“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.
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
Here’s a Pink Floyd cover I did. This is the song “Childhood’s End” and it’s from their album, Obscured By Clouds.
Trent Boswell – vocals, guitar, bass
You shout in your sleep Perhaps the price was just too steep Is your conscience at rest If once put to the test? You awake with a start To just the beating of your heart Just one man beneath the sky Just two ears, just two eyes
You set sail across the sea Of long past thoughts and memories Childhood’s end, your fantasies Merge with harsh realities And then as the sail is hoist You find your eyes are growing moist All the fears never voiced Say you have to make the final choice
Who are you and who am I To say we know the reason why? Some are born; some men die Beneath one infinite sky There’ll be war, there’ll be peace But everything one day will cease All the iron turned to rust All the proud men turned to dust And so all things, time will mend So the song will end
Words and original music written by Pink Floyd. I’m covering the song but I’m not charging anything for it, because seriously… who can afford Pink Floyd royalties?!
But you can support the creation of more music, poetry and madness by Trent Boswell, at:
This piece is from an upcoming collection of poems, called conjunct neptune. The details of the book are in the link, which is the first poem that I wrote in the series. If you haven’t been through that one, it might be more helpful to read it, first. There, I explain what the theme of the book is.
This piece is about Luna, our Moon, when She reaches the point in the roughly twenty-nine day, lunar cycle that She sits in the same space with Pluto… you know, that thing that wasn’t a Planet and then it was for a while… and then it wasn’t, again.
Pluto is similar in several ways to Saturn. The similarity resides in that both Saturn and Pluto/Hades represent a miserly, curmudgeonly, old and cranky energy. They’re both decidedly masculine in presentation but definitely not in a loving father kind of way. Saturn is said to have eaten his own younguns.
Pluto is the Roman God of Wealth. While not identical in nature to Hades, He is similar enough, in many respects.
He holds dominion over wealth, particularly anything that is obtained from the Earth. Since our whole economy is (or was or ought to be; you decide) based on the trading of gold, silver and thousands of other minerals, that’s arguably a rather huge amount of influence on money.
All that goes into the making of the things we buy and sell and trade, it all comes out of the Earth. Even services use material resources (offices, paper recording keeping and endless cups of coffee). This means that they, too, are part of Pluto’s territory.
The Greek equivalent of Pluto is Hades, who is famous for presiding over the Underworld, as it was laid out in Greek mythology. While Hades is not synonymous with Christian concepts of Satan or the Devil, He was still considered to have a brooding, intense personality. It’s said that He was the least-liked of all the gods and usually called upon only for curses.
One thing is sure enough, when astrologers look to Pluto, when other planets are aspecting that body, the effect is one of intensification. Whatever it is, the force of Pluto is one that assists in creating wealth; many uber-rich folks have a Jupiter/Pluto conjunction in their natal chart. But that same energy acts as a multiplier of other ideas and behaviors, as well. Not all of them are good, by anyone’s yardstick.
Pluto generally gives a dark, rather gruff and grumbly, moody tone, one which is keenly interested in power, information, serious research, the accumulation of large amounts of money and so on. The characters of Scrooge and Dr. Frankenstein both come to mind.
Pluto’s influence is the stuff that spy novels, governmental coups and hostile corporate takeovers are made of. So when the lovely, sweet and nurturing energy of the Moon meets with the Lord of Hell, the mood tends to turn a little dark.
This is compounded by the fact that (among Her sweeter qualities) Luna is also a harbinger of mystery, confusion and sometimes, even madness. These are usually (although by no means, always) in reference to initiations and rites of passage. But sometimes, it’s the plain ol’ garden variety crazies.
When Luna conjoins Pluto, attitudes in general lean toward the more greedy, distrustful and even the downright paranoid.
This is not to say that a person who has Luna conjunct Pluto in their chart would have these terrible (or the more positive) traits. A person has many Planets and aspects between them, each thing acting as a counterweight against the others.
