Nameless, black

Void and choice-less

Surrendered to night,

Full of dark

Wanting nothing,

Now all is empty

Free to take up any chain

Any desire that one might wish for

No desire, no restriction

No thirst for servitude

There is only the vexing slumber,

Hunger for the fat of a new kill

Is somehow become as a stranger

Wandering, wanton hex

A nubile delving into psionic prisms

Load the chamber

With hollow shells of the dead

Projected visions of delirium

Angelic chasms

Frightful clamoring in the cranium

Call back the dogs

And let them sleep,

For the dawn will soon enough

Overtake their prey

That tender light, shredding matter

Rending garment and flesh

Quite succinctly

No need of drummers

To time the pulse of this tune

The rhythm of it,

A vacillating pendulum,

Lo, it is even without the ability

To stray from its precision

The striker upon the cylinder

Is the pointing, bony finger of

The hand of death herself

The hammer that clangs the bell

Is the Mother of Night, incarnate

The femurs of a thousand heros

Beating against the tanned hides

Of the children of the same

Her crooked digit,

A culminating of perpetual cycle…

Stick meets skin, head warps and

Sound emanates through eternity,

Stick meets skin, head warps and

Sound emanates through eternity,

Stick meets skin, head warps and

Sound emanates through eternity,

A beat all too well pounded into the

Collective memory,

Burned into a hive mind,

Fallen into cerebral pits of

“Never before”,

We have at last, found the true past

It is even more horrid and shameful

Than we feared

It is full of monsters,

It is full of us

© 2019 Kevin Trent Boswell, Magus


he was speaking vodka,

a language that I all-too-well


as I sat on the edge of his bed,

I handed him the joint

that I had just finished

carefully rolling

he lit it and taking a small toke,

he became suddenly

and uncharacteristically


“You do know that I’m not life, right?”

it must have been obvious that I had no clue

how to answer that

and so he continued…

“When I was just a little boy,

your grandpa (and mine) told me… he said,

‘Son, you’ll pull time

before you hit twenty’

At nineteen, I did six months”

before he could say another word,

several drunk people filed into the room

and the party took over,

as if the writer of this dark, comedy of errors

had carefully placed it

into the script, for dramatic effect

about fifteen years later,

I stood in the yard

with my father,

one morning

we burned a mattress

in the yard

a mattress with a peculiar red stain

on the top end of it,

right about where a man

would lay his head down

to sleep

smoke climbed through the

bare tree branches,

coating the limbs,

blackening the sun,

giving twisted,

new meaning

to the wind

with each searing crackle,

each hot, little iron that launched out

from the flame,

the notion was solidified…

that you would not

be with us again

that red stain has been

forever removed,

taken off and away from

the bad blend of cotton

and synthetic fiber,

its ugly, lack of aesthetic,

removed from the eye

we have instead,

embroidered you,

into the heart

in gold-letter,

on satin

a little redirection,

a simple trick of the firelight

and of the mind

a touch of pre-approved


vocabulary and memory,

now twisted to suit ourselves

with semblances of sanity

and yourself, in a new suit…

one to bring you

over the threshold of the

next beginning,

in a dapper style

we have gathered many flowers

you were one,

and we gather more

still, we do so wish

that you were not so still

we seem to be so much

more careful now,

with our words

we never had to

monitor our tongues, before…

we counted on you,

to always say something deliciously profane,

hysterical, sublime…

something far more terrible

than we would ever manage (or dare)

to bring forth from our fearful mouths

you said it all for us,

being our favorite devil,

you spared no words,

knowing full well, that your time

was short

now, it has fallen serious and sullen

and ash settles on us,

stealing the still-warm seat

of smiles

we do our best

to preserve the integrity

of your memory

with all your words,

so clumsily wrong,

so horribly right

your faults fill volumes,

all of these now consumed by fire

and forgetfulness

we will not miss them

we are in fact,

glad to be free of these,

free from the weight of your awful acuity

your condemnation of this world,

was felt always, hot upon our necks,

virtually indecipherable

from the indiscriminate joy

that your voice poured out

over our wanting brains

we will not miss the anarchy of your actions,

nor your allegiance to an autocratic indifference

but beneath the

intolerable heavy,

knowing of nothing else to do…

we dutifully lift up our eyes

to the coming days

where you

are not

© 2019 Kevin Trent Boswell

The Way Out

I know your fears, I know the panic,
I know the stories you tell
I know you never feel good enough
I know your special brand of hell

