Furyu

 

In the land of Furyu, we don’t have us no states
No countries or borders, not a single, county line
Everybody lives just up the road, from everyone else
And the way we see it, that works out, mighty fine

Words like security and safety just ain’t never used
Since crime is a thing that ain’t nobody invented
Birds sing and people do their own, chosen tasks
For the pure satisfaction of a job, well-dented

Wanting for nothing and always happy
Folks here tend to spend a lot of time outside
We talk and dance, because the music is always playing
And we laugh when the children go down the slide

There’s a church in town, where we pray to Love
And in turn, Love takes care of every little thing
Suffering is something that we don’t quite understand
But goodness is guaranteed, each day, to bring

Rains fall from the sky and folks around here
Call it Heaven, nursing all the crops
It makes the food grow and that food feeds the people
Who eat well and often and gratitude never stops

Folks share craftsmanship, art and new skills
And all manner of things, each a labor of love
You see, in the land of Furyu, everything is easy
And if it ain’t now, it will be, soon enough, push come to shove

In this place, each person’s got a special use
And there just ain’t no reason for nobody to be left out
You belong and that’s because you’re family
And shucks, we figure that’s what it’s all about

Everybody knows because, ain’t none of us simple
That a neighbor is just a brother, a step or two away
Or a sister or cousin or something along those lines
But kin is kin, is what we’re trying to say

It’s a confounded shame, but folks over yonder
Done gone and forgot how to get back over here
It’s a strange thing to all of us, since well…
We ain’t exactly gone nowhere

But we’re all up at the house, and like I mentioned
It’s right up the road, just about a mile or two
We’ll set out an extra plate and we’ll wait up a spell
And you’re always welcome, in the land of Furyu

 

 

 

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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Magus & The Plastic Infinity

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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

after the crying

It is truly strange, our choices

In the certain light of death

Each of us inclined to 

A different manner  

Of dispensing or dealing with 

The final breath

One will merely smile 

And go for a long walk 

Another gathers the family 

And prepares a meal,

Over which they might talk

Some will scream silently, 

Slumping down and over slow, 

Into nothingness 

While a newly widowed spouse, 

Enflamed, seeks out a final fling 

with some sexy piece of dress

The bitter recite litanies of pain and 

Assign all manner of important blame

The fighters assault random strangers

Beat them into the ground

And assign them terrible names


Priests herd sheep into house of prayer 

To deliver the last rites 

Of final sleep

Lovers kiss and promise;

This living briefly with the awareness 

of impending loss

causes them to cling and to 

relentlessly weep

Children huddle, whimper and 

Meekly question 

What thing comes next… 

After the crying…

The bony, white lady 

Walks the streets of night, 

She sweeps up the losses

And calls it dying


Copyright 2020

Magus

(Kevin Trent Boswell)

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.

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Magus & The Plastic Infinity

Conjure Work

antiverse

blogspot

lunch

reason, fear, confidence and hate,
a troublesome and thoroughly stupid bunch,
arranged one apocalyptic tuesday, late
to join up for drinks and a hot wings brunch

the waiter was not exactly… too good
and this bothered greatly, two of the four
so they skinned him and devoured him, right where he stood
and chucked his bones toward the front door

the manager, mr. business, upon seeing this,
scribbled on a napkin, his nextest of kin
apologizing, comped the bill and blew them a kiss
and that was the moment that love strolled in

the mob overtook her, in a frenzied attack
crying out for help, she sank down, out of view
bobbed back up with a blade and black jack
slicing and whacking and slashing them through

once the hubbub settled, the last blow had been swung
reason had no ears and hate, had no hand
she’d cut out fear’s eyes… confidence, his tongue
and everyone in the diner, frozen where they stand

then love straightened her skirt and strolled to the bar
looked business right in the eye and said “buy me a drink?”
shaking, he poured her martini and lit a crumpled cigar
“anything you want, ma’am, faster than you can blink”

the janitor mopped up the mess, it to the painter, he gave
who promptly used it in a mural of the strange brood’s disagree
it showed a little lady, fierce, the day, she came to save
people admire it, on tuesday’s, when the martinis are free

 


Copyright 2020

Kevin Trent Boswell


 

The new book is out now, on Amazon:

Chaos Comes Apart

16040ade-9658-4920-b7f0-b69fd20c18c7

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


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

The Balance

Relentless and vile, that wicked thing…

Evil, ever striving against the light, 

Seeking its demise and then, from it, 

Escape, a twisting, eluding, evasion

Good then, must plant its wrathful sting

In return, even double, triple, to spite

And each, standing, must overcome it…

Rising to that dutiful, somber occasion

In this deep spiral of ethical confusion,

Cometh the horns of the beast, with its stinger 

Stickier, dicier, bits of the question… 

Who sits in righteous judgement of the wrong?