Here’s a neat list of famous peeps who have this aspect. They’re a wide mix of personality types, though it’s safe to say that most of them lean toward the intense side of things, even when it’s a positive flavor of intensity. So this piece isn’t about bashing anyone who has that aspect (nor is any other piece in the collection).
No, this is about the energy of these two stellar bodies, by themselves, if we were somehow able to isolate them from everything else. We cannot, obviously. In this hypothetical case, the nurturing of the Moon is almost always degraded and polluted by the the obsession that Pluto represents. The wealth multiplication of Pluto is deranged by the comfort-seeking of Luna and results in “I need all of it, so I can feel good.”
If you enjoy the poem, consider supporting more such creative madness and lunar/plutonian madness, by yours truly, over at Patreon/Magus72.
Now, bearing all of these arcane ideas in mind, I give you (or rather, I row you across the river Styx, to the dark, forlorn shores of)…
what fresh hell is this?
of what use, is your clever array of pointless words?
when all, soon enough, becomes kindling for the black flames of unforgiving abyss?
sour not, my tired ear, you tiny, petulant slug
muddle not, what little respite is left, of sweet, peaceful silence with all your futile mumblings of hope and dreams and other, such soap opera nonsenses
leave me alone
and keep all your words… all those pathetic, condemned souls, standing foolish on the gallows, as if last words were ever anything more than last
ask me no favors
i expect you to lie
for i see into the murky heart of all your dark, shady schemes all your plotting and planning to stab me in the back once i am not looking
and because of this, i am always looking
i am always watching
i never sleep
i have cameras and listening devices, bugs planted everywhere and a legion of spies
because one must take great care, and use only a measure of the mean, an average of what intelligence they offer using only the most plausible bits of what the bulk of them say
never place all your bets on the words of any one, particular spy because you cannot trust spies nor words, nor people, nor intelligence
nor anything else, for that matter; not that anything matters
the only thing that you can trust is that trust in anything is, in itself… untrustworthy
trust only that things will always break and that they must be repaired trust only that things will die and that the burial of these things is expensive
the undertaker is himself, always on the take and hence, i abstain from the taking on of anything that has a pulse because such things are merely mouths to feed they are things which get sick and doctors, too, are expensive and they are things which disappoint you, break your heart
but i’m more sensible than all that; i paid the doctor to remove my heart
most sensible purchase i ever made, that surgery
hearts and souls and conscience, these are luxuries that are far too expensive too many sick days, lost wages and worries which are not worth the wear and tear
but the point is…
i’m watching you because i know your ways
you and your patiently, waiting for me to die or to slip up or fumble, so that you may usurp my power
i know of all your clandestine, assassin’s designs your machinations for the taking of all that i have all that i have worked for and all that i have stolen all that i have swindled away from the trusting all that i have, only because i possessed the backbone, the fortitude, to slay the meek to take what was theirs and make it my own
in short… i know you
because i see the bitter truth of things, how all are self-concerned, consumed with self and nothing, nor anyone else
therefore, i keep to myself and i keep everything for myself i retain all that is, as my own
since when did anyone ever do anything for me?
you must take by force and by fakery by clever graft and by hard work and by brute force and by the bloody blade and you must never give anything away, not ever, not to anyone and never sell anything that you may need, later and never keep anything that you can sell and never sell anything too cheaply but never hold onto anything that is cheap and will depreciate in value, over time but never spend too much on anything
you must be wily and wise and clever and most of all, ruthless and cunning
for all that there is, in this barren world, is the having of things and the having, not of things
there is the taking and the being took and nothing else
and they’ll all try to take everything that you took from someone else
they’ll try to take it for themselves in a heartbeat, leaving you with nothing but an empty basket of space, where things used to be
except that there will be no basket, because they’ll have taken that, too
and so, mark my words, you dying insect…
not that words were ever anything worth marking down, unless they were the words on the deeds to land and bank accounts…
you mark my words…
you’d better take and take quickly or else be took from
and you’ll be left not a solitary crumb, not a single morsel, to put into the greedy, little mouths of all your expensive, insect offspring
now, off and away with you
i’ve no time for you
i’m terribly busy, watching everything that was or is or ever will be
watching it all burn and crumble into ash and blow away, into oblivion
Author’s Note: This piece is brand new. This piece is ancient. It speaks of things which happen daily. It shares memories of the long, long ago. It is deeply rooted in yesterday. It is severed from everything except tomorrow.