I’m sorry you never learned to trust
I tried to explain and help you see…
If I claim you as one of my own,
It’s because you’re good enough for me

It’s not enough to respect me
Its not enough to idealize
You must trust in every way
Or the fear will gladly paralyze

Secret loathing of the self
Is hardly what I’d call service
At no point during your training
Were you ever instructed to be nervous

I understand you doubt yourself
You are convinced that you’ll never do
And that’s the only thing that prevents
Your happiness from being true

I’m sorry you never learned to trust
Those feelings are certainly rough
But lack of trust in me, doesn’t mean
That I’m not good enough

You would have been fine
More than fine; even happy, too
But you’d rather torture and blame yourself
Than figure out the right thing to do

Stopping short at the finish line
Is more painful than never beginning
Raking yourself over the coals of loss,
When you could so easily be winning

You might not feel worthy and so you jump
In the opposite direction of fear
Martyrdom and suffering yield nothing,
Although you force us to watch… and hear

In that deep chest of memories
You have simple tools that you can use
To ease the burden and the stress,
To help determine the next step to choose

A thousand times you can learn the game
A thousand times, start the race
Eventually you’ll have had more than enough
But those fears, you’ll still have to face

Unless of course, in the meantime
You manage to break that thing called you
We all stand back and helplessly pray;
Because there’s nothing else we can do

The power to ask, the decision to heal
It all rests solidly in your hands
Choose the work or choose easy escape
But don’t ever say that no one understands

Choose the path of sacrifice and work
Or choose the path of pleasure and strife
But there’s more love flowing over you, child
Than many know in their whole life

Ask for help and pick your team
Having chosen, never wander or doubt
An hour’s pleasure will distract you, yes
But it never points the way out

Like I said before and will again,
It’s no harder for you, than for them
You are more than capable of saving yourself
Or you may, yourself, condemn

All alone, or in twos

The ones who really love you

Walk up and down, outside the wall

Some hand in hand,

Some gather together in bands

The bleeding hearts and the artists

Make their stands

And when they’ve given you their all,

Some stagger and fall, after all it’s not easy

Banging your heart against some mad bugger’s wall

—Pink Floyd, Outside The Wall, from the album, The Wall

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

© 2019 K.T. Boswell Do not use, reprint or repost this without my written permission.

Have Fun With That

Have fun, unknown one
With your new piece of puzzle doubt
Anything that escapes its lips,
Exactly what you’re listening for
Says exactly what you want and why,
Right when you’ve had enough to quit
You may want to run, unknown one
It’ll do what looks like a turn about
Until its bored and your way slips
Does as it damn well pleases and more
Teach it, break it, tame it, go on… try
Should be amusing to watch that shit
Author’s Note:
For the person about to make a mistake, the one who will not understand what they’re getting into until it’s far too late. I do not blame you in the slightest for not believing. You will, one day.

© 2019 Kevin Trent Boswell

All Is Lost

All is lost

Hope abandoned in the pines

None dwell here

But angry ghosts

Cursed and crossed

Failed to read between the lines

Where written was fear,

With all its morbid hosts

Treasure spilled

And scattered upon the earth

Freely taken at whim

By anyone that might

Pleasure killed

Stripped of all its worth

Coffers open to skim

Reputation subject to slight

© 2019 Kevin Trent Boswell


I’ve never loved one

Who would love me back

And I’ve never loved one

Who would care

When I reach out

In joy or in fright

There’s never anyone there

You may see what you want

And have what you don’t

And look, but don’t ever touch

And all is yours for the asking, my child

But love is a little too much

Copyright 2018 Magus

Kevin Trent Boswell