So Much Blood

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

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

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

So Much Blood

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


©2021 Kevin Trent Boswell


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

Sneaking up behind you, very soon.

Photo by cottonbro

Blood In The Glass

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

Lyrics

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


©2021 Kevin Trent Boswell


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

Magus72 on Patreon
Magus72 on Patreon

Thanks

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

Sunsetoned

Tom Fisk

Mikhail Nilov

Sandip Rai

cottonbro

MART PRODUCTION

RODNAE Productions

Vyacheslav Prisichev

Kelly Lacy

Justin Ashon

Merlin Lightpainting

Eva Elijas

Kindel Media

Nataliya Vaitkevich

ROMAN ODINTSOV

Matthias Groeneveld

SHVETS production

Anthony Shkraba

As well as Timur Weber, Ron Lach and Esmanur Ekşi

That One Time

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

That One Time

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

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

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

©2021 Kevin Trent Boswell


Photo by Faruk Tokluoğlu


Support

Magus72 on Patreon
Magus72 on Patreon

Even In The Littlest Things

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

Even In The Littlest Things – from Dark Matter

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

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

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

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

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

Even In The Littlest Things

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

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

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

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

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

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


©2021 Kevin Trent Boswell


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

Dark Matter – Poems of Horror and Depravity

Available on Amazon

Support for this work

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

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

Magus72 on Patreon
Magus72 on Patreon

This Is A Suicide Note

This Is A Suicide Note

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

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


This Is A Suicide Note

This is a suicide note.

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

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

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

So, here goes:

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

Take it.

This is my last will and testament.

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


©2021 Kevin Trent Boswell

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

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

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

Magus72 on Patreon
Magus72 on Patreon

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

cottonbro

RODNAE Productions

Matthias Groeneveld

Karolina Grabowska

Alex Pelsh

No Rules

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

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

There is no rhythm
To which you might match your steps

No beat
To keep time

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

There is no wrong way to lament

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

There is no cutout pattern
For your sack cloth

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

Anyway, time itself is mourning,
Right alongside you

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

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

Time…
Is nothing more
Than you

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

All formalities have fallen by the wayside

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

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

Time grieves with you,
Throttling too quickly
In this

Grinding clumsily along
In that

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

Sleep
Or do not

Eat
Or wait for a while

Wail
Or be silent

Work
Or linger in lethargic stupor

Laugh
Or find joy in nothing

Do whatever is best
Or worst

And the rest will wait

There is no hurry

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

They all wait,
Patiently, quietly…
To be us

And we,
Them


©2021 Kevin Trent Boswell


Photo courtesy of Ekaterina

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

Magus72 on Patreon
Magus72 on Patreon

White Elephant

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

Collegiate Definition

White Elephant
noun

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

All words and music
©2021 Kevin Trent Boswell


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

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


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

cottonbro

ROMAN ODINTSOV

Kei Scampa

Artyom Saqib

RODNAE Productions

Anastasia Shuraeva

Childhood’s End

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


Lyrics:

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:

Magus72 on Patreon

https://Patreon.com/Magus72


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

Aaron Burden

INNORECORDS PhotoVideos

Blerdi Malushi

Ruvim Miksanskiy

Kelly Lacy

Matthias Groeneveld

Mikhail Nilov

Tima Miroshnichenko

Tobias Bjørkli

Jozef Papp

Yaroslav Shuraev

cottonbro

Rithish Kumar

Taryn Elliott

Tragedy

I met tragedy yesterday
On the south end, today
He smiled at me
Said “Walk this way”
He took my hand, said to me
“Welcome friend. You’ll be with me.”

Said “I’m pleased to know you.”
Said “I’m pleased to do you.”
Said “You may leave…”
“You will return.” He said
“You still smile, child…”
“But you will learn.”

I am no hope***

I said “I want my freedom.”
I said “I gotta be free.”
So, I told that man…
“Get the hell away from me.”
I want my life
I want my life
I want my life
Don’t need no tragedy

*** This is an unspoken lyric. It’s part of the original poem, included here for context.

© 2021 Kevin Trent Boswell

———————

Join the Magus72 music mailing list.

———————

For all of the really cool footage, photography and visual special effects, a very special thank you goes to all of the following people:

cottonbro 

Anna Kester 

Matheus Bertelli 

GEORGE DESIPRIS 

Matthias Groeneveld 

Dominika Kwiatkowska 

Aneta Foubíkova

Leonardo Lamas 

sergio omassi 

Harrison Haines 

Milan Rout 

Krypto Trekker 

Dibakar Roy 

kat wilcox 

RODNAE Productions 

Alex Green 

Ne0siam 

Christopher Ried


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

Patreon.com/Magus72

Magus72 on Patreon

Into the Fold

Music video for “Into the Fold”. Song was recorded live by Magus & The Plastic Infinity, at a club in Wilmington, NC.

