Tousle the soggy noodle Stir it in the pot It’s no longer stiff and sharp; More inclined to rot
It’s decidedly well-seasoned; Overly so, perhaps More than oregano, salt and pepper; Too many spices, in fistful slaps
Dusty, rotten crumbs, from kitchen floor Grease, tracked in from the streets As well as lint, and various perversions That flaked off bedroom sheets
Along with the turmeric, garlic, and basil, There’s a reduction of sweat and tears The pot overflows with olive oil, And existential fears
The noodle once stood proud and tall, Looking sharp, in a new cardboard box Advertising logos, and bright colors, Like a shiny, gold brick in Fort Knox
Now, it’s soft, it’s overcooked, Full of inconsistent flavors And, the intense heat of the kitchen Hasn’t done it any real favors
The noodle is tired and sickly now, You’ll likely find it tasteless It’s slathered in clashing sauces The ingredient choices, baseless
Still, the noodle is all that is left, And one must attempt to preserve it It’s the only meal or means there is, Whether or not you deserve it
The pot, too, has been banged about; It’s hardly fit for duty It’s been kicked more than a martial artist In the head, and in the booty
It’s scratched, and chipped, soiled and bent, The handle held in place by hope Too look at all the permanent stains, You’d think it was allergic to soap
But this, too, is necessary to keep One can’t simply throw it away Without this beat up utensil, Where would the noodle stay?
This kitchen debacle is a catastrophe Of lowbrow, modern cuisine But, a noodle in a pot is all we’ve got And, I know that you know what I mean
in desiring ourselves, we desire to fancy ourselves as creations of god’s divine light it is true, we are first; shattered and broken vessels of sound, which could not hold light
dance with us, come come, and be joyful be mirthful, be drunken come, and forget we are the new wine the skins, having bursted the host could not drink and, did sorely lament
let us throw shadows in every direction join us in the song which shall never be heard the cheerless dirge of uncelebrated things a melody of madness, fallen short of the word
for, nothing is anything if anything is nothing and, what is our reward if we have not control? so, let us pretend that we are the light, not the darkness which shall never be whole
telling all those who would stop to listen how they, and not we, fell into disrepair how they, and not us, are the lost, lonely devils whose deeds caused the light to weep in despair
let us join in agreement and be not divided details of narrative, we shall conceive and, dividing all things, we fall into slumber allowing ourselves a story, to believe
Florida is where one goes to die, Not to reset, and start again Death waits in orange groves, to strike But, one knows not, where or when
Biding their time, a thousand things, Patiently hoping to kill you dead Gators, lurking in the murky swamp To eat you whole, from toe to head
Hell, they have genuine crocodiles They immigrated; who knows how They came for the delicious buffet that is you To eat as much as time will allow
The brutal sun will bleach your bones And, what’s more, no one will care Florida is not the nicest of places, The grim reaper spends each winter there
If the gators and crocs somehow miss you, In the woods are a great many other beasts Watching, stalking, ready to pounce Eager for tasty human feasts
The black bear is one of them Yes, they’re common in many states But panthers… now, that’s a singular way For Americans to meet untimely fates
Florida is where you go to die All manner of ghoulish demise awaits Everything there wants to end you; It’s the Australia of the United States
And, tiny things, like the brown recluse The black widow, far more ubiquitous And, if you should sit still too long, The fire ants are most ravenous
Wild boar will pierce, cut you to ribbons Their tusks loaded with bacterial goo If you don’t bleed out, then soon enough Disease will be the thing that gets you
Watch where you step, careless human The copperhead, and eastern diamondback Poison’s a thing these efficient vipers Most assuredly do not lack
A curious name for something so deadly, The “kissing bug” spreads a foul parasite It’s perfectly willing and able to kill you And, it knows how to do it right
Just off the coast, in the ocean surf Bull sharks, and deadly box jellyfish Barracudas take quite sizable chunks And, they’ll do it whenever they wish
And, let’s not forget the biggest of all The one whose movie freaked us all out The one and only great white shark He’s there, too, swimming about
Florida is where you go to die, Not where you try to start again Murder is plentiful, comes in all sizes And, you’ll never know where, or when
It’s not just the critters that want you dead The people are willing to rub you out There are drug cartels, and serial killers And, Florida Man is skulking about
Of all the baleful, lethal creatures, Florida Man is among the top three He’s responsible for the lion’s share Of death headlines in the news you see
If the citizens or critters don’t do the job, Of putting an end to you, just for a thrill, If torturous heat doesn’t manage to kill you, I imagine that the governor will
Not a place to slip away peacefully, It will not let you, though you may try Not exactly a storybook ending, Florida is where one one goes to die
Feed the beast in little ways, So in its prison is where it stays This helps you keep the beast in check Or else, your life, it will rule, and wreck
Feed the beast with morsels, tiny Distract it with the bright and shiny You must give it something, however slight Or its strength and rage, you will ignite
A starving beast snarls and raves Doesn’t take orders, never behaves Denied all sustenance, thinks it’s dying At the locks, it picks; cell bars, prying
A daring escape; you’d try it, too If your stomach, you could see right through But a monster fed with… just… enough Stays weak, and doesn’t grow too tough
It waits, content, for the next meager spoon Against its power, you remain immune Feed the beast the smallest part Or, it will rip out, and eat your heart
Wean it on tidbits, the worst parts of you Sample-size snacks of indulgent taboo