Hopium Blues

Hopium – an irrational, unfounded belief that a situation is going to improve, despite all evidence to the contrary.

New music from Trent Boswell

Here’s a new song. This one is a blues rock piece.

People usually say, “The vocal part isn’t loud enough,” so I made it nice and loud in this one. To my ears, I think it’s a little too loud. You can let me know in the comments what you think.

Either way, hit the thumbs up 👍 and share ⬆️ with your friends if you like it.

Subscribe ✅ ring the bell 🔔 and click “All.”

Lyrics are in the comments section of the video.


New album available on Saturday, June 8th

Something in the Air, new music from Trent Boswell

Bonus Material

Get exclusive material and help support the creation of more madness from Trent Boswell

Magus72 on Patreon - the music, poetry, and madness of Kevin Trent Boswell ​
Magus72 on Patreon – the music, poetry, and madness of Kevin Trent Boswell

pennyworth

dime store shopaholic
purpose is dying
thousands more reliable
than the single
or the none

little tick-tock remains
to garner the gains
gouge the special killing
double barrel
price gun

one for all
and everything event
pressure, systolic
tying stakes to the ground
taping nails into place

boatloads of saving
coupons for barrels
of monkey fish laurels
trips and great prizes
sale signs and wonders
red tags of grace

cometh thee first
oh ye saved, special items
vip members, apostolic
way buffed and paved
golden, hyperbolic
and warned, were they
who heeded not, the news

crumbling, the chances
to make quick advances
power grab rostrum
no sleeping possum
who, missing bargain bus,
sits at home
with the blues

come antsy and itching
tense and hot twitching
lucky thunder ball ticket
lightning begged
from the sky

iron, hot and free lunch
with cookies and punch
waking neighbors from naps
pay full price
for scraps
no savings for me?
oh, dear lord, why not i?

the thrifty and clever
with leverage on the lever
get a long life extended
warranty protection
of dustcover case

it’s so sweet and juicy
tried to tell sister lucy
that hot tongue, bickering
in flickering fashion
but unlike lucy, whose lips
drip skeptical passion
it’s only a big, fat deal
that you’re dickering
and sizable discounts
are what you embrace

all top-shelf stuff
proof, more than enough
taste it and see
jump, shout, and sing
promise satisfaction
join in on our action
a product, superior
above any other

get in the door
while there’s going
left to get
and still some
to be got
don’t burn with regret
wishing you’d bought
shiny, fresh feeling
bargains, ground to ceiling
and truthfully,
there will never
ever be another


©2022 Kevin Trent Boswell

From the book remission

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

Photo by cottonbro


Magus72 on Patreon
Magus72 on Patreon – the music, poetry, and madness of Kevin Trent Boswell

When I Think About Tomorrow

When I think about tomorrow
I only see one thing
A day laden with the sorrow
And the trouble it will bring

My heart is full of fear
My mind is full of dread
My hands are full of jelly
My feet are full of lead

The day coming after this one
Is one I’d gladly do without
But it’s ridiculous to run
And it’s of no use to shout

On the head of this stickpin
No promised angels dance
Much to my chagrin
Just the devil’s half-a-chance

He said tomorrow’s fruit is rotten
To enjoy it is to fake it
It’s the only offer that I’ve gotten
So, I guess I’ll have to take it


©2022 Kevin Trent Boswell


Kevin Trent Boswell on Instagram


Main photo by Gabriel Hohol

how dare i

how dare i take you
by lascivious force
boss you around
play the pirate, tie you up
treat you roughly
as my possession
force upon you my will
make you drink from my cup

for then,
you would not
be free
to do as you like
i’d be a curse for you to endure
and whatever then
would you do?

how dare i worship you
as a goddess, divinity’s source
respect your opinions
hear your voice
let you run free
give you space and respect
yield to your whims
whatever your choice

for then,
you would not
be attracted to me
no desire, masculine, primal passion
no naughty novelties, obscene, obscure
and whatever then
would you do?

how dare i
stay the middle course
walk the fine line
weigh situations, each
independent, with thoughtful care
read moods, assess
accordingly to act
whether i should listen or teach

for then,
tepid, neither cold nor hot
is how you’d find me
indecisive, wavering
weak and spineless, insecure
and whatever then
would you do?


©️2022 Kevin Trent Boswell

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

Magus72 on Patreon ​ - Music, Poetry and Madness
Magus72 on Patreon – Music, Poetry and Madness

Too

You’re too young

You’re too old

You’re too timid

You’re too bold

You’re too forgiving

You’re always holding grudges

You’re too straightforward

You’re all winks and nudges

You’re too kinky

You’re such a prude

You’re too nice

You’re terribly rude

You’re too poor

You’re way too rich

You’re too loyal

You’re a backstabbing bitch

You’re too punk

You’re too straight

You’re too early

You’re far too late

You’re too logical

You’re too black and white

You’re too much of a pacifist

You always pick a fight

You’re not broad enough

You’re too eclectic

You’re speed is too slow

You’re pace is too hectic

You’re the same, old, usual

You’re too avant-garde

You’re too soft

You’re just too hard

You’re too boring

You’re too, too much

You’re always gone

You’re here way too much

You’re too stupid

You’re a little too smart

You’re too far ahead

You’re too close to the start

You’re too involved

You’re too apathetic

You’re too fat

You’re too athletic

You rhyme too much

You’re too free-verse

You’re too offensive

You’re afraid to curse

You’re too angry

You’re too sad

You’re too worried

Why are you so glad?

You’re too sensitive

You’re too thick-skin

You’re too quick to finish

You’re too slow to begin

You’re too far gone

You’re too stable

You bite off too much

You don’t give all you’re able

You’re too frigid

You’re too horny

You’re too grabby and needy

You’re too distant and thorny

You’re too quiet

You’re too proud

You’re too humble

You’re too loud

You’re too unpredictable

You’re too strange

You’re too normal

You’re too subject to change

You’re too ambitious

You’re too restrained

You’re too big-boned

You’re too big-brained

You’re too reserved

You’re too outgoing

You second-guess too much

You think you’re all-knowing

You’re too brazen

You’re too fearful

You’re too cold and harsh

You’re too sentimental, tearful

You’re too specific

You’re too cryptic

You’re too Pollyanna

You’re too apocalyptic

You’re too masculine

You’re too effeminate

You’re too tight-assed

You’re too indiscriminate

You’re too hands-off

You’re too political

You don’t tend to details

You’re too analytical

You’re just way too picky

You always say “whatever”

You’re not very bright

You’re think you’re so clever

You’re too pasty

You’re too tan

You’re too girlie

You’re too manly-man

You’re too dense

You notice too much

You never ask for help

You always need a crutch

You’re too red

You’re too blue

You’re too much of everything

You’re way too much you


©️2022 Kevin Trent Boswell

Magus72 on Patreon - music, poetry and madness

baby elephant

no one wants to talk about
the little, baby elephant
that wandered into the room
some decades ago

only now, the thing
has grown to full size
and everyone has to move away
from wherever the elephant chooses to go

still, no one mentions it
if you start to do so
you’re quickly told
to hush

it’s as if everyone believes
that discussing the thing
will somehow cause it
to rampage and crush

it’s a bit more than annoying
since it’s beginning to wreck
anything and everything
that’s in the house

lots of nervous smiling
and changing the subject
you’ll hear no mention of the elephant;
we’re all quiet as a mouse

everyone brightens right up
when you share a fun story
talk about a new movie
or tell a funny joke

but when you try to talk about
the elephant (or the weather)
it’s as if you were never there
and you never spoke

you’ll get a lot of
blank stares, shrugs
mostly, a lot of people
turning away

you’d think that since the beast
is destroying their home,
they might have an opinion,
a choice word or two, to say

but you would be wrong
for all is quiet
except for occasional whispers,
so brief

once the whispering stops,
all sigh and go back
to whatever they were doing
with a nervous relief

it’s more than just
a little bit puzzling
it’s far beyond being
just strange or odd

having everyone assure you
that we’re alone in the house
with a wink, a smile
and an anxious nod

this is all doubly,
if not triply or quadruply so…
or even to the power
of twenty-one

the elephant is angry,
bellowing loud, all the time
and people have been crushed;
more than just one

maybe it’s something about
how i was raised
or a skill that i never knew
that i needed before

something as big,
as destructive, imposing
as an elephant… to me…
is impossible to ignore


