Nighttime

Author’s Note: This piece is dedicated to anyone who is still awake and should not be, to anyone who is worried about what things are waiting, up ahead.

Nighttime

Trouble, in the nighttime, fell
Upon too wakeful brow,
Which ought to sleep

Coins cast in tainted well,
Uncertainty of where and how,
Enough to cause anyone to weep

Pitching gold piece of its own,
Came an angel of repose and rest
With curious question, whispered, quiet

“A myriad things, all unknown…
How is it you’re certain… to fail the test?
Without shred of doubt, that may deny it?”

Of course, no good answer was there, for this
And searching, mind grew sore and tired
Eyes heavy, in downward creep

The angel placed soft, loving kiss
Upon empty head, thoughts all expired
Drifting peaceful now, into the deep

Copyright 2020 Kevin Trent Boswell


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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.

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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


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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.

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untitled

I chased a martyr

through all hell’s heat

with intention to 

ask him why

he’d run so long 

he was tired and beat

in fact, he could

all but cry

I’d yearned for the moment

when at last we’d meet

and an answer from him

I would pry

and though he was worn,

we raced and he beat

and so I collapsed

with a sigh

Author’s Note: this is a very old piece, not sure of the date but it was in one of my first few poetry notebooks.


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

Battle Against the Public

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

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

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

Mine ears have heard the glory of the 

Omniscient, Orange Lord

He is trampling on the facts  

About the PPE we’ve stored

He hath loosed the fateful virus

By the terrible signs, ignored

His untruth is marching on!

(Chorus)

Story, story, tell it to ya!

It ain’t no worse than the flu… duh!

Praise him or he’ll remove ya!

Our Nonsense marching on!

I have seen His message echoed in the

Online, Right-Wing camps,

They have builded Him an altar 

Where truth‘s secured with iron clamps;

See through His dimwit message 

By the light of Logic’s lamps

His toupée is marching on!

(Chorus)

Friends, who you thought really knew ya!

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

Sit and wait at home, like Buddha!

His Orange is marching on!

I have read a fiery gospel, writ 

In CAPS of angry steel:

“Those who deal with My opponents,

Get respirators that might heal”

Let the Orange Nero, play the fiddle 

Let Americans all kneel

Trump is God and nothing’s wrong!

(Chorus)

Derogatory, press is unfair to ya!

Common sense has got the blues-a!

From Miami and NY to Chattanooga!

The virus marches on!

He has sounded forth the trumpet 

By Easter, we will have it beat;

Well, never mind… but admit, 

That the idea was pretty neat!

Doctors say… he’s a mo-ron!

(Chorus)

Gory, the doctors all conclude-a!

Fateful end, you’ll come to-a!

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

The buck He’s passing on!

In reports that came from China, 

South Korea, Italy 

The Donald was duly warned 

Of illness, born across the sea,

With mighty golf club in his hand, 

He said “Let’s wait and see”

As He lied to make men wealthy,

Let us try to make men see,

While the President blathers on!

(Chorus)

Glory, brave souls who blew the!

Whistle, sorry no supplies get to ya!

Your on your own, He never knew ya!

Our health care, shat upon!


Copyright 2020

Kevin Trent Boswell


The new book is out now, on Amazon:

Chaos Comes Apart


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

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

Patreon

Magus & The Plastic Infinity

antiverse

blogspot

Conjure Work

Idol

One may, at any slapdash time

With little more than wink and nod

With no sense, reason, structure, rhyme

Of any chosen thing, make a god


Copyright 2020

Kevin Trent Boswell


The new book is out now, on Amazon:

Chaos Comes Apart


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

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

Patreon

Magus & The Plastic Infinity

antiverse

blogspot

Conjure Work