Which of us is upright, free from all illusion? 

Who may, in fairness, be the bringer

Of justice, penalties, implications, suggestion

Who’s sees truth and, if ever, how long?


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

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

Chaos Comes To Town

If perhaps you’re craving some escape, some vitamins of inspiration, to get you through the dull roar of viruses and technological hangups and fearful, dull talk of elections and recessions and limitless to do lists and the hundred things you want to step aside from, for just a few, delicious minutes…

You might enjoy dipping into the eccentric, electric pool of weirdly words that I now release. Images that speak through your eyes and feelings that peer into your ears, reassuring you that, no matter how strange today seems, it’s likely to only get stranger, my dears.

Doesn’t sound like reassurance to you? Then look further, deeper into the expanding woo of kaleidoscope and know, that something bitterly beautiful and magnificent always comes out of every bizarre, however far, at first, it went.

The only thing you can count on for certain is that everything changes and everything… including troubles… settles back into comfortable routine, given enough time for the cooking bubbles.

This is true, whether you struggle against the changes with every ounce of strength or relax, let current carry you, drifting along, entire length.

It all stirs up and then, peacefully settles… back… down… again… even if you do absolutely nothing about it. Try it, breathe it, if you care to doubt it.

So do the things you need to do,
To take care of your own and for care of you
But turn an ear and an eye for moments, few
For a little something to help you through

After all, how can a mind possibly deal with all the chaos, real, of the modern world, if not properly armed, to defend itself? Protect the gray in your skull against the beast, with the malleable mania of poetry priest, and fend off some of the stupid doldrums that are pounding, drooling, at the door.

All good secret agents know, that if facing torture interrogation, they should distract themselves from pain with elation, singing and making up silly stories in their head. This keeps the mind from snapping, a thing that’s certainly worse than dead.

A bit of poetry and music, all that Orpheus ever used and he traversed the depths of hell, emerging unscathed, unbruised. Put some of that magick dust into your pocket and go, it’s only left to trust and know, that everything else is silly, when set beside.

The big bad world is known to cower and lay right down as if dead, when once you threaten it proper, with an unpredictable pipe bomb of poetry, cocked and painted onto its cocky head.

My new book, Chaos Comes Apart, on Amazon:

https://smile.amazon.com/gp/r.html?C=2EIU1YSKTC6SW&K=WFT0JB3LJN3D&M=urn:rtn:msg:2020031021204095b1740d54b345db8aaec4cdad50p0na&R=1OIWENZKO66E0&T=C&U=https%3A%2F%2Fsmile.amazon.com%2Fdp%2FB085RN5WYV%3Fref_%3Dpe_3052080_397514860&H=WMGC3ZTDWE5L1ZBAOSWBAP3UGHEA&ref_=pe_3052080_397514860

107 pages, all original works. Most of these, probably 70% of them have never been published anywhere before.

They were written over just a handful of days, in a maelstrom of creative inspiration, given by the Goddess Venus, to whom the book is dedicated.

The themes are varied, mostly centering around the way our worlds expand and contract, sometimes pleasantly, other times frighteningly, sometimes with plenty of heads up and often, with our pants down.

Writing it helped me cope with some of my own, more challenging changes. I sincerely hope that reading it helps you adjust to yours.

Use the link here to find it, it is still settling in to Amazon’s search system, not quite coming up there, just yet. But this link takes you straight to the banks of the strange river, where your world might just be stretched out of and back into shape.

Enjoy.