©2021 Kevin Trent Boswell


From the black book of horrifying, awful, terrible things that will keep you up late at night and drive you to drink too much, Out On The Killing Floor

Out On The Killing Floor, poetry by Kevin Trent Boswell

355 pages, available now on Amazon


8 different titles available

Search for Kevin Trent Boswell poetry

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

Elephant photo by David Blackwell

Support

Magus72 on Patreon - the music, poetry and madness of Kevin Trent Boswell

The Next Ones

I find myself weeping
But I’m not weeping for me
Not for anything I might have missed
Or anything that I had hoped to be

It’s not because of some thing I desired
But did not manage to attain
It’s not something I had that I didn’t want
Nor any of my own physical pain

It’s not for me, I had room to move
I rolled the dice and they fell as they did
But I took my chances, I took my shots
I went for it all and from life, never hid

Sure, things could have turned out better
I could have had an easier time
But I know not everyone gets to win
To the top, only a handful climb

Still, all-in-all, at the end of things,
I did OK and better than many
I had sorrows and joys, resources and gifts
I got to spend my talents, every last penny

Yet, generations are coming behind me
Emerging from the dark of the womb
Into a darker world, for which we’ve not
Prepared them, nor should we assume

That somehow, they’ll just be alright
That they’ll manage some way, to sort the mess
That some miracle solution will present itself
Or that God or good luck will bless

Nor should we think it likely the case
That hard work will see them through it all
Nor in hubris, think what stands today
Will not, tomorrow, surely fall

Least of all, we should not dare
To turn blind eyes to their plight
Out of sight is out of mind
But by no means makes it right

Having turned over each, useless stone
After turning my wheels, digging in deep
With no useful advice or answers, for them
I bury my face in my hands and weep


©2021 Kevin Trent Boswell

Main photo by Alex Green

From the black book of horrifying, awful, terrible and frightening things that will keep you up late at night and drive you to drink too much and too often, Out On The Killing Floor

Out On The Killing Floor, Kevin Trent Boswell, poetry books
Available on Amazon

WARNING!!! Take only as prescribed. Keep out of reach from children, pets, pregnant women and anyone who still has any hope for the future. May cause sleeplessness, fatigue, depression, anxiety, suicidal thoughts or visions of impending doom. Some readers may experience weight… not weight gain, just the heavy weight of existential dread. User assumes all risk and releases the author from any and all legal liability. This book is not approved by the FDA or anyone else who enjoys being happy. May be illegal in your area.


Become a Patron

Magus72, Kevin Trent Boswell on Patreon, music, poetry and madness
Magus72 on Patreon

Patrons get exclusive content, early access and other perks.

The Thing About Bunkers

characters Heather and Burt Gummer,
driven up onto the roof of their bomb shelter
– from the 1990 film, Tremors (Universal Pictures)

Food for five years, a thousand gallons of gas, air filtration, water filtration, Geiger counter, bomb shelter! Underground… Goddamn monsters.

—Burt Gummer, from the 1990 movie, Tremors – lamenting the loss of his desert fortress, due to something he wasn’t prepared for and never could have possibly foreseen


The thing about bunkers
and hunkering down
Is they’re not supposed to be
a permanent solution
You can store up food and weapons,
safely underground
But what if it’s many
thousands of years of toxic pollution?

If nothing is left to come back to,
if you can never go outside
If the world is never livable again,
somewhere down the line
A few years in, most folks will
start committing suicide
Rather than live in a subterranean box,
after society’s decline

In a total climate collapse,
everything would come undone
It’s not like one nuclear bomb drop,
in a single place on the map
The whole of Earth, uninhabitable,
you’d never again see the sun
Any psychologist will agree,
without sunlight, people snap

A few years after a nuke,
the radiation may die down and then
People might come back up top,
from the way-down-there
That’s if there’s any kind of habitat
for plants, critters and men
But what if it’s still too hot
and you still can’t breathe the air?

There are snazzy bomb shelters,
well-thought-out, for sure
Decades worth of water, food, meds
and every type of supply
And lots of entertainment to help you
psychologically endure
But ultimately, you face the hard question;
you need a reason why

If there’s never a return to safety,
an opportunity to re-emerge
Then, no matter how well
you think you’re equipped
If nothing grows up top,
if heat and humidity constantly surge
The very best bunker in the world
is just an expensive crypt


©2021 Kevin Trent Boswell

From the black book of horrifying, awful, terrible things that will keep you up late at night and drive you to drink, Out On The Killing Floor


WARNING!!! Take only as prescribed. Keep out of reach from children, pets, pregnant women and anyone who still has any hope for the future. May cause sleeplessness, fatigue, depression, anxiety, suicidal thoughts or visions of impending doom. Some readers may experience weight… not weight gain, just the heavy weight of existential dread. User assumes all risk and releases the author from any and all legal liability. This book is not approved by the FDA or anyone else who enjoys being happy. May be illegal in your area.


Support the creation of more madness:

Magus72 on Patreon
Magus72 on Patreon – become a patron

house of ghosts

it is a house of ghosts

every corridor
veers into shadows

creak of old hinges,
original, hardwood flooring
clanging of ancient, iron pipes

scraping, scratching
from behind the walls,
below the floors and from the attic, above

things too small to see
things that can’t be seen, at all
things that receive no mail, no visitors
things that aren’t supposed to be here
or anywhere else

quick, bright flashes
memory’s dim lenses
flecked with dust and specters

once, a place of mirth and much company
echoes of laughter, music and children,
floating through every hallway

scents of pot roast, potatoes and carrots,
cigars, perfumes, liquors,
fruit tree logs crackling in the fireplace,
roses, thyme, basil, rosemary
and lavender from the garden,
drifting in through the open windows,
freshly baked pies and cookies
all washing over the senses
of friends and neighbors

finely crafted furniture of oak and leather,
where once they sat, sipping teas and sewing,
nursing babies, reading the newspapers,
scratching the chins of kittens and puppies,
holding hands, kissing in the happy hours,
consoling each other, after some loss

all of it now covered over by tarps
draped with sheets and drop cloths
consumed by the dry rot of time
or dampness, the mildew
and stale, trapped air
which slowly made their way in

these too, desired to stay here, forever
to find a home, within these walls

anymore, only whispers
float through these rooms

no one has lived here for many years

the kitchen, bedrooms, parlor
all bare and sullen
the pantries stocked only
with cobwebs of memory

this house was the home
of more than a few hearts
a place of comfort and rest
for a great many souls

it still is

this house has
never been empty


©2021 Kevin Trent Boswell


Magus72 on Patreon

End of Days

I.
We could have changed
In so many, small ways
So much for which
There was to aspire

II.
Was a time we had options
Moves and plays
To climb out of the hole
Find someplace higher

III.
Having opened the door
The beast enters and slays
Its hunger, endless
Its destruction, entire

IV.
No plans to retreat
Once inside, it stays
It does not sleep
Or pause or tire

V.
Opting out of truth
Believing false displays
The twisted words
Of talented liar

VI.
Fear of speaking out
Mute with delays
With webs of deceit
Would truth, retire

VII.
Insecure children
In desperate need of praise
And any fleeting comforts
They might acquire

VIII.
Fearful of reproach
The disapproving gaze
In secret would
Against all, conspire

VIIII.
The world, itself
Now glances sideways
Its displeasure hot
Worse than anything prior

X.
Events blunting senses
Into stumbling daze
Mouth of inferno
Funeral pyre

XI.
Prophecy unfolds
However one prays
Indulgence to Pope
Or penance of friar

XII.
Entrusted with a gift
Foolish steward betrays
Comprehending not
The quantifier

XIII.
Slave of Mammon sits
Rolls over, obeys
Right up to bitter end
Chasing after desire

XIV.
A drunk compass, slurring
Off course, it strays
Into gutter, wearing black
Mourning attire

XV.
Reaping what we’ve sown
On death’s harvest, to graze
Famine and plague
The new supplier

XVI.
Trumpets sounding
They startle, amaze
Broken seals in hands
Of angelic choir

XVII.
Choking in the heat
Sun’s blistering rays
Unseen, exponential
A mad multiplier

XVIII.
A scroll unrolling
The hell hound bays
Revelation in the ear
Of the testifier

XVIIII.
Heels by its master
Whose scale, justice weighs
The same who brought waters
As Earth’s purifier

XX.
For perjury and murder
The wages it pays
Tribulations certain
And soon to transpire

XXI.
Removed from God’s sight
At the end of days
The second judgement
Is a judgement of fire


©2021 Kevin Trent Boswell


From the black book of awful, horrible, despicable things, Out On The Killing Floor.

