so desperately wish they
Could have done
More

God sits behind the eyes of them…
Those bloodshot, horror-stricken eyes
Watching, through the tears
Through the sweat that cannot be wiped away
Filling up the goggles that shield them
Against everything except the misery
Those itchy, swollen eyes
That gaze upon the convulsions
Of those who are drowning
Inside their own lungs
God looks with infinite empathy
Upon those who stare the
Thousand yard stare of
A battle-scarred soldier,
One who has been too long in the shit
And has lost too many friends
Who has witnessed entirely too much
Death
And suffering
God looks into the panicked eyes
Of each person on each bed
And knows full well
Of their very real and very reasonable fear
God cries through those eyes
And yet, upon losing so many children
Looks not backward to the dead
But ahead to those
Who might still be saved

The God who is beyond All Names
Shines total love on you,
All ye sacred brothers and sisters
Of the caduceus, the Divine Staff
Which heals those struck by the
Serpent of Death
In the lost and lonely desert

You, who are possessed by God’s essence
Are illumined in the LVX of the All…
The God who is benevolence itself,
Far more loving than even
Those most generous, kind and
Merciful ones,
Those whose Names we all know well
The God who is is beyond
The idea of God
Is touching us,
Through you

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:

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.

mirror black

your self-hatred runs

the whole way through,

with its shark tooth hunger

and desert thirst

since you only speak of how,

all but you,

everyone else

is the downright worst

yes, they robbed your ego,

of its growth

I’m well aware,

the scars run deep

I‘d have loved you enough,

for us both

but your jaws are locked,

and so both, we weep

Magus

(Kevin Trent Boswell)

The new book is out now, on Amazon:

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.