What’s Left

thundering jaws

of ten thousand locusts

precise darts of prejudice,

blood dragons, each

entering with passwords,

polite, unassuming…

a pair of waiting and frail,

glass, lidless eyes

a clamor of messages,

all tattered, forgotten

mentioned in the never

and not even one,

ever put to sweet rest

urgencies, oddly angled

in ambivalent anxiety

inked into the crumpled,

sticky papers that fell

behind tired yesterday,

underneath

that old

shoe

somehow this,

and less so, the twisting

of syllabic, golden emblems

who tumbled readily down,

out of that stiff mouth, stuffed full

with reproachful disgrace;

scrambling as it does,

against the mocking barb

of tinfoil and iron

and just a touch

of freshly picked parsley

a thing branded promise,

the pledge of a feather…

that soft and superfluous

(perhaps a touch prideful)

grace of a king

in evening’s repose,

enjoying the dessert

of golden balcony light

in the smooth, gilded sunset

and that trancelike, wild aura

that it sprinkles on the children,

who play in the courtyard

of royal toys,

down below

the come-hither awareness

of a flittering scent

which lingers on a fickle hint,

of watering breezes

in a dallying, broad summer,

now too late for the dance

soon these specters of brief visitation

become rusty, bent turnstiles,

small, awkward entry points

into the twisted wilderness,

swallowed by the clanging,

stormy, brown cupfuls

of dingy, soiled clouds,

spilling over, full

of their heart’s hateful sickness

and penance, kneeling quietly

at the headstone of dawn

these, and the falling of a 

thousand yellow flakes

of crumbling memory 

waiting there, as prude passers 

of irascible judgements, harsh laws,

resting now more sternly

upon that shredded, old tongue;

the only one that remembers

how its meals were brought forward

on the silver and linen

and lovely, laced smile

determined, stayed flesh

all raked and peeling off,

at the tender, quick bone,

by white, stropped, dream blade

and its curled, new awakening

a thin, crisp snake

in its cool, keen infancy,

all smooth and glittery

and sly, to the touch

flying through the reels

of spring’s old, home movies

and bounding with gusto,

through autumn’s false reckonings

plunging into the downy,

limber, white gristle

that new, tinkling home

where all goes up with excitement

and is carried frenetically

into that ray of loud swiftness;

a focused, clear light

and tiny ringlets of dew,

a moistening of the jowls

of those murderous, howling,

mad beasts of oblivion

gathered early, for supper

at the table of long privilege

and tall, wealthy poise

where several chairs down

is still a praiseworthy elevator

shortened only by a skip

and a contract of devotion

and that signature handshake

which might allow one, if lucky,

to scramble into a hurried,

apathetic bliss

onto the next,

of those stained flights

of narrow steps,

hammered into place

with the gigantic, steel bones

of ruthless, porcelain dolls

archways of ascension

leading the feeble militia

into pathways of plenty

of sweat and spilt blood

and on, to the pined-for illusion

of the every bit

more

© 2020 Kevin Trent Boswell

Titles now available on Amazon

Liber ex Liberi – The Book of Children


Dark Matter

Dark Matter – Poems of Horror and Depravity


in the current


Chaos Comes Apart

Chaos Comes Apart


Next, poetry by Kevin Trent Boswell

Next


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SoundCloud

My album, “Flagship”, on CDBaby

Antiverse

just a game

advantage of en passant 

on the Queen Rook’s file

surveyor eye finds wedge to jam

subtle gambit, invisible, silent

leading astray, all the while

underneath sleepy, hypnotic taunt

rhythm, all assumed with a smile 

double check reveal, cry of damn

wondering how, to hell, it all went 

sniper picks a dapper, gone style

take up a piece

toss them all down 

none of this matters 

trembling helps not

to checkmate the crown

rank and file sheep to fleece

winning smile, inflicting frown

lifeless blood splatters

on one’s hand, to be got; 

enough of it brings a bit of renown

Author’s Note: the rhyme scheme for this is an A, B, C, D, B pattern.

© 2020 Kevin Trent Boswell

Become a patron and receive extra bonus gifts, at Patreon: Magus72

Become a patron today and get extras that aren’t available to the general public. Several different benefit tiers available. 

Five poetry book titles now available on Amazon

The poetry of Kevin Trent Boswell

Chaos Comes Apart

in the current

Dark Matter – Poems of Horror And Depravity 

Next 

Liber ex Liberi – The Book of Children 


Amazon Author Page:

Kevin Trent Boswell

Wednesday Night Group

during his therapy session,
while each were sharing,
respectively, what they felt
was their higher purpose in life…
Jerry spoke up

undeterred by his own rudeness
in cutting off a fellow confessor’s
heart-wrenching story
of loss and liquid lament,
mid-sentence

Jerry spouted out,
with a strangely calm resolve,

I think that I was meant to do a lot of cocaine.

it was peculiar that he raised his hand,
since he clearly wasn’t willing to wait even one more second;
he’d started speaking, before his arm had even reached
full extension

there was, after that…
a noticeably uncomfortable
five or so seconds of…
silence

numb jaws,
flushed faces
perplexed looks

Jerry continued

I believe in the perfect perfection of God’s Will.