Warning: Take only as prescribed. Keep out of reach from children, pets, pregnant women and anyone who still has any hope for the future. May cause sleeplessness, fatigue, depression, anxiety, suicidal thoughts or visions of impending doom. Some readers may experience weight… not weight gain, just a heavy weight of existential dread. User assumes all risk and releases the author from any and all legal recourse. This book is not approved by the FDA or anyone else who enjoys being happy. May be illegal in your area.

Out On The Killing Floor, by Kevin Trent Boswell
Available on Amazon

Support

Special thanks to the patrons on Patreon, who make this possible. You can be part of it, too.

Magus72 on Patreon
Magus72 on Patreon
music, poetry and other, assorted types of madness

H. H.

If you ever were in any kind of doubt
About the evil in the hearts of men
Think about Chicago, circa 1890
And what happened there, back when…

A hotel was built on S. Wallace and 63rd
Owned by one of the devil’s own pawns
A slimy little man by the name of Holmes
He raised the money through elaborate cons

How he went about his money schemes
Is bad… but it pales, when compared to why
He built the place up with the sole intention of
Trapping people there, to die

This fiend kept all his contractors in the dark
So none knew the true nature of the place
Hallways, leading nowhere, many fake doors
Each worker had a puzzled look on his face

A great many builders, all with small jobs
There was no reason to suspect anything foul
Lots of secret passages, trap doors, thick walls
So no one would hear the victims howl

The store, up front, was innocent enough
The apartments on the third floor, too
But the second floor and the basement,
These were where… awful things, he would do

Chutes that lead to the basement below
A huge bank vault, for… something diabolical
A crematorium and acid vats to get rid of bodies
And a labyrinth… not at all metaphorical

A maze of hallways, sinister booby traps,
So much evil, it’s hard to imagine it all
Thing is, it wasn’t a movie, it was a pet-project
His own, private, murder mini-mall

To say he was mad, well… that just doesn’t cut it
It was deeper and much more perverse
Hollywood has made millions and they do try
But have yet to dream up anything worse

Dahmer… he was mad, liked eating the dead
Ted Bundy killed women for sexual kicks
Richard Ramirez, Ed Gein, a whole host of sickos
But none of them ever bought pallets of bricks

H. H. had a slew of craftsmen and laborers
To build a museum of death and by age 35
He was eventually hanged, after confessing to
27 murders, some of whom were still quite alive

The Zodiac escaped capture and Scotland Yard
Never did apprehend the ol’ Ripper, Jack
But neither of them ever went so far
As to construct even a shanty or a shack

I have to admit, I’m unable to fathom
The depravity of such a despicable plan
How so much planning went into the thing
And all of it… from one, single man

I promise you, I don’t find anything whatsoever
About any of this gruesome story funny
But I shudder to think, what some other lunatics
Might’ve done, if only… they’d had enough money

If had a bunch of cash, I’d probably build the
Finest recording studio that anyone’s ever seen
I can’t imagine my first thought would be to build
The set of something like Saw, Part 14

But one man had exactly such a thought
Unspeakable evil was just his idea of fun
He may have killed as many as two hundred,
Yet, they could only convict him for one

How many victims? No one knows, because
Acid and lime don’t let much remain
He admitted to 27 but some were still alive
The only certainty was that Holmes was insane

I’ve seen and read about many ghastly things
Some of it factual and some, fictional mystery
But you can go read all about H. H. Holmes
In any reliable source of modern history

I’m bothered to the core by the sickness of men
The terrifying things that killers will do
But H. H. perturbs me, far more than most
Because all of his story is entirely too true

There are madmen and there are murderers
But you can’t just say something’s “not right”
That a man dreamt up such a chamber of horrors
Well… it’s why I lock my doors at night


©2021 Kevin Trent Boswell


From the black book of awful, horrible, despicable things, Out On The Killing Floor

Out On The Killing Floor
Available on Amazon

Support

You can be a part of the support for more music and poetry, here:

Magus72 on Patreon
Magus72 on Patreon

More Machine

Built the Machine with your own, bloody hands
Said you programmed it for our plenitude
Carefully, you tightened all its bolts and bands
You saw to it that everything was screwed

Saddled your Machine when it was still small
Rode it everywhere, all over the place
Weened your Machine on blood, sweat and all
Devouring everything, leaving not a trace

First you drove it to every faraway nation
Consumed every animal and crop in the land
Millions of slaves, chained to your creation
Ground up beneath the wheels of its demand

You’re so proud of your Mean Machine
Cranked controls all the way up to MORE
So hard that you snapped off the knobs
Doesn’t know any limits, only knows war

You fed Machine what they built by hand
It grew meaner by the day, on all they could grow
It ate their homes and even ate their land
It even ate their memories, all that they know

When Machine had gobbled up every last thing
Picked clean all bones, in every foreign field
You rode back home, a messiah, a king
Fearing your hungry Machine, we all kneeled

You’re so proud of your Mean Machine
Cranked controls all the way up to MORE
So hard that you snapped off the knobs
Every day, it breaks its own high score

I guess you never heard of Dr. Frankenstein
Guess you knew Dr. Faust wasn’t real
So, you sold your soul and that was fine
But you threw all of ours into the deal

Machine just grows, never stops to ask why
You said we’d be saved by your shiny, little toy
Now, no one can stop it, no matter how we try
It’s programmed to eat, enslave and destroy

You saw Machine’s lust, heard its awful moan
You finally figured out that it would never stop
Beneath its wheels, you began throwing your own
Anything to save yourself and stay on top

Nothing left to eat, Machine looks all around
And sets its ravenous eyes upon you
Alone, it eats the Earth, with a grinding sound
Finally eating itself… only thing left to chew

You’re so proud of your Mean Machine
Cranked controls all the way up to MORE
Turning so hard, you snapped off the dials
Mean Machine breaks free to settle the score


©2021 Kevin Trent Boswell


From the black book of awful, horrible, despicable things, Out On The Killing Floor

Out On The Killing Floor, by Kevin Trent Boswell
Available on Amazon

Support

Many thanks to everyone who supports this work, over at Patreon. It wouldn’t be possible without them.

Magus72 on Patreon
Magus72 on Patreon

Sumus Solum

just a few words
quietly into the ear
words in Latin
and a whisper, these

“Velocitas. Tempo. Quaeso.”
being: speed, pace
and the last meaning
please

looking fearful, desperate
it spoke again, saying
“Fastinare, Padre.
Sumus solum.”

“Hurry up, Father.
We’re lonely.”

the words beating
in his ear like a drum

the face grinned
but it was not the smile
of the one to whom
the face did belong

it was the mockery of the evil
that hid behind that face,
working on the priest
who was less strong

“Let me show you,
all that you can have”

and reaching into his mind,
showed him his every desire

anything and everything
he’d ever wanted
anything he could
ever want or require

intoxicating visions
washed over him
waves of sensation,
each of them seeming so real

honors, wealth,
lust and health,
every appetite or pleasure
he could ever hope to feel

this Father Antonio,
the weaker of the two,
began falling apart, succumbing
to temptation’s sway

but Father Paolo
continued his prayers
even while his assistant
backed away

the spirit, bound to the bed
thrashed about and snarled
spitting and cursing every
curse-word it knew

Paolo threw holy water,
said the prayers, kept faith
fearlessly advanced,
while Antonio withdrew

the Bishop had warned
Antonio wasn’t ready,
not up to the task,
said Paolo should choose another

but neither Father Paolo
nor the good Bishop
truly understood, just how weak
was the inexperienced brother

Antonio had never
performed the Rites
and in the presence of such evil,
he succumbed to the attack

but none suspected that he too,
would become possessed
and worse, he stabbed
Father Paolo in the back

the wounded priest,
the only one of these two
who had strong faith
and the skill for the job

stumbled back into the hall
Antonio came to his senses;
and seeing what he’d done,
began to sob

the spirit, it watched,
through the eyes of the young girl
Antonio’s crying and
Father Paolo, falling down dead

Father Antonio’s
heart pumped with fear,
he slumped to the floor,
clutching his head

the spirit laughed
the last words it spoke…
“Now, let me give you
your reward.”

it closed the girl’s eyes
forced its frail host to smile
and the approaching sounds
of sirens loudly roared

Father Antonio spent
twenty years in prison
and was given parole
for good behavior

The Bishop spoke
at Father Paolo’s funeral,
said that he’d gone
to be with the Savior

the frail, young woman
possessed by the spirit,
died slowly, tormented
in the asylum

the orderlies, speaking no Latin,
thought it gibberish,
her endlessly whispering…
“Quaeso. Sumus solum.”