Copyright 2020

Magus

(Kevin Trent Boswell)

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

Conjure Work

antiverse

blogspot

the old gal

she angles for the

best seat in the house 

if you don’t watch her,

she’ll own that retirement home 

she’s got to have the comfiest chair

clueless, tactless, all bad breath and 

weak knees

white hair stained teeth brittle bones

poor me looks and 

sighs of discontent,

her current frailty betrays memory 

of the once upon a time,

when she leapt over tall dreams 

never one for small talk, 

you always know exactly 

where you stand with her

she puts her charms to work on men 

and the women all want to be her friend 

now she snores the lazy day long

on infomercial couch

perpetual, old codger thirst

it takes precious time and strength 

to get off the sofa

so, she always manages to 

trick someone into getting 

a drink for her 

there are no children, no grandchildren 

no brothers or sisters 

there is only the waiting 

waiting for company to arrive 

and for dinner time 

she still appreciates touch

but tires of it easily; 

retreats to early bedtime 

old woman has no cats,

she doesn’t like them 

television holds no interest for her

she’s always been more of a

nature lover,

walking for hours, anywhere 

but even this is no longer suitable 

as the heat gets to her fast, these days 

and her weak legs 

no longer do their part

when strangers come around,

she is discourteous, 

barking cliches at them, 

to get off her damned lawn,

even though she 

doesn’t even have a lawn

her mind doesn’t work like yours or mine

it’s as if she thinks she’s in charge

but old friends are always welcome and 

she loves on their familiar faces,

kissing them on the cheek 

and sitting close to them,

imploring to make up for lost time 

she fails to recognize 

some people’s need

for personal space

old woman was fierce in her day

but her day is no more dawning 

and sun sets slowly on her 

throwing dim light on her white hair 

the old gal needs help sometimes,

going up and down the stairs

even needs help getting into bed,

she has a male nurse that softly 

raises her legs up and tucks her in

she must be bathed, 

because left to her own devices,

she won’t do it herself

her caretaker gently puts her in the tub,

soaps her up and washes her clean,

towel dries her and brings her a snack

that old people smacking sound 

happens more than ever before, 

that thing they do 

that makes it sound like 

a stoner just ate a bunch of 

peanut butter but lost their soda, 

so they can’t wash it down 

her appetite is still strong; 

she eats virtually 

anything you put in front of her, 

she’ll even steal food from your plate, 

if you leave the room

the old broad just ain’t got no manners

or shame 

she’s too old to worry what anyone 

thinks of her and far too busy 

with her endless naps

to notice the things they say…

she’s half deaf and half blind, anyhow 

the gal has skills, though

while she never had 

any formal schooling, 

she’s learned a great deal 

over the years in the school of life

and people are always 

impressed with her intelligence 

she’s been through good times and bad

she’s smart enough to know 

when to sit still, when to run 

and when to just play dead 

and wait it out 

while she ain’t too proud to beg 

for what she wants,

she can still flatter you out of

just about anything you’ve got,

with her aged eyes and soft company,

winning you over to her side,

every time 

despite the pitiful, poor manners, 

when this old woman sits next to you,

you know that you’re in the presence 

of a real, true friend,

the type that will defend you 

and tell you no lies

you feel love pouring off of her

and your every arrival at her house 

is  met with her rising up 

on those creaky old bones,

coming straight to the door, 

to welcome you inside 

she wears ridiculous things,

things designed for a girl 

half her age

as if she doesn’t understand her decline 

or just refuses to accept it, 

or both

and don’t be too alarmed 

if you catch her walking around naked

she’s not ashamed of her body, 

in the least

she’s capable of being a mean old bitch

when necessary 

but she won’t spare the energy for it

her nature is that of the lover, anyway 

she really got around, back in the day,

let everyone touch her, all over

it’s not always obvious

but a lot of the old birds

were good girls in name only, 

they let every guy in town rub them 

in that special spot,

the one they open their legs for

but we don’t judge her,

for its in her genetics to be 

loose in the streets, running wild

and accepting attention from all comers

loneliness is what she fears most,

she doesn’t tire of her friends company 

always wants them to stay longer, 

becomes anxious if she has to be alone 

the old gal is cemented into my heart, 

I love her, 

even though she rarely speaks 

she is a warm companion and 

they just don’t make ’em like that, 

no more

I talk to her and stroke her cheek and 

she lets me know with her eyes 

that it means the whole world to her

when she goes down for another nap, 

I curl up beside her 

no jello or cookies for her, 

just like a proper, English lady, 

she takes biscuits, instead

she doesn’t like hot coffee or hot tea,

she usually just drinks 

room temperature water 

despite all her demands for 

attention and her lack of 

personal hygiene 

and her being completely 

devoid of any social grace,

she’s a kind old gal 

and she’s this man’s best friend


Copyright 2020

Magus

(Kevin Trent Boswell)

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