Nothing has ever occurred
that was not originally
of God’s intent.

Furthermore,

and here, he smiled broadly,
clearly pleased with his own, peculiar, thought process

God is nothing at all
like people have assumed.
God is like a reliable toaster
and He always pops out perfectly toasted bread.

I do a lot of cocaine.
And so I conclude that
I was meant to do a lot of cocaine.
Because, if it wasn’t God’s will,
then God wouldn’t allow it.
God wants me to do a lot of coke.
It’s part of the divine plan.

quite a bit more…
silence

those in attendance checked in,
with the inside of themselves,
that yes, they were indeed awake
and not just dreaming
in their beds

the woman sitting beside Jerry
felt her tongue
growing heavy and thick

the usually quite reliable and familiar-feeling
muscle in her mouth
now plummeting down into new,
strange unfamiliarity,
functioning as little more than a
old, motel carpet with a bad, floral pattern;
lying in the way of her breathing,
collecting fuzz and dirt and hair
from the boots and flip-flops of loud, annoying vacationers
and conventioneers from Indiana, police conferences

one throat cleared…

this sound was a decidedly clear signal, as if the
all-clear flare had just been fired up into the newly interesting air,
signaling to the combat-weary troops that they could,
once again, raise their heads out of the tired trenches

a solitary cigarette ash fell onto a designer shoe knockoff
one, older man shifted angrily in his wobbly chair
and managed to slosh a bit of coffee
on his brand new, polo shirt

several others nervously sipped their own coffees and sodas
while others sat in amazement
and some in a giddy but hushed, chuckling amusement

Tom, the group’s bemused leader arched forward in his chair,
placed his elbows on his knees
with an unusual force,
trying to anchor his anger
and remain diplomatic, despite the outburst against order
and after releasing his clenched jaw,
he somehow allowed himself to say

Thank you for sharing, Jerry.

Anyone else have anything…
anything…
at all?

 

Copyright 2020

Kevin Trent Boswell

From the new book, Next 

Now available, on Amazon 

* Next, cover, tiny

stun

 

cigarette ash
burning long,
conical
the way it happens
when you draw
hard and fast

nothing else
moves

arm lifts
to mouth
lips purse
an exhale of smoke
arm drops

eyes still
fixed
on reflections
dancing on
automobile glass

the news
is still news

frozen
words
moving…
streaming
nonstop
through the mind
on auto play
over and over

eventually
the message,
heavy,
will settle
into place

 

Furyu

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

 

 

lovely thing

lovely thing

inspired
a poem

lesser fortune,
it drips
blood

slight,
the wound

crude,
its cause

as such,
it shall
remain
ever so

brief

 

 

2020

Death’s message heralded on dragonfly wings

Silent trumpet sounding, the whole day long

Loss, now the winner of so many things,

Lords over the grieving, threatening the strong

Copyright 2020

Kevin Trent Boswell


Now available, on Amazon:

Liber ex Liberi The Book of Children

Liber ex Liberi; The Book of Children

Support the work at my Patreon page: https://www.patreon.com/magus72

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Conjure Work

antiverse

blogspot

Enthusiasm

 

The Divine Healer works through their hands
Those hands wrapped in latex,
Connecting and disconnecting tubes,
Wires, IVs, pushing gurneys, handing out tools,
Pulling charts close to see through the tears
Holding up those who are no longer able
To stand for themselves
Holding the hands of the terrified mothers,
Fathers, brothers, sisters, wives and husbands
As they check the vitals
Wiping away the sweat from patient’s brows
Giving their colleagues a thumbs up
When they manage to wrestle one back,
However briefly,
From the infinite void
Wringing those hands into fists
As the frustration and fear and
Righteous anger hit the boiling point
Stroking the cheeks of those who are
In the very throes of death

Through those nauseated nostrils,
God endures the stench of bleach, blood,
Latex, alcohol and unidentifiable cleaners
Pushing through that palpable sense of fear,
Usually noted only by dogs
Now an ever present part of
The olfactory landscape
The scent of patients who have
Shit themselves or pissed themselves
The nervous farts in close quarters
That somehow make their way past the masks
The strange, surreal scent of fresh flowers
Coming from out of nowhere,
As the Angel of Death slips quietly,
Unseen into room 318
Those noses that itch but cannot be scratched
That need desperately to wipe away the snot
But cannot be wiped