©2021 Kevin Trent Boswell 


From the anthology of dark, horror poetry, called Out On The Killing Floor.

Out On The Killing Floor, by Kevin Trent Boswell
Available on Amazon

Main photo by Khoa Võ


Support for This Work

You can be part of the ongoing madness from Kevin Trent Boswell on Patreon. Take a look at the benefit tiers and find the one that drives you sufficiently insane. They start as low as $3.

You won’t find madness at a better price, anywhere. If you do, we’ll match their price and/or cut them up into tiny pieces and bury them in the garden.

Magus72 on Patreon - the music, poetry and madness oKevin Trent Boswell
Magus72 on Patreon

Down, Down

Into the unknown, faster and faster
Down, down, into places of doubt
To dark situations we cannot master
Into places no one warned us about

Coming, coming, that terrible sound
Noises we’ve never heard before
Unintelligible whispers all around
Moment by moment, more and more

We know not what comes, only that it is nigh
No more information do we possess
Just a powerful dread that soon we shall die
But when or how, we can only guess

This must be hell, nothing else can explain
The terror, the darkness, all the confusion
Rattling through the addled brain
It’s impossible to reach any other conclusion

Only hell holds such a perpetual wait
Leading only to more, frightened delay
We must be the damned, who repented too late
And here, in hell, we now must stay

And yet, wide awake, enough to discuss
What we don’t know and we’re able to curse
The fear of whatever makes its way toward us
If this isn’t hell, it’s something much worse


©2021 Kevin Trent Boswell 


This piece is part of the anthology of dark, horror poetry, called Out On The Killing Floor.

Out On The Killing Floor, by Kevin Trent Boswell
Available on Amazon

Photo by Louis Vizet

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.

Out On The Killing Floor, by Kevin Trent Boswell
Available on Amazon

Photo by cottonbro

Smothered Mate

The Queen nestles up snuggly, next to the King
Behind her, the Rook shuts the door
The Knight seizes upon his opportunity
To seal the King’s fate, evermore

Through the open window, the Knight, he spies
The King, cornered and exposed in his room
Bending his bow, the Knight looses a bolt
Thereby making the King’s chamber a tomb

A King now lay naked as the day he was born
Except for that single arrow, through his heart
The Queen in cahoots and the Knight’s fine aim
The King was quite clearly doomed from the start


©2021 Kevin Trent Boswell

Author’s Note: “Smothered mate” is a chess tactic, whereby checkmate is achieved through a Queen sacrifice. The Queen moves in between the Rook and the King (in the case in the picture above, this happens on the G8 square; although this can also occur on the other side of the board, as well).

Since the King is in the corner, behind a row of pawns, there’s no legal move except to capture the Queen, with the Rook.

The King cannot capture her, because there is a Knight in place, making it an illegal square for the King to move into. After the Queen is captured, the Knight moves again and it’s checkmate; the King has been “smothered”, unable to move because he is trapped on all sides, by his own pieces.

This makes for a clear parallel with an old school assassination plot, as might occur in Game Of Thrones… and did occur in a great many places, throughout history.

This piece will be in the new book of dark poetry, Out On The Killing Floor, coming soon.

Coming Soon

The image is the property of Chess.com

The Duel

A glove left its hand and loudly it met
Another gentleman’s shocked, available cheek ⠀
Gauntlet thrown down, it was then announced ⠀
That tomorrow would host a duel to the death⠀

The news spread fast and the gamblers all bet
On whichever man they thought less weak ⠀
One way or another, one would be trounced
Just after sunrise, would take his last breath

Each man chose a second, a solid friend
An assistant to ready his charge for the fight
To tend to the details and help steady his mind
To see to it that his pistol is clean and powder, dry

Even to dress him; for when a man meets his end ⠀
He wants to look sharp, in the new morning’s light Only one is to conquer and victory, to find
The other, in a pool of his own blood, would lie

After a night of sweaty and troubled sleep
They adorned themselves in the fine, regal trend ⠀
And adjourned on field of battle, according to plan Rules were explained and readiness, discerned

Rude remarks were exchanged, cutting deep Enraged, ready to deliver an untimely end
Each with his back to the other, once counting began,
With grave face, took his ten paces and turned

Here at last, was the decisive moment
The climax, a champion would soon overcome ⠀
Besting his adversary and winning the rights
To brag upon himself, of how he was more skilled

A contest, it was, as the gentry would later lament
When the smoke had all cleared, the crowd was numb
Each superb marksman had the other in his sights,
Two bullseye shots and both men were killed⠀
⠀


©2021 Kevin Trent Boswell

From the black book of unimaginably horrible, terrifying things, Out On The Killing Floor

Out On The Killing Floor, by Kevin Trent Boswell
Available on Amazon

Seven Spanish Angels

Seven Spanish Angels

My cover of Willie Nelson’s “Seven Spanish Angels”, a wonderful song that he got Ray Charles to do a duet with him on. I don’t care for modern country music but I love Willie Nelson, Johnny Cash, Patsy Cline, Dolly Parton, Loretta Lynn… to me, that’s real country music.

The great jazz saxophonist, Charlie Patker would go into a bar and load up the jukebox with country songs, which puzzled his jazz cat friends. When they asked why, he’d say “It’s in the stories, man. Listen to the stories.” Nobody can tell a story like Willie Nelson. How much more true is that, when Ray Charles is helping him tell it?

I’m doing the vocal, playing all the guitar parts and the bass. I’ve never been much of a slide guitarist, so it’s not exactly amazing slide work but it came out just well enough that I didn’t ditch it entirely. Since I didn’t have Ry Cooder’s number, it will have to do.

You can support this work and download the song for free at:

https://Patreon.com/Magus72

Magus72 on Patreon
Magus72 on Patreon

Seven Spanish Angels

He looked down into her brown eyes
And said “Say a prayer for me”
She threw her arms around him
Whispered “God will keep us free”
They could hear the riders comin’
He said “This is my last fight
If they take me back to Texas
They won’t take me back alive”

There were seven Spanish Angels
At the Altar of the Sun
They were prayin’ for the lovers
In the Valley of the Gun
When the battle stopped and the smoke cleared
There was thunder from the throne
And seven Spanish Angels
Took another angel home

She reached down and picked the gun up
That lay smokin’ in his hand
She said, “Father please forgive me
I can’t make it without my man”
And she knew the gun was empty
And she knew she couldn’t win
But her final prayer was answered
When the rifles fired again

There were seven Spanish Angels
At the Altar of the Sun
They were prayin’ for the lovers
In the Valley of the Gun
When the battle stopped and the smoke cleared
There was thunder from the throne
And seven Spanish Angels
Took another angel home

Words and music by Willie Nelson


Special Thanks

Special thanks to the following people for their video and photo contributions:

Brett Sayles

Karl MPhotography

Gela Del Rosario

Kalen Kemp

Bhargava Marripati

Thirdman

Los Muertos Crew

Alena Darmel

Esau Magos

Sosa Films

Kelly Lacy

MART PRODUCTION

Anderson Juarez

Jose Lorenzo Muñoz

Dorota Semla

Gabriel Bazán

and Jeff Ross

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


From the black book of unimaginably horrible things, Out On The Killing Floor

Out On The Killing Floor, by Kevin Trent Boswell
Available on Amazon

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

Full Moon Song

This is a song that I wrote in my early twenties but until now, no proper recording of it existed.

Magus – Full Moon Song

In the past year, I’ve learned several truckloads about “desktop music production” and how to get studio-quality recordings, using only my computer DAW (audio recording program) a basic, two input audio interface and a simple, Shure-58, dynamic microphone.

Also, I finally got a decent pair of studio monitors, so I can hear what is actually going on in the mix, without it being colored too much by the automatic tweaking of frequencies that is present in most speaker systems.

These factors combined, I’m now putting out recordings that are vastly superior to what I was producing last year. The latest material is sonically improved at least a couple hundred percent.