Guitar and vocals by Trent Boswell. All music and lyrics written by Trent Boswell.

Lyrics:

Into the Fold

Please bring me into the fold
I long for warmth from cold
I can’t seem to bear the load
And my anger like a stone

I’ve been let down again
They slip right in and call me friend
Lunged at again
I’d prefer another end

Before they leave, you know they lie
Infiltrate and try
To burn my hopes alive;
Cast my dreams aside

I need myself a family
That can protect; I cannot feed
The one I have is so in need

You see the way the story goes
The king is allergic to his clothes
The tragedy is known; it shows

I’ve no idea to ride
The coattails of another’s pride
But if it were to mean my hide
Suppose I’d give it half a try

It has come to seem to me
That the mafioso creed
Is a safe bet when in need
Of a haven in which to bleed

She will kiss and he will crunch
Her kiss hurts more, packs more punch
Unfortunately, not a hunch;
It’s all out to lunch

I need myself a family
That can protect; I cannot feed
The one I have is so in need

© 2021 Kevin Trent Boswell


Don’t forget to hit thumbs up 👍 directly on the YouTube page. Subscribe ✅ and select “all”.

Support the creation of more music, poetry and general madness like this at:

https://patreon.com/magus72

and join the Magus72 music mailing list.

Fear & Lies

Music video for “Fear & Lies”, a song from the album Flagship by Trent Boswell.


Lyrics:

Fear & Lies

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

© 2021 Kevin Trent Boswell


The album, Flagship, is available at:

Flagship, by Trent Boswell - original avant-garde rock music

iTunes

Amazon

Spotify

Or get your own, signed copy of Flagship over at Conjure Work.


Trent Boswell – all guitar parts and vocals

Ed Kopp – bass guitar

Brett Waress – drums

Tommy Brothers – audio engineering

All words and music by Kevin Trent Boswell, as well as album production.


Show Your Support

You can help by hitting the thumbs up 👍 button, directly on the YouTube page.

Subscribe ✅ to get more of this kind of madness. Be sure to ring the little notifications bell 🔔 and select “all”.

Support more music, poetry and madness by Trent Boswell over at: Patreon.com/Magus72

Join the Magus72 Music Mailing List.


Special Thanks To

For all of the really cool footage, photography and visual special effects, special thanks goes to the following people:

cottonbro

KoolShooters

RODNAE Productions

MART PRODUCTION

Aghyad Najjar

Anastasia Shuraeva

Engin Akyurt

Free Creative Stuff

Life Of Pix

Caleb Oquendo

Arvind Balagopal

Annie Spratt

Tỷ Huỳnh

Anete Lusina

Victoria Borodinova

Ana Bregantin

Marcelo Chagas

Joe Curry

Andrea Piacquadio

Rodolfo Clix

Ali Pazani

Elina Krima

Andrew Neel

Also: C Technical, Ketut Subiyanto, Yan Krukov and Diva Plavalaguna


Latest Book Release

remission, poetry by Kevin Trent Boswell
remission, by Kevin Trent Boswell

remission


Other Titles Available

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

Dark Matter

on the page

Liber Ex Liberi

Chaos Comes Apart

in the current

Next

Support more music, poetry and madness by Trent Boswell over at: Patreon.com/Magus72

The Poetry of Kevin Trent Boswell

The Poetry of Kevin Trent Boswell

More Information

YouTube music channel

Instagram

Tumblr

Magus & The Plastic Infinity

the music album, Flagship

Magus Music Facebook page

Music Streaming, Amazon 

Music Streaming, Apple Music 

Music Streaming, Spotify

SoundCloud

Blogger

Twitter

Conjure Sound

Reverb Nation

antiverse

And He Wept

Jesus wept
And I know why
Impossible, the weight
Of this world, to deny

Jesus wept
And I understand it
When so few give love
And so many demand it

Jesus wept
More than he bled
Meaning of the words,
Right over the head

Jesus wept
With heavy heart, breaking
So little effort, to give
All lost, in the taking

Jesus wept
In solemn recognition
Of hatred, beating love
Into submission

Jesus wept
And I do, too
This could’ve been heaven
For me and for you

Jesus wept
Cried harder than I
He knew the potential
We possess and deny

© 2021 Kevin Trent Boswell

Main Photo by @seb

Latest Book Release

remission, poetry by Kevin Trent Boswell
remission, by Kevin Trent Boswell

remission


Other Titles Available

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

Dark Matter

on the page

Liber Ex Liberi

Chaos Comes Apart

in the current

Next


Support more music, poetry and madness by Trent Boswell over at: Patreon.com/Magus72

More Information

YouTube music channel 

Instagram

Tumblr

Magus & The Plastic Infinity

the music album, Flagship

Magus Music Facebook page 

Music Streaming, Amazon 

Music Streaming, Apple Music 

Music Streaming, Spotify

SoundCloud

Blogger

Twitter

Conjure Sound

Reverb Nation 

antiverse

Baby, Lover, Honey, Darlin’

Baby, Lover, Honey, Darlin’ from the album Flagship by Trent Boswell.