God moves through their legs,
Running them down the halls
For the fifteenth time, just this morning,
To answer the incessant, mad calls of
Code after code after code after code after…
Lifting patients from gurney to bed
Then from bed to stretcher, go the dead
Those muscles holding them up,
Refusing to quiver and wilt
Under the weight of an
Obvious abandonment
Refusing to crumple up into a ball
And cry themselves to sleep
Because supplies are needed on the next floor
And someone must take them and
There is no one else to do it
Walking on eggshells at home,
Careful not to touch anything
That their loved ones might touch
Resting those weary limbs on
Uncomfortable cots and pullout couches,
Instead of resting in between those soft,
Cotton sheets on memory foam mattresses,
For the dread fear of infecting their families

God speaks through those mouths,
Slipping into their cars to go home,
After impossibly long shifts
After inscrutable regimens of scrubbing,
Decontaminating, full of the mortal terror
That some spot might be missed…
Out, out! The invisible blood,
Staining the hands, full of imagined guilt
Which is not truly theirs, to bear
Screaming in those parking lots,
Inside otherwise normal cars,
Station wagons and sedans
Minivans and trucks,
Bloodcurdling moans of sadness
A helpless sense of futility,
Beginning as words but crumbling
At last, into spirals of gibberish
A chasm of meaningless mumbles
And heartbroken sobs
God speaks through those mouths,
Calmly reassuring those who have come,
Reluctantly into the belly of the beast itself
Knowing the dread shock of lying side by side
With those who are almost certainly doomed
Speaking softly in friendly tones,
Half for the benefit of the patient and
Half to convince themselves that
“Everything is going to be ok.
We just have to put this tube in,
So you can breathe”
God makes stupid jokes
Through those mouths,
Little, ridiculous comments,
In an attempt to keep everyone’s
Spirits up and to keep them focused
To keep them from completely collapsing
The Angels prophesy through those tongues
Whispering discreetly to one another
In those sullen hallways
“This one won’t last much longer.
We need to discuss who gets that machine next”
The Spirit of love talks through those mouths,
Insisting to themselves that after only a few,
Restless hours of tortured sleep,
Full of sweat and nightmares,
That they MUST roll out of bed and
Force something into their bellies,
To strengthen them for the fight
Assuring themselves that yes,
It is the right thing to do,
To walk back into the mouth of the whale,
To surrender themselves
To its insatiable hunger for more bodies
Those hungry mouths, that cannot eat
Until the end of a 12 or 16 hour shift
Those mouths, full of the
Acid of a gut that produces inordinate
Amounts of stress
Those mouths, dry and thirsty,
Unable to stop at the water fountain
Because they cannot touch their mask
The tongues of insane healers, willing
To dwell in Death’s living room,
For complete strangers
Informing dosages, calling out instructions,
Calling for tools and esoteric medicines,
Strange cyphers, in languages
That only the minds of Angels
Could ever comprehend
God whispers,
One Holy mouth to another Divine ear
“I know.
You did your best.
There was nothing more you could have done”
The Holy Spirit delivers
Those impossibly awful messages
To the bereaved
Speaking the
Unspeakable news to the families,
Telling them how truly sorry they are
For their loss and how
They so desperately wish they
Could have done
More

God sits behind the eyes of them…
Those bloodshot, horror-stricken eyes
Watching, through the tears
Through the sweat that cannot be wiped away
Filling up the goggles that shield them
Against everything except the misery
Those itchy, swollen eyes
That gaze upon the convulsions
Of those who are drowning
Inside their own lungs
God looks with infinite empathy
Upon those who stare the
Thousand yard stare of
A battle-scarred soldier,
One who has been too long in the shit
And has lost too many friends
Who has witnessed entirely too much
Death
And suffering
God looks into the panicked eyes
Of each person on each bed
And knows full well
Of their very real and very reasonable fear
God cries through those eyes
And yet, upon losing so many children
Looks not backward to the dead
But ahead to those
Who might still be saved

The God who is beyond All Names
Shines total love on you,
All ye sacred brothers and sisters
Of the caduceus, the Divine Staff
Which heals those struck by the
Serpent of Death
In the lost and lonely desert

You, who are possessed by God’s essence
Are illumined in the LVX of the All…
The God who is benevolence itself,
Far more loving than even
Those most generous, kind and
Merciful ones,
Those whose Names we all know well
The God who is is beyond
The idea of God
Is touching us,
Through you

lunch

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 


Copyright 2020

Kevin Trent Boswell


 

The new book is out now, on Amazon:

Chaos Comes Apart

16040ade-9658-4920-b7f0-b69fd20c18c7

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

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

Patreon

Magus & The Plastic Infinity

antiverse

blogspot

Conjure Work