Lyrics

Sometimes I find out things about me
Just a little bit more than I’d ever want to know
Kind of put a damper on a real good mood
Just when I was sure I was on a roll

I was sure I was

In the face of greatness, we often feel small
Yeah, the Full Moon, she spits in my eye
And wouldn’t we all just love to know
Ooh, yeah… exactly why

I know I would

I look for answers in the other dimensions
I listen for stories that cannot be told
I seek someone to take my confessions
And if there is no one, then I want control

God knows, I could use some control

Control

If you could only see what I saw
You’d surely say that I’d lost my mind
But I know it’s true that all are one and one is all
I’ve seen it going on, all the time

Anyway you turn the question,
It cannot be answered
But anyway you turn the answer,
It cannot be questioned
I took a toothless profession in cancer
On a slighted word, best not to mention

No, no

And I look for answers in the other dimensions
I listen for stories that cannot be told
And I’ll do anything for direction
Anything short of sell my soul

If I’ve got one to bargain away

Away

Away


All words and music
©2021 Kevin Trent Boswell


Support for the Work

Support this work by becoming a patron and get perks like patrons-only releases, early access free music, poetry and other artistic goodies that help keep us from sliding into the abyss of modern commercialization of the arts.

Magus72 on Patreon
Magus72 on Patreon

Thank You

Special thanks to the following people for their video contributions:

cottonbro

Sosa Films

Mikhail Nilov

Tom Fisk

Sarowar Hussain

Anastasia Shuraeva

MART PRODUCTION

Space Space

sabrina

Samphan Korwonghttps://instagram.com/kws636

Osman

Frank Cone

Endiae Genius

Gaurav Joshi

Vishva Patel

Lay-Z Owl

Aviv Perets

Tact

This is another song that I wrote in my early twenties but it’s only now getting a proper recording.

Magus – Tact

Back Story

I played this tune with various bands over the years but we never got a usable recording, because they were usually done in dive bars with poor acoustics. There was no separation of the instruments, only the chaotic din of drunken idiots in the background.

I do still have the original, cassette demo that I recorded on a reel to reel tape machine. I no longer have that machine [insert sadness and woe, here] but I have the recording. It’s ok but it’s just guitar and vocals and covered in that old school, analog tape hiss.

This is a full treatment, with rhythm guitar, lead guitar, vocals, bass, all of which I’m doing. The lead guitar part is a first take improvisation. I’ve never played lead over this song before, because I was always busy playing the rhythm and singing the lead part.

Actually, I’d never even thought about what I’d want the lead guitar part to sound like, because keeping a band together was trouble enough to keep my mind thoroughly occupied. So, I just hit record and rolled with it. I’m pretty pleased with the result.

It’s also got drums and hand percussion, performed by Stinky the Robot drummer. I’ve got him trained pretty well at this point. He eats a small amount of electricity, sleeps in his little box and he only bites occasionally, now; I’ve even removed the shock collar.

It’s really one of the most simple, straightforward songs that I’ve ever written. There’s a main riff and a slight variation on it, toward the middle. Then, there’s the verse part, a two-measure figure that repeats, over and over.

There’s three, short verses, no chorus and no bridge. That’s because it was originally a poem and I had no desire to adapt the words, just to flesh out the musical bits.

The rhythm guitar part really emphasizes the drums and bass anyway, thus making it more of a groove tune than a standard, pop formula type of song. The lyrics take up only about the first third of it and the rest is just an excuse to do what musicians love to do… jam.


Lyrics

Pilgrimage to the mountain,
On through a hurricane
Going to pray for my family,
And for those who lay in the clay
I don’t know who will hear me
But I will cry on the wind
Grant me strength and compassion
Give me self-discipline

Oh, the pressure and the pride, now
They can split your skull
When your best ain’t enough, now
All you can do is let go
A thousand years’ wisdom
Will set it all straight
A fool’s minute will erase it
Ah, but that is the Way

I was tied to a tree
And whipped like a dog
It’s where I learned to be free
And to trust in God
In the center of the mountain
You will find a ring
When you wear that piece/peace
No man’s words will sting


All words and music
©2021 Kevin Trent Boswell


Thank you!

Special thanks to my wonderful supporters on Patreon.

If you like what you hear and see, help me make more of my weird music, poetry and other, assorted types of madness, by becoming a patron today.

Patrons get early access, super neato, patrons-only content, music downloads, books, my undying love and backstage passes to the end of the world.

Magus - Kevin Trent Boswell on Patreon - Magus72
Magus72 on Patreon

More special thanks, to the following for their video contributions:

cottonbro

Monstera

Jakob Lundvall

Anastasia Shuraeva

RODNAE Productions

Kindel Media

Pavel Danilyuk

MART PRODUCTION

Alena Darmel

Matthias Groeneveld

Welton Souza

As well as: Ivan Samkov, Mikhail Nilov, Joffray Jouve, Tima Miroshnichenko, Nitin Arya, Daniel Absi, Ron Lach, Timur Weber

Contact any of them about making a professional video or graphics for your next project. They deserve the work, as you can see.

Something Like A Rainbow

Something Like A Rainbow

This is “Something Like A Rainbow”, my first Orchestral Pop song.

It’s only a string section, not an entire orchestra. But what sets this apart from anything that I’ve ever done before is that, in addition to writing the chord progression, the guitar and bass parts and the lyrics, I also wrote the string part. That’s a new one for me.

And I didn’t just write something on guitar and then transpose it for strings. Instead, I wrote it the way a classical composer would.

To do this, I had to draw on the part writing rules that we learned in music theory class in college, something that I thought I’d never actually use. It was a long time ago, so I feel sure that I broke some of those rules in various places but remembering the basics (no parallel 4ths or 5ths, etc) got me through it.

Something Like A Rainbow

Lost and alone and wandering
Finding a true friend there, in the rain
Hold fast, together
Warmth in a lover’s arms
Loving each other heals the pain

A soft and gentle light, to lead the way
Something like a rainbow

So many things we were told we’d see
Most of them never came to be
But no one can explain the redeeming grace
That shines from the light in your face

A soft and gentle light, it leads the way
Something like a rainbow

And it shines into forever
Walk in its light, into forever

So many things we were told we’d see
Most of them never came to be
Still, no one can explain the redeeming grace
That shines when a smile is upon your face

A soft and gentle light, it leads the way
Something like a rainbow
Soft and gentle light, it leads the way
Something like a rainbow

And its light goes into forever
Ride the light into forever


All music and lyrics ©2021 Kevin Trent Boswell

Support This Work:

Magus72 on Patreon
Magus72 on Patreon

Special Thanks

Much appreciation goes to the people who provided video footage:

Mikhail Nilov

cottonbro

Anna Shvets

Anastasia Shuraeva

Miguel Á. Padriñán

PNW Production

Mikita Yo

Marc Onana

Alex Kad

Zuzanna Musial, Stefano Barbieri

Mandala of Sand – Part I.

This entire project is a wormhole born of grief. This is what I have been doing to channel the energy from the loss of a beloved pet, who was my best friend for sixteen years.

This is the dark music I needed to make, the underlying theme of which is time, structure and impermanence. The initial intention was a single, long piece of 12 minutes but it quickly turned into a much larger, longer and more complicated monster. 

It’s been fraught with both artistic and technical difficulties at each and every step of the way and that’s perfectly fine with me, because every moment I’ve spent lost in this maze is a moment that I wasn’t keenly aware of a painful absence. 

The music is heavy, dark and often angry. I’m not really a bass player but since I’m doing this by myself, I do the best I can with the bass lines. 

The main guitar riff of the song is the only part that is rehearsed. The rest is all improvisation. I make multiple passes at the entire form and then string together the best parts of each one. As of right now, there are at least three pieces to this work; we’ll see how it goes.