Album available at:

iTunes

Amazon

Spotify

Or get your own, signed copy of Flagship over at Conjure Work.


Become a Patron

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

Patreon.com/Magus72


Trent Boswell – lyrics, all guitar parts, lead vocals and backing vocals

Ed Kopp – bass guitar

Brett Waress – drums

Frank Cobb – hand percussion

Steve Gallian – backing vocals


Lyrics:

Baby, Lover, Honey, Darlin’

Baby, lover, honey, darlin’,
When you gonna do right by me?
You know it ain’t funny,
It ain’t about that money
It’s all about you and me

Well, now you’re gone away
Well, now you’re gone away
Well, now you’re gone away

Baby, lover, honey, darlin’,
When you gonna put out that flame
You know you can’t live on cheap cigarettes
And poorly cut cocaine

Well, now you’re gone away
Well, now you’re gone away
Well, now you’re gone away

And it’s just like momma used to say…
There’s gonna be rain some days

Baby, lover, honey, darlin’,
When you gonna take a look and see
You had it all in the palms of your hands
When you gonna do right by me?

Well, now you’re gone away
Well, now you’re gone away
Well, now you’re gone away

And it’s just like momma used to say
There’s gonna be rain some days

Baby, lover, honey, darlin’,
When you ever gonna come down?

© 2021 Kevin Trent Boswell


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Ring the notifications bell 🔔 and select “all


More cool stuff at:

KevinTrentBoswell.com

ThePlasticInfinity.com

conjunct pluto

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.

Saturn/Kronos Eating A Delicious Snack

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)…

conjunct pluto

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 understand?

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

© 2021 Kevin Trent Boswell


Latest Book Release

remission, poetry by Kevin Trent Boswell
remission, by Kevin Trent Boswell

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No More

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

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

© 2021 Kevin Trent Boswell

Photo by K. Mitch Hodge


Latest Book Release

remission, poetry by Kevin Trent Boswell
remission, by Kevin Trent Boswell

remission


Other Titles Available

Dark Matter

on the page

Liber Ex Liberi

Chaos Comes Apart

in the current

Next

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


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KevinTrentBoswell.com

YouTube

Magus & The Plastic Infinity

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burn

i lit myself on fire
for want of a reason not to
without ceremony, swept the ashes
into an old, empty coffee can

on a bit of masking tape
with a felt marker of navy blue
ungraciously catalogued it
abruptly labeling it: “man”

unsure of where to put the thing
i looked around, all about
since it’s nothing that i’d wanted
or would have ever paid for

for lack of a place to put it
there is nowhere, i’ve no doubt
to donate or dispose of it
tossed it into junk drawer

years from now, i suppose
it could just as well be never
i or someone else, unlucky
may stumble onto it again

i doubt it should prove useful
in the future, or really, ever
since there’s a plentiful supply
of the ashes of better men

© 2021 Kevin Trent Boswell

Latest book release:

remission

remission, by Kevin Trent Boswell
remission, by Kevin Trent Boswell

Other Titles Available:

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

Dark Matter

on the page

Liber Ex Liberi

Chaos Comes Apart

in the current

Next

More Information

KevinTrentBoswell.com

YouTube

Magus & The Plastic Infinity

the music album, Flagship

Music Streaming, Amazon 

Music Streaming, Apple Music 

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Serkal of Snakes

Winding through the wild witchery, tripping headlong into tribal trance… follow the wise serpent into the netherworld.

Another bizarre, bombastic track from the electronic music album, Crossing the Rubicon.

The video is live on YouTube for all to enjoy but only patrons can download the audio track for this auditory initiation into the æther.

Tribal drums, layering slowly, steadily, methodically atop one another, just as the a snake winds itself into coils.

Haunting, aboriginal howls from the deep belly of the shamanic didgeridoo. Slip on into the prehistoric pool, the temperature of the primordial soup is just fine.

Patrons can access the .mp3 audio file of this track on Patreon.

© 2021 Kevin Trent Boswell

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Strange Leaf

You might have heard the audio track but the video is an entirely different kind of experience.

Strange Leaf” by Kevin Trent Boswell.