No more crawling, borrowed knees To beg or steal a parched penance Privilege of chewing Tiny, tinfoil excuses
Receipts, all signed Cuneiform zero There, in the register Where it speaks of the balance Which is long overdue A large and loud emptiness
The slaying of pragmatism And the prodigal son The wisest of investments Healthy, constant dividends Since there are no returns
Assets freely traded On the scales in the marketplace Sacrifices, invisible, smoking On strange altars of doubt
Multiplication of manna eaten in secret Loaves baked, foreign recipes Nets tossed into distant waters Plucking up fishes, filling the nets Pouring floods out of the wide mouth Fleeing the estate, belly of greater fish Absconding from duty Tariffs of masticating consummation
Cutting off the heads of what was, Peeling away, shedding foul-smelling skin, Pulling off all those silvery flakes of armor Toss carcasses in frying pan, Serve with herbs grown in new earth Feast, fructifying small kingdom And a table for one
No more buried talents All now upon display A day of rest is earned In the refusing of yesterday’s complacency Tossing out its tired labors
Cutting down the vines Which brought decades of wine Wine that choked those throats which drank In the seeking of blindness Attempting to drown out All hearing of familiar, droning complaints
A fatted calf not missed, From the cool, shaded hammock That swings peacefully in a calm, quiet Where the only shadow cast Is that of the grand, old oak tree Whose face is always welcome Who speaks only and ever Kindly of its kin Or not at all
Wait now, at the oasis, For the promised bride’s coming Who brings the cool water from the well, For a desert weary camel
All is soon to be right, For the steadfast resistance Against worldly temptations
Sovereignty steps out Dropping the broken, black irons Of miserable bondage Lead, flowing through the river veins Of miserly brothers Cruel rage of bad blood
New, mazel tov celebrations Of kaphar, divine grace Selah and hallelujah In a day of jubilee
The god of forgetfulness, Is ever gracious and joyful Drunk on the charms Of plentiful, good company
Regaled today, by delightful tales, Told by they who arrive on the morrow During a banquet, yet to bloom Banking on its promise Of them and their warm presence
A toast is drunk daily To what is seen Which is nothing For what is In the eyes Most of which Is good
A steward, in secret Stealing everything that was sacred Receives all, in due course New master’s blessings Of themselves, a fine reward
And spared a death, daily The stoning of harsh, marble law Seven generations Removed from the sight And all senses
Tools of old bone Hand me down worries Covet, instead, that wild courage Which rails against the unknown
Naked, cast out No starved, gulag wages Demanding the whole The lion’s share of nary A single thing
Punished sin of necromancy Crime of insisting upon the rubric Of a heritage of heresy Brooding there, in the long lines Where impatient fools bicker and stew Wrestling with the dogs over scraps
A hindsight, an insight A bird advances, eagerly Plopping itself into the hand
The exiling of perdition Raises up its secret children High above the floods Where the true blessings of heaven May kiss them upon their heads Sealing in immunity against sorrow
That these should never dwell In that place of woeful wandering Stone gardens of Golgotha Where is never and nothingness Only long, dusky shades Commiserating with the dead
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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:
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⠀ 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
Everything is water Electric fluid matter In a paper cup Called Time
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
I’ll be posting them here, one at a time. I’ve had a lot of fun putting this together and I hope you enjoy listening to them.
The main thing I wanted to achieve here is get a variety of people, reading the pieces… in the way that they hear them.
None of the readers were given any prompts about how to read. A few people preferred to have something assigned to them and so I picked for them. But in most cases, they chose their own pieces to read.
This first poem is called “none” and it’s from my book in the current.
Our guest reader is Xander and he did a great job with it.