©2021 Kevin Trent Boswell


Video segments provided by the following:

Ron Lach

Luis Quintero  

Engin Akyurt  

GamOl 

Ricardo Esquivel 

Free Creative Stuff 

Stef 

Rostislav Uzunov 

MART PRODUCTION 

Dmitry Varennikov 

Jess Loiterton 

Eva Elijas 

Artem Beliaikin 

emirkhan bal 

Ivan Khmelyuk


Support the creation of more music,

poetry and other madness by Magus at:

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

parody

in the sixties and seventies,
everyone went over the top

musicians wore outlandish costumes
and behaved as if they were invincible

sometimes, they believed it

but mostly, it was because they had
seen through the facade of the system

they did lots of psychedelic drugs
which taught them that everything…
and yes, i do mean… everything
is utterly ridiculous

there’s literally nothing you can say,
think, feel, believe, wear or do
that isn’t… just plain silly

rather than take ourselves seriously,
why not revel and delight
in the temporal, inane
shenanigans that are
our lives…

ourselves

these days, everyone is
up their own asses,
again

everyone is busy, twenty-four-seven,
trying to convince everyone else
that they’re the coolest, that they’ve
got it all figured out

“if you’re into disco, you’re not cool,
because disco was silly and they just thought it was cool, before everyone knew better”

or

“if you’re into _______,
then you’re not cool, because ________.”

put whatever you want in there,
classic rock, polka, country, surf music…
whatever

someone is going to be
actually offended
that you like it

“if you’re into that, then you’re not cool,
because that’s not what i’m doing
and i’m pretty much the only one
who’s doing what’s cool.”

it only tells us
how terrified you are
of our opinions
of you

and that’s really
the only thing
that sets you apart as being
truly ridiculous

it’s the
not knowing
that you’re ridiculous

that not knowing
is what makes you comical, farcical

acting cool is cool
but believing you’re cool…
well, that just makes you
kitschy instead of campy

but if you start right out of the gate,
convinced that everything about you
and what you’re doing
is utterly ridiculous,
with the intention of milking that silliness
for everything it’s worth…

then it’s not ridiculous at all,
however ridiculous it is

and it is

for the love of god,
please stop trying to convince us
that you’re cool
and that what other people are doing
isn’t

it only makes you into
a sad caricature,
a parody

you see, we really don’t care
what you do,
as long as you do it
with all of your heart
and soul

put on a ten gallon hat
deck yourself out in wild makeup
wear a smoking jacket
sing out of key… in pig latin
play bongos while tap dancing
do the tango to speed metal
dress in leather and do opera
dress in drag and do gangsta rap
wear a suit and tie while you
sing outlaw country music

just know
beyond any shadow of doubt,
that before,
during
and
after

that you were,
you are and you
always will be

ridiculous

and we’ll absolutely
love you for it


©2021 Kevin Trent Boswell

Support the creation of more ridiculousness by Kevin Trent Boswell, at:

Magus72 on Patreon
Magus72 on Patreon, a very silly place.

patience

patience

there’s an air of it
all about the farm, today

having stepped briefly outside
for the dogs to tend their needs,
between pockets of rain,
buckets of it, steadily dropping,
now halted for a short while;
a temporary ceasefire,
however tenuous

everything damp
the cows,
they look like cardboard cutouts,
propped up in the fields

an air of patience leans in,
whispering to me
“the world will wait for you. it will wait.”

it’s an enticing thought,
though, steeped in bitter lies,
it most certainly is

the world waits for no one

the world gives not a single, used damn for you

not for your upper respiratory infection
not for your needing to heal, before you can
move on and finish up all those projects

the world thinks nothing
of burying your carcass in its garden

you’ll make good fertilizer
for its flowers,
it does care about those;
far, far more than it does about you,
at any rate

lots of useful minerals and nutrients
in a decaying human body;
should produce some prize petunias

but all this relaxed barometric pressure
the gentle, lilting fog,
the peaceful quiet,
the slow, calm meandering
of the dogs
and these fake cows

today, it all conspires

enveloping me
in pleasant, wistful fictions,
treating me as its mushroom,
kept in the dark of convalescence
and fed the manure of untruth

back inside, now
the humidifier is gurgling its gentle truths
i dive into the recesses of its deep end
swimming in the mists of vapor,
hints of rosemary, clove, camphor
and the other, colorful fish
who lurk in its dark ocean

i take leisurely swims
in the splintering, fingering streams
of the internet
and all its watery amusements
it too, tells me
wonderfully entertaining lies,
everything i want to hear
and more

but i know better…
about the world
and the possibility of it
patiently waiting

i know how it will steamroll
right over the slow,
the weak, the poor, the infirm,
the drowning;

those who are drowning in debt,
drowning in heartbreak,
drowning in their own lungs

the world is all too happy
to step on their heads,
with its heavy boots
and its callous lack of caring

it cares not
for your concerns
of convenience

i know of the world,
how it is
how it always
will be

i know of the world

i know that,
at least for now,
i will stay here,
in this little, comfortable blindspot,
a nook, a cranny
which the world has
somehow overlooked,
somehow erroneously
missed

the world
be dammed

if you ask me,
it has gotten
its own way
for far
too long


©2021 Kevin Trent Boswell


Support the creation of more music, poetry and madness from Kevin Trent Boswell, over at:

Magus72 on Patreon

Intergalactic Funk #72

Yesterday was my birthday but don’t worry, you didn’t miss the party. I’m bringing the party straight to you:

Intergalactic Funk #72

It’s a 70s funk theme, set in outer space. So put on your best pair of corduroy bell bottoms and platform shoes, dip your head in a bucket of glitter and step out onto the launch pad. We’re about to take the funk to a whole new level.

Space, the final frontier. These are the voyages of the starship Funkalyze.

© 2021 Kevin Trent Boswell


I don’t do drugs anymore… than, say, the average touring funk band.

—Bill Hicks

Whenever I think about funk music, it has a look… and that’s how it sounds.

—Erykah Badu

I come equipped with stereophonic funk producin‘ disco inducin´ twin magnetic rock receptors.

—Bootsy Collins


Support the creation of new music, poetry and general madness, at:

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:

Engin Akyurt 

cottonbro 

Stef 

ANTHONY SHKRABA production 

KoolShooters 

RODNAE Productions 

Kime Freedom 

Anna Tarazevich 

Yan Krukov 

Anthony 

Atakan Ozkan 

Rostislav Uzunov 

Mikhail Nilov 

JACK AND GOD IS GRACIOUS 

Polina Tankilevitch 

olia danilevich 

SHVETS production 

Monstera 

Artem Beliaikin 

Also: Pressmaster, Greta Hoffman, Askar Abayev, fauxels and Norma Mortenson

Hoochie Coochie Man (Slight Return)

Here is my cover of “Hoochie Coochie Man”. This tune was written by the preeminent Godfather of the Blues, Muddy Waters.

Muddy Waters, The Godfather of the Blues
Muddy Waters, The Godfather of the Blues

The lyrics are heavily laced with references to the Hoodoo conjure tradition of the American South. One commonly misunderstood line is:

I got the John the Conqueror Root

I’m gonna mess with you

To mess with someone was to put roots on them, meaning to cast spells on that person.

The root known as John the Conqueror (Ipomoea jalapa) is widely regarded as one of the most powerful roots or Plant Spirits; if not the most powerful.

The root, all by itself, was potent and to possess it was to hold power to exert one’s will. However, to possess a mojo hand (aka, mojo bag), made and empowered by a knowledgeable rootworker, was an awe-inspiring thing.

It was not a simple matter to travel to Louisiana and get a mojo, especially for a Black person, who had less opportunities and greater obstacles. If you wanted the magick, the only way to get it was to find a skilled doctor.

This was a man or woman who knew how to coerce the Spirits to work on their behalf. First, you had to find a rootworker and then you had to convince them to make a hand for you and pay them whatever their fee was, no questions asked.

Any rituals they prescribed you or tasks assigned must be followed scrupulously. But once you had a mojo hand, especially one containing John the Conqueror, it meant that you were a force to be reckoned with.


I’m doing all the guitar, bass and vocal parts on this track. I added Slight Return to the title as a little tip of the hat to another major influence of mine, the immortal Jimi Hendrix. Hendrix was well aware of the lore mentioned here and his song “Voodoo Child (Slight Return)” references similar themes.

During the last verse, you’ll see a quote, placed over a pic of Muddy Waters. It comes from the movie Crossroads, starring Ralph Machio; not to be confused with the movie Crossroads, starring Britney Spears.

It’s the story of a young, classical guitarist who dreams of nothing but playing the Mississippi Delta Blues. He’s a classical music major at The Juilliard School of Music but is mostly obsessed with Robert Johnson, arguably the greatest blues man ever.

Robert Johnson, King of the Mississippi Delta Blues
Robert Johnson

Support the creation of more

music, poetry and madness

by Magus, at:

https://Patreon.com/Magus72

Magus72 on Patreon; music, poetry and assorted madness

The images in this video are

1) historic pictures of famous, Hoodoo rootworkers and practitioners of Voodoo (or Voudon, Voodou, etc) and a few that just look the part.