This world has been encoded for your protection. The original poem, “Strange Leaf” is published in the book title, remission, available on Amazon and at Conjure Work.

The audio track for “Strange Leaf” is available as a free download at the Patreon page, Magus72.

While you’re there, look over the benefits and perks that patrons get, exclusive content and lots of other bonuses.

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© 2021 Kevin Trent Boswell

Beat

That is not dead which can eternal lie
and with strange æons, Death itself may die.

      –H.P. Lovecraft

If you found yourself in Cthulhu’s shopping mall, probably in the swim wear section, you might well hear this, playing over the speaker system.

Zero times hydra, to the power of existence, cubed, over the square root of straight jacket. Solve for Y.


This is “Beat” from my horror collection, Dark Matter – Poems of Horror and Depravity.

Beat – from Dark Matter, Poems of Horror and Depravity

It’s been set to a beat, so that your strange æons might be somehow just a touch more symmetrical in nature.

The .mp3 file is attached, feel free to download it and share with anyone you like. Just click the DOWNLOAD button below, to play the track. Or hold the button down and select your SAVE option.



See it on YouTube:

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Beat



Nameless, black
Void and choice-less
Surrendered to night,
Full of dark
Wanting nothing,
Now all is empty
Free to take up any chain
Any desire that one might wish for
No desire, no restriction
No thirst for servitude
There is only the vexing slumber
Hunger for the fat of a new kill
Is somehow become as a stranger
Wandering, wanton hex
A nubile delving into psionic prisms
Load the chamber
With hollow shells of the dead
Projected visions of delirium
Angelic chasms
Frightful clamoring in the cranium
Call back the dogs
And let them sleep
For the dawn will soon enough
Overtake their prey
That tender light, shredding matter
Rending garment and flesh
Quite succinctly
No need of drummers
To time the pulse of this tune
The rhythm of it,
A vacillating pendulum
Lo, it is even without the ability
To stray from its precision
The striker upon the cylinder
Is the pointing, bony finger of
The hand of Death, Herself
The hammer that clangs the bell
Is the Mother of Night, incarnate
The femurs of a thousand heroes
Beating against the tanned hides
Of the children of the same
Her crooked digit,
A culminating of perpetual cycle…
Stick meets skin, head warps and
Sound emanates through eternity
Stick meets skin, head warps and
Sound emanates through eternity
Stick meets skin, head warps and
Sound emanates through eternity
A beat all too well pounded into the
Collective memory
Burned into a hive mind
Fallen into cerebral pits of
“Never before”
We have at last, found the true past
It is even more horrid and shameful
Than we feared
It is full of monsters
It is full of us

Copyright 2021 Kevin Trent Boswell

If you dig this particular brand of madness, you’ll want to support the creation of it and get lots of bonuses that aren’t available here or anywhere else, over on Patreon:

Patreon – Magus72

Latest book release:

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Dark Matter

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Music Streaming, Spotify

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Dangerous

Only one beast in all of creation
Only one which is anywhere known
Finds pleasure, perverse, even vocation
Unnecessarily harming its own

Of nature’s many carnivorous creatures
A vast array of poisons appear
Murder is common among their features
Motives of territory, status and fear

Death was here from the earliest days
Primal defense and sexual stuff
Animals kill in a whole slew of ways
But only one just can’t get enough

Horrific numbers and manners of killing
In the “most-evolved” is hate diagnosed
Not hungry or scared, finds it all thrilling
Only one, to true evil, the host

Complex schemes arise in one beast
Thrives on misery, whenever it can
Though many kill, to say the least
The most murderous critter is man

Copyright 2020 Kevin Trent Boswell

Support the work on Patreon

Latest book release:

remission

remission , by Kevin Trent Boswell
remission, by Kevin Trent Boswell

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Dark Matter

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Liber Ex Liberi

Chaos Comes Apart

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

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Blind In The Sun

If you like bands like Queens of the Stone Age, Jane’s Addiction, Jimi Hendrix or The Mars Volta, then you’ll probably dig this.

This is a brand new recording of the song that I wrote many years ago but never had a chance to record it until now. I’ve played it live with my band quite a few times but unfortunately, we never caught it on tape.

I’m playing the bass and guitar parts and singing. Everything that you hear on this track is me, except for the drums. That’s because I don’t have access to a live drummer right now. Besides, feeding and caring for a wild animal like that is expensive.

Here’s the full video on YouTube. Don’t forget to hit the thumbs up 👍 subscribe ✅ and the notifications bell 🔔

The song is called blind in the sun and the lyrics are below. Originally, it was a poem and I set it to music (hence the Roman numerals in the lyrics).

The .mp3 file is attached to my Patreon page, so you can go there, download it (for free) and play it whenever you want.

