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.
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
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?
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
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
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
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.
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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
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.
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
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.
Available on Amazon
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Magus72 on Patreon music, poetry and other, assorted types of madness
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
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
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.
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
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.
SoMuchBlood
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
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
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.
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⠀ ⠀
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:
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:
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
“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
This is a song that I wrote in my early twenties but until now, no proper recording of it existed.
Trent Boswell – 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
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Thank You
Special thanks to the following people for their video contributions:
This is another song that I wrote in my early twenties but it’s only now getting a proper recording.
Magus – Tact
BackStory
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
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.
SomethingLike 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
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.
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.
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…
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
Intergalactic Funk #72 from the album Something in the Air by Trent Boswell
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.
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:
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
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.
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 filmGet 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
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.
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).”
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.
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:
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
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.
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:
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.
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.
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.
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.
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
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:
Kevin Trent Boswell 