2) pictures of myself playing guitar

3) personal photos and video of workings I’ve done

4) random, “bluesy” stuff that gives the appropriate, Mississippi Blues vibe or the Hoodoo/Voodoo, sorcery vibe

5) images from The Key of Solomon, a European magickal grimoire (which became highly important in Hoodoo.

6) stock footage, provided by:

Thanks to the following, for some of the images in the video.

cottonbro 

Artem Podrez 

ANTHONY SHKRABA

Mick Haupt 

https://commons.m.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Voodoo_Altar_New_Orleans.jpg

Unchanged

This is the video for Unchanged. The .mp3 song download is available for patrons, over at Patreon.

It’s an original, definitely in the vein of my signature brand, a type of madness so strange that I had to give it a new name. I call it Purple Mind Licorice Music®️.

It combines alternative rock, funk, jazz, folk, blues, heavy metal and psychedelia. It’s a long name but Parliament already has Funkadelic and well, let’s face it, Alterna-Funk-N-Roll isn’t nearly as sexy as Purple Mind Licorice Music. Why yes, I do tend to talk about my music like James Brown talked about his. Thank you for noticing.

Side note, if you haven’t seen the film Get On Up, it’s surprisingly good. I’m a big fan of The Godfather of Soul, The Minister Of New New Super Heavy Funk (even if he was a total wacko, in real life). But for whatever reason, I didn’t think the movie would be all that great. I was delightfully wrong.

Besides, alternative is a lousy category. Any genre that contains Nirvana, REM, Alice In Chains, Weezer, Coldplay and Bush isn’t particularly helpful in guiding listeners’ decisions. They seriously need to scrap that garbage and revisit the drawing board.Back to the business at hand. I’ve played this song live in my band but we just never managed to get a decent recording of it.

I’m doing the vocal and all the bass and guitar parts. Here, I abandoned my memories of how we played it in the band and just started from scratch, all by myself, just me and my computer drummer, Stinky the Robot.

Fake It ‘Til You Break It

I’ve got a habit of improvising my lead guitar parts, as opposed to writing out a solo in advance. There are songs that I write solos for but those are special cases. Usually, I just improvise and keep the bits that I like.

If anyone takes issue with that, many years ago I read an interview with David Gilmour (Pink Floyd) in a guitar magazine. He said that’s the same process he uses in the studio.

He would take several, improv passes at a song, then cut and paste the bits he liked. Later, he’d go back and learn those parts for the live shows.

Comfortably Numb was done that way and I think that song did alright. It sold like over a thousand copies or something. Trust me… in my head, that joke was hysterical.

Of course, I also have a habit of keeping what I regard as being some of “the more charming mistakes“, for better or for worse. There’s one or two of those in the jam section at the end of this tune. I was tempted to re-record those bits but if they make me giggle, then they stay. Giggles are a precious commodity, not to be wasted.

Unchanged

These wounds, open and tender
Reveal your face to me
Into the chalice of my arms
The blood of your suffering flows free

It’s a mild mannered possession,
This waiting for the rain
Encumbered by the spell and
Groggy in the slumbering delay

A scrap of ribbon, fallen
From a lover’s hair
Found by the boots of boredom
Lament for things not yet dead

A piece of my soul floats there
Down in the puddle below
Somewhere in a watch pocket
An insane notion explodes


All words and music
© 2021 Kevin Trent Boswell

Thank You

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

Yaroslav Shuraev

Pavel Danilyuk

Polina Tankilevitch

Vlada Karpovich

Relaxing Guru & Co.

Alena Darmel

The Weight

This is my cover of the song “The Weight” by that excellent group known simply as The Band.

“It consisted of four Canadians and one American: Rick Danko (bass guitar, vocals, fiddle), Garth Hudson (keyboards, accordion, saxophone), Richard Manuel (keyboards, drums, vocals), Robbie Robertson (guitar, vocals), and Levon Helm (drums, vocals, mandolin, guitar).”

Source: https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Band

I’ve had a deep love of this song for as long as I can remember. It’s got a fun, upbeat vibe to the music but the lyrics (as the title suggests) are very heavy.

It’s a song about loneliness, disappointment and suffering. It’s about asking where you turn when all your best laid plans have fallen apart.

When I do a cover song, I usually try to reinvent it to some degree. I try to put something of my own mark on it. In this case, it didn’t feel right to completely reshape the song. There are really only two ways that I’ve wandered away from the original.

One is that I had to somehow fill up the empty space left by Garth’s piano playing. I chose to do that with harmony guitar parts, because guitar is my instrument and I gave them a simple and slightly somber quality, to accent the lyrics.

The other is that I shortened the chorus and used heavy effects on the vocal harmonies. I’m doing all the vocal, guitar and bass parts on this. The drums are by Stinky the Robot, my computer-based drummer, who is even more difficult to work with than a real drummer, if that’s even possible.

Gratitude

Special thanks to the following people for providing the evocative video footage that helps bring to light our social problem of the lost and disenfranchised. Homelessness and mental illness are entirely too prevalent and much more needs to be done.

We can’t be a healthy society unless we take care of our own and that means everyone, however unpleasant it might be to look into that chasm and think “There, but for the grace of God, go I.” We must do more… much more.

If you have the means to do so, please donate your money and your volunteer time to one or more of the many quality organizations that offer help to the homeless, the mentally challenged and to stray animals. Most of the people and animals on the street got there by bad luck and they deserve a second chance.

MART PRODUCTION

RODNAE Productions

Mental Health America (MHA)

Anastasia Shuraeva

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

https://Patreon.com/Magus72

Sweet Jane

Here is my cover of The Velvet Underground’s excellent song, Sweet Jane.

The images in the video are “famous Janes”, with the exception of course of the two photos of the old Stutz brand motorcar, which is referenced in the lyrics.

All bass, guitar and vocals are me.

The drums are by Stinky the Robot… because that’s a good name for the drummer who lives inside my computer. He plays only what I program him to play, he’s drunk only half as often as a human drummer and he smells better.

The .mp3 song file is available for patrons, over at:

https://patreon.com/magus72

Magus72 on Patreon
Magus72 on Patreon

Home At Last

Need something happy, bright, optimistic and hopeful? Well, I got somethin’ for ya.

If you’ve watched more than a couple of my music videos, then you’ve probably already figured out that I’m not exactly the go-to guy for upbeat, happy, cheerful stuff. No, I tend to gravitate towards a gritty type of realism that often steers drunkenly over the white line, into the oncoming traffic of blatant nihilism.

But I do have my occasional moments of peace, love, joy, the ultimate beauty of life and the universe… you know, all that happy, sappy shit. This is one of them.

So, get it while it’s hot, because I don’t usually serve this particular, gourmet dish in my joint. My greasy spoon typically sells cheeseburgers and beer, with a side of kick in the groin.


From the album Flagship by Trent Boswell. Full album and individual songs are available for streaming and/or purchase, at iTunes, Amazon Music, Spotify and other music services.


Trent Boswell – guitar, vocals

Words and music by Trent Boswell


Lyrics

Home At Last

Butterfly squadron, airborne children
Sweet love and flowers, rain from above
Tadpole navies trade guns for babies
There ain’t no death here, no lies, only love

I’m in the fields of forgiveness,
To the left of the sea
Towering castle awareness,
Summoning me

Butterfly squadron, airborne children
Sweet love and flowers, rain from above
Tadpole navies trade guns for babies
There ain’t no death here, no lies, only love

World is awoken; all are attending
With apologies spoken,
All wounds are now mending
High in the sky, we can see
What we’ve strived for…
We’re finally free

I’m in the fields of forgiveness,
To the left of the sea
Towering castle awareness,
Summoning me

Ocean spray wonderful
Freedom to laugh
We’re in the land now
We’re home at last

© 2021 Kevin Trent Boswell


Support the Arts

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

Magus72 on Patreon

https://Patreon.com/Magus72


Immense Thanks!

Many, 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.

I truly appreciate what they’re doing because I wouldn’t be able to make these videos, without their help.

Super Lunar

INNORECORDS PhotoVideos

Pavel Danilyuk

Nomad Nation Videoproduktion

Taryn Elliott

ROMAN ODINTSOV

Ambient_Nature_Atmosphere

Ruvim Miksanskiy

Matthias Groeneveld

Kelly Lacy

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

Pleasant Stroll

From the album Flagship by Trent Boswell.