I forget sometimes that people don’t always follow my rather eccentric, artistic choices, so I will explain something about this track. I purposefully chose not to clean up the sloppier guitar licks on this track, because it’s the feel that I was going for… teetering on the edge of the abyss.

Going back and punching in smoother, cleaner guitar parts is easy enough. I just didn’t want ’em, not for this. I’ll mention two songs that inspired my playing on this. One is “God”, by Tori Amos. Her guitar player is way better than he sounds on that track. It’s dirty, gritty and foul, for a reason. The song is about existential angst and the loss of faith, so it’s gotta be grimy.

The other is “Come On (Let The Good Times Roll)” by The Jimi Hendrix Experience. On that song, he does what jazz musicians refer to as “going outside”, meaning that he lets his solos wander just a little bit out of time and out of key, on purpose. Of course, he brings it back in or it wouldn’t be interesting. I chose to step outside on this track but hopefully not too much.

Feel free to share the link to this page or the Patreon page, or the YouTube link on your social media, that’s the best form of advertising there is for underground artists. I thank you in advance. Enjoy!

Just click that big, unwieldy link, below, to listen to the track. Or go to the Patreon page. You can download the song from the Patreon page and have it for your very own. Just don’t forget to water it every few days and never feed it after midnight.

Blind In The Sun

https://c10.patreonusercontent.com/3/eyJhIjoxLCJwIjoxfQ%3D%3D/patreon-media/p/post/45543356/0114204adf4a4bb2b4c492b3e1d80cbd/1.mp3?token-time=1609345733&token-hash=2ZL8WItz55_ogZDHvUN7Am6ticXKPOwsOUgMUTJy7_k%3D

I.

Blind in the Sun⠀
Can you cringe beneath
The shadow of a fly?
You’d better try
Running ‘cross the sand
Fire in the hearts of your band
In the joy of being alive
Stripped of delusion
And so forwardly stride

Lost in the garden
with canonized illusions
There are the keepers
Of the tower
But I am not a member
Of the dark December
The light of the sun refracts
In my eye

II.

Everything is water
Electric fluid matter
In a paper cup
Called Time

III.

Somewhere in the North
There are real vampires
I know you go to visit
From time to time
To roll in the stench
The decadence of
Thirst for blood
To dine with a pack
Of wild gods

I have no intent
Of adopting your bent;
Partying down with the devil
On your shoulder

I have no intent
Of going where you went
Beating on a skull
In a hellish midnight circle

But who am I to say?
That you are not ok?
I will simply stay
Behind

Copyright 2020 Kevin Trent Boswell


Copyright 2020 Kevin Trent Boswell


Latest book release:

remission

remission , by Kevin Trent Boswell
remission

Other Titles Available:

Dark Matter

on the page

Liber Ex Liberi

Chaos Comes Apart

in the current

Next

The Poetry of Kevin Trent Boswell

KevinTrentBoswell.com

YouTube

Magus & The Plastic Infinity

the music album, Flagship

Music Streaming, Amazon 

Music Streaming, Apple Music 

Music Streaming, Spotify

SoundCloudBlind In The Sun.mp3

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

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

copyright 2020 Kevin Trent Boswell


Latest book release:

remission

remission, by Kevin Trent Boswell

Other Titles Available:

Dark Matter

on the page 

Liber Ex Liberi 

Chaos Comes Apart 

in the current 

Next 

KevinTrentBoswell.com

YouTube

Magus & The Plastic Infinity

the music album, Flagship

Music Streaming, Amazon 

Music Streaming, Apple Music 

Music Streaming, Spotify

SoundCloud

untitled

the dark nighttime

has many visions,

lost illusions, all seeking

to guide you

into foul madness,

struggling beneath

too-short

and coarse covers

trust your gut,

sweet child

for nothing but light

is inside you

the same

may not always

be said

of the others

look both ways

before you cross over 

the unknown

threshold

there is the light

which is in you

true

and bold

and then there’s

all of the everything 

else

that’s out there

some lights

which have gone out

but haven’t yet

been told

devils may take the

appearance of angels,

so always 

take care

these would

warm themselves

by the fires of

your favors

but themselves,

cannot

return

the good deed

gratitude absent,

and all the 

usual, 

good flavors

are not nearly so much 

in them,

not so much as 

they need

caring, something

they’re sometimes

quite good

at feigning

but they would 

not do so much 

at all,

were they able

to give you

assistance

they assist

by restraining

so that you make

in their making

up the food

on the table

in those dark places,

your rules don’t

make up

for the senses

your eyes

often fail

and your hearing

goes dumb

you‘re a good child,

a smart one

keeps up

strong defenses

against the weaving

of webs that would

have you

succumb

listen not

to easy tales 

of leisure

or love

be generous

to the grateful,

giving too much,

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 the light

whispers its

soft warning

go not lightly

where it would

sternly 

guide you away

lean gentle

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

sadness

your large heart

feeds them 

but the briefest 

time’s highlight

your manners 

won’t bring them

single moment’s

gladness

baleful hunger

returns ever, 

without

pause

more hot and fierce,

and much

stronger

than before

opening you

slowly, 

hiding

their cause

growing more

and more bold,

once you open

the door

in knowing

what warm,

nice feelings

spill out of you

upon your noble,

good faith,

they come

again to dine

a stitch of

incredulous

will keep 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

the pushers

of darkness,

small steps lead

to the dire

be careful

and wise

and don’t

fall for it

strange misgivings

will have you 

to shirk, 

with sudden attitude

even the

friendliest

of those come

hither smiles

the first thing

to go, 

once they get in,

is your mood

lasting longer

than it should,

means you’re taken

by the wiles

hold your memory

tight 

and never let them 

touch

trust, when the way down 

is nagging

and the good feeling 

lacks

harken which hands 

reach for you,

too awful

much

a bother in your belly, 

stops you 

dead in your 

tracks

your energy

will fail,

long before

their thirst

that visceral fear, 

in your warm,

tenderhearted

guts

if you take

the hooked bait,

you’ll soon see

their worst

suspicious,

uncertain

and thinking that

you’re nuts

those uneasy

twinges

that drive you back,

second guessing

from the most

obvious act

of a seeming

benevolence

they’re there

to warn you

of something

bad, pressing

despite daddy’s

words good can 

sometimes draw 

a malevolence

some feed on grace,

manners 

and mother’s charm school

propriety

it’s less commentary

on your love

on more so,

on their bleakness

in spite

of polite

good intentions,

all sobriety

resides in your

maintenance

against your own

weakness

glowing with life,

you are 

and so, must remain

in your poises

stay out of the

shadows

and out

of the foolish

they, and it, wane 

into dark dins

of the most 

horrible noises

which lead

away from light

and down into

the ghoulish

when your social

sensibilities

are suddenly

eviscerated

and it happens

without logical

reasons,

not one

something upon surface

seems

rather

uncomplicated

do not question it,

dear child,

instead…

turn and run

abdominal doubt

scorning the

solid

handshaking

is hidden

inside of

your knotted-up,

inward self

signal of a threat, 

through 

inexplicable

quaking

though they look

the good deal,

put them back

on the shelf

never wander

too closely

to the edges

of the dark

shadows have

been known,

on occasion, 

to jump through

to leap out and swallow

flickering,

pretty things

that spark

those that reside

inside of

pretty things

such as you

keep close

to the guard dogs

who growl

behind fierce eyes

when strange

temptations

come close,

offering favors

do not lean in,

or listen

too well

to their lies

the keepers

of darkness

and light

are close neighbors

and sometimes

those shaded

boundaries 

do fall wide open

for some 

always go there,

eager to steal 

keys

this may shock

or confuse,

sensibilities,

all broken

disappearance 

in the night happens, 

with the greatest

of ease

not all are so nice 

as you, child and know 

that some are the weight

of a great, heavy stone

not everyone

and everything

would have you

to live

some would

consume all,

even marrow

of your bone

every precious,

last drop of

all the blood

you could give

some of the

monsters feed

quietly

on your brain

not keeping you

in such good

but a good many

shapes

most monsters fall out

from the ordinary

and there,

they remain

until you break

their spells  

and your spirit

escapes

creepers

all slithering

down low,

out of light

shielding from

the bright, good

and sensible

day

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

often does

but are only 

cloaks of

drowning 

in the cool shade

storms,

wearing rainbows

where color,

never was

any light

splintering through,

artificially

made

devils with dowries

invite you to 

lie on razor sharp 

pillows

with sweet, sugar

poisons,

sharp in the throat,

catch

because some wicks

take to light

easily, 

like dried-up, old willows

candle burns through

the night,

on first strike of

one match

some things

look a lot like a candle,

a flame or 

a spark

but they

will never burn,

no matter how hard 

you try

use up all 

your matches

and still,

in the dark

some will

always break things

and take things

and lie

about other things

like innocence

and light

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  

they took

I’m sorry to

have to say, child

not all is 

as it seems

in fact, most

things aren’t,

at deep heart

of the matter

in this world,

there are things

far worse 

than bad dreams

and the daylight

does not cause

them all 

just to scatter

some things

are stubborn 

in slow dying,

sowing trouble

and you’ll never

get back

those things

which were taken

guard against the losses

and in time, 

pop your own

bubble

childhood

dies a bit 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 be said, 

always

of the others

Copyright 2020 Kevin Trent Boswell


Latest Book Release

remission

remission, by Kevin Trent Boswell
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The poetry of Kevin Trent Boswell
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ReverbNation

Conjure Sound

Strange Leaf

It’s not about just one thing.