Album available for streaming at:

iTunes

Amazon

Spotify

Or get a signed copy of Flagship at:

ConjureWork.com


Trent Boswell – guitar, vocals

Ed Kopp – bass guitar

Brett Waress – drums, hand percussion

Words and music by Trent Boswell


Lyrics

Walking down that road
With your hand in mine
This world will be ours
Just give me some time

Walkin’ toward the sunset
No, they haven’t beat us yet
We will watch the sunrise
From the other side

When our time is done here
Then we will walk on
To where we will meet God
To teach us a new song

Everybody’s Happy
You know that everybody smiles
The road that we are walking
Is measured not in miles

© 2021 Kevin Trent Boswell


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

https://Patreon.com/Magus72

Magus72 on Patreon

There are several tiers of support, each one with more benefits than the last, starting as low as $3 per month.


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.

Marian Croitoru

Maksim Goncharenok

Adrien JACTA

James Liškutín

Kindel Media

@cottonbro

Kampus Production

Pavel Danilyuk

Taryn Elliott

Also: Tim Samuel, Gustavo Fring, Ketut Subiyanto, Keira Burton and swb1891 s

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

Space Oddity

David Bowie already captured the ideal, studio sound for “Space Oddity”. My version is quite different.

His original recording has the slick, studio mixing of the vocals and the instruments. The original gives all of the cool, background sound effects that give the impression of space travel. Bowie’s “Space Oddity“ is arguably a masterpiece.

Any attempt to re-create that would be an exercise in vanity, and one which is bound to end in failure and disappointment.

If it did somehow succeed, it would still be nothing more than a staid rehash of something that was already done and done incredibly well. So, I went the opposite way with this.

I think it’s safe to say that astronauts don’t get to take their guitars (if they have them) on space flights. But if they did… that’s what I wanted this to sound like.

I wanted to give the auditory impression of a lonely space traveler, Sitting inside a little capsule, out there, in the unknown. Therefore, The audio is nothing more than a guitar and vocal track.

It’s mixed in such a way as to sound small, like it’s being played from inside the rocket. It’s supposed to sound like it’s being transmitted on a frequency that the space traveler isn’t the least bit certain will ever be heard.

Much like the plaque that American astronauts placed on the Moon, all those years ago, it’s a statement to some thing, anything, that may be out there. It’s an isolated signal, announcing “I am here”, even if no one else ever knows that I was here. It’s the tree falling in the woods, with no one around to hear it.

The video attempts to capture what I can only imagine are the two predominant emotions astronauts must feel. One is the giddy, childlike exhilaration of exploring uncharted territory… “We’re going into space! We’re going to the Moon!”

The other is the dread, mortal fear of something going horribly, horribly wrong. When things go wrong in space, it’s no small matter. Errors in space often result in immediate, violent death. 

Perhaps even worse, is the possibility of becoming stranded. It’s the fear of being all alone, with no possibility of rescue. It’s the real and present danger of being doomed to endless wandering, sitting and waiting to run out of oxygen, to run out of food and water… waiting to run out of hope.

I hope that you enjoy watching and listening to this as much as I enjoyed making it for you. If Mr. Bowie happens to be listening, on any frequency, then I sincerely hope that he enjoys it, as well. It’s also fitting that today, NASA set a new record for space exploration, with their helicopter on Mars.

My grateful thanks go to the following people, for providing the images that I used to (hopefully) convey these ideas. The musical performance will likely fall short of even the sparsest expectations. Yet, I believe that the visual imagery is more than enough to make it worth the four and a half minutes of your time. This is a credit which goes entirely to the photographers and videographers. The honor is all theirs.

Video Kickstarter 

cottonbro 

Tom Leishman 

Amina Filkins 

Kindel Media


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

Patreon.com/Magus72

There are multiple levels and benefits available, to suit any budget, starting at just $3 a month.

Magus72 on Patreon

Roll

Roll – A trippy, psychedelic journey through space and time, nothingness and everything-ness, being and non-being. Take the ticket, ride the ride.

Recorded live at Lucky’s, in Wilmington, NC, by Magus & The Plastic Infinity.

Trent Boswell – guitar, vocals

Skip Eames – drums

Wayne – bass

Words and music by Trent Boswell.


Lyrics

Roll

When you lose control
And door dogs yelp for your soul
The world just frays apart
But we know where to start
To pull it back together
And this time for the better
Now we know we must let her
Slip inside our minds
She protects us in the climbs
We climbed a little too high,
Passed through the fear to die
We know that space and time
Is not where we stand
Don’t you think we would understand?
If we were supposed to know
But here is the matter at hand
We know how to roll
We don’t need no control
Over all that we have known
We know how to roll

II.

The world it moves too fast
Then it moves too slow
And then it moves too fast
But don’t you think we know
The confusion that we cast
It all comes back together
But never quite the same
Now you’ve been and you know
I was there and I saw you roll
I watched you lose control
Over all that you had known
Watched you pull it back together
And this time for the better
Now you know you must let her
Slip inside your mind
She protects you in the climbs
You climbed a little too high
Passed through the fear to die
But we know that space and time
Is not where we stand
Don’t you think we’d understand?
If we were supposed to know
Well here is the matter at hand
We know how to roll
We don’t need no control
Over all that we have known
We know how to roll

© Kevin Trent Boswell


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

Patreon.com/Magus72

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

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

Eugene Vasilevich

cottonbro

KoolShooters

Stef

Tunnel Motions

Dmitri Posudin

Rostislav Uzunov

Joseph

Thanks to each of you for doing what you do.

The Gold, It’s In The…

This song is a Pink Floyd song that we did. This one isn’t very well known, except by the most hardcore Floyd connoisseurs. The tune is from an album entitled More, which was the soundtrack to an even more obscure movie by the same name.

Recorded live by Magus & The Plastic Infinity, at a club in Wilmington, NC.

Trent Boswell – guitar, vocals

Skip Eames – drums

David Fleet – bass


Lyrics

Come on, my friends, let’s make for the hills
They say there’s gold but I’m looking for thrills
You can get your hands on whatever we find,
Because I’m only coming along for the ride

Well, you go your way, I’ll go mine
I don’t care if we get there on time
Everybody’s searching for something, they say
I’ll get my kicks on the way

Over the mountains, across the sea
Who knows what will be waiting for me?
I could sail forever to strange sounding names
Faces of people and places don’t change

All I have to do is just close my eyes
To see the seagulls wheeling
In those far distant skies
All I want to tell you, all I want to say
Is count me in on the journey,
Don’t expect me to stay


Music and lyrics written by Pink Floyd (Roger Waters, David Gilmour, Nick Mason and Richard Wright). All rights to the song belong to someone else, someone really, really rich.


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

Patreon.com/Magus72

You help out when you hit the thumbs up 👍 directly on the YouTube page

Subscribe

Ring the stupid, little bell 🔔 thingie and select All

Requiem For A Fool

When you hear that I am dead and gone
Once it’s official and you’ve dried your eye
I’ve only a few, very simple requests
With which I do truly hope you’ll comply

Just little things but the first is important
So much so, that I’ll say it, over and over
You can pray or don’t, doesn’t matter a bit
But remember to play Crimson and Clover

I don’t need a fancy, expensive coffin
Keep the money, I don’t need a new suit
Incinerate me and spread my ashes
Where trees and flowers will happily root

It matters very little to me, whether or not
People say they’re coming or if they arrive
Just don’t allow anyone into my service
That I didn’t care for, when I was alive

Unless I loved them ever so dearly
Show them the door and tell them “Ciao”
I never wanted them around before…
I’ve certainly got no use for them now

I’d like it if everyone is happy, has a party
Pouring me a libation might be nice
If you do, just remember I like good tequila
Or bourbon (no Scotch) and Coke, on ice

But sincerely, I don’t require any fuss at all
I don’t give a damn; for me, it’s all over
I really don’t care what you do, except…
Original (long version) Crimson and Clover

I could provide you with a whole playlist,
Of songs I adored and loved to share
But attention spans… most people only
Hear themselves, they don’t really care

Long story short, the bullet points are:
Tequila, bourbon, fire into ashes, not a box
Real friends only; not sure how to enforce
(Maybe a secret handshake or knocks?)

But if you left me thirsty, in wooden crate,
Invited all my least favorite people over
It wouldn’t matter, if you remembered
The most important thing…

Don’t forget to play Crimson and Clover

© 2021 Kevin Trent Boswell


The song Crimson and Clover, written and performed by Tommy James and the Shondells.

I have no idea who owns the rights to the song or the video. I don’t really care.