You will easily spot some of the references to what’s going on right now and you’ll be tempted to stop thinking about it any deeper. But there’s far more in this than just what’s on the surface. This piece has no less five, separate meanings.

At the link below, you can listen to the recording. It’s an audio track of a poem that I set to music.

It starts very subtly but as it goes on, more and more layers of sound are building up in the background.

When you click the button, it gives you two options. If you just want to listen, click “view”. If you want to keep it, click “download”.

The words are posted below, in case you want to read over it. Feel free to share it with anyone you want.

Enjoy.

Strange Leaf

Turning over the strange leaf

Turning over the strange leaf

This disease is twisted

Scroll of crisp, fleeting knowledge

Closed

Knowledge of fire

Imminent

Throttle the breath

The king demands to be suffocated

In his sleep

Open the store for business

Give away the store

Surrender the kingdom to foreign invaders

Exposing palace guard

To various and sundry diseases

Each lure is enticing

More flies with honey

Otherwise, who would pay

With their histories?

Draw them all in with promises

Dates, compensation

Envelopes of flesh, pay offs

Reward for job well done

Blown secrets

Welcoming the killer

Taking them in hand

Pressing the lips to theirs

The people marvel, asking… how is it?

That one is so keen on this ruin?

Sitting amid the ashes and smoke

Of everything that has been built here?

These modern assassins

With their blades that are not sharp

And somehow, still cut into the chest

Death hides in expensive papers

Slow poisoning

Curses, binding victims

Black operations

Enchantments of vapor

Fog, happy delusions

The superior general is nowhere to be seen

He is conscious

Too clever

Cannot be made

Knows the angles

Lives and breathes the routine

False front

Encryption easy, plaintext works fine

No one puzzles anymore

Steganography is in the obituaries

Citizens are exhausted

Too tired for such crossword puzzles

Going out for a smoke instead

Trade information

In the marketplace

Exfiltration

Bring the defector

Home

Bite down on the dangling bait

Taking it all in

Believing every breath

Of the lies

Hide in plain sight

Got him by the throat

Control every decision

Deep cover

In the king’s pocket

Eight ball, corner pocket

Potentate busy in the honey pot

Playing with the handler’s mice;

Brief pleasures

Foolish pursuits

The intelligence all warned of these things

Plant the propaganda cypher deep

Where invisible moles dig up dirt

Behind enemy lines

Behind the iron curtain

Inside the iron lung

Flimsy robes providing no cover

Leaving your backside naked

Ass hanging in the wind

Summon the executioner

Simple curling of the finger

Roll up the scroll again

Match strike

Set it all off

Breathe in the satisfaction

Knowing operation is in motion

It’s coming soon

Playback is sanitized

Redaction, blot out the salient bits

Stopping up the pipes

Sell the story to the people

Want to play the game

Mutually assured destruction

Broken rhythms, code

Exorbitant bills

Gray sleeper

Uncle should have had the trigger in place

Monitoring the pulse

Cut out

Build up the legend

Elicitation of consent

Keys handed over for favors

Stay on the reservation

Travel in packs

Operative signals

A cough

Smokescreen

Run out to the store

Real quick

Dead drop

Delivery of small packages

Sabotage

Spanner in the works

Monkey mouth

Tinkering with toys

In terminal waiting rooms

Going to see the tailor and then

To see the cobbler

Fitting out the gear

Getting ready for the ball

Cinderella stories

Surreptitious flaps, seal the lips

Ghouls scour the graveyards

Where soon enough, all walk

A stainless steel ride

On the smooth train

Smoke stacks churning

Nonstop trip over the river

The L-Pill is long and round

It feels warm and pleasant as it

Sweeps the room…

Never know where the bugs are hiding

The chessboard is covered

With hundreds of rooks

Provocateurs and their purple ravens

Send in the pretty bird

She who swallows the signets

Conversation starters

Asking if she can bum a ride

No one can resist sharing with her

A most deadly resource

Infiltrating deep inside

Her smile

Lights up in the house

Show time

All sing like canaries

Under her spell

All light up with anticipation

We’d lose it all, were it not for her

Lost inside these dark clouds

Hearing that sultry siren voice

Regularly calling us

Out into the open

Vulnerable

Always comes

Dressed to kill

In something see-through

How excited each one gets

Peeling off those thin, flimsy wrappings

Hurriedly tossing them aside

For the insanely craved

The fumbling, shaky

Handful of minutes that it usually lasts

Carnal knowledge

Taken inside

Surrendering to the temptations

Wiles of the seductress

Little rituals and pats on the bottom for luck

One is literally turned upside down

Her charm is so strong

She deals in illusions,

Mirages, smoke and mirrors

Her stock and tradecraft

She’s good…

She’s very, very good

Never even questioning the matter

Asses feverishly chasing butts

Into oblivion and ash

Nursemaids gather on the back porch

On every coffee break

Swapping nuggets, juice, gossip, stories

Melodies of the official musicians

Open up the secrets of the music box

Sing the song of familiar comfort

Putting tips into the black hat

Saving up ducats to spend at the commissary

The doctor too, is an asset

Take the medicine

Change in the wind

Even dispersion through the system

Everything flows into place

Pouring in waves

Filling the containers

Enemy assets have infiltrated the realm

Moving now in the open

Impunity

Friends begin to distance themselves

Seeing the information come out

Noting how the map keeps rolling up

How it won’t stay in place

No one wants all that mess

Rubbing off on them

Second hand knowledge of good and evil

Disinformation

Civilians

Collateral damage

Innocents… it’s peculiar how they sound

Like innocence, itself

Out of the loop

Not in the know

Once, we too were innocent

Now, so much dirty laundry

So many secrets

Deeds that cannot be undone

We were all so green

Initial brush contact

Obsessed birdwatchers

True converts

Believers

In the cause

Now we maintain silence

Unnoticeable tip of the head

From across the room

Stepping out back for a quick exchange

And back in before anyone is missed

Dropping an innocent postcard

From time to time

Cultivation

Till the rough soil

Turn the flowerbeds over

Spread the chickenfeed

Spread the seed

Burned

Compromised

Smoking gun

A bit of dry cleaning

Removes the odors and stains

Burn the microfilm, papers, documents

Bona fides

Take off your shoes… all of them;

Don’t forget anything

Think hard about where

You might have hidden some

Step onto the scales

Feel the weight

Step away

Take a seat, bow out, tap out

The man in the coat and tie

Will be in to see you soon

Too much heat in the kitchen

Stepping back

Away from the blowback

Maintain cover, deniability

Pockets, littered with hiding

Cooling off in the shade

Double-cross the bridge

A trip to the hospital

Dressed up like a throwaway pig

In a coffin company suit

Book of matches, tucked into the vest pocket

A sequence of numbers inside

Picked up in grandma’s Cadillac

And going to the penthouse

For the all day long

Erase the problem

With assistance from the Dutch

And all of their superior, problem-solving skills

Transfer of power

Exchange

Change, slight

Sleight of hand

A hand in it

Too many hands

Off limits

Safe house

Tall brown grass

Walking sticks

Dead

Drop

Hush, little baby

Never heard a word

Assure the dying

All is well


From the book remission, by Kevin Trent Boswell. Now available on Amazon.

remission , by Kevin Trent Boswell

© 2020 Kevin Trent Boswell

Patreon

Flagship, by Trent Boswell

YouTube

Sound Cloud

Other poetry titles available:

Liber Ex Liberi

Next

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

Dark Matter – Poems of Horror and Depravity

Chaos Comes Apart

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!


Recording of “none” by Kevin Trent Boswell


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.

in the current, by  Kevin Trent Boswell

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?


Copyright 2020 Kevin Trent Boswell 

from the book, 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.

Patreon

Magus & The Plastic Infinity

Conjure Work

antiverse

blogspot

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

more

© 2020 Kevin Trent Boswell

Titles now available on Amazon

Liber ex Liberi – The Book of Children


Dark Matter

Dark Matter – Poems of Horror and Depravity


in the current


Chaos Comes Apart

Chaos Comes Apart


Next, poetry by Kevin Trent Boswell

Next


Magus72 on Patreon

Conjure Work

YouTube music channel

Conjure Work YouTube channel

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?

 

Copyright 2020

Kevin Trent Boswell

From the new book, Next 

Now available, on Amazon 

* Next, cover, tiny

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

 

lovely thing

lovely thing

inspired
a poem

lesser fortune,
it drips
blood

slight,
the wound

crude,
its cause

as such,
it shall
remain
ever so

brief

 

 

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

Copyright 2020

Kevin Trent Boswell


Now available, on Amazon:

Liber ex Liberi The Book of Children

Liber ex Liberi; The Book of Children

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.

Patreon

Magus & The Plastic Infinity

Conjure Work

antiverse

blogspot

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


Copyright 2020

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.


Patreon

Magus & The Plastic Infinity

Conjure Work

antiverse

blogspot

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

Copyright 2020

Magus

(Kevin Trent Boswell)


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.

Patreon

Magus & The Plastic Infinity

Conjure Work

antiverse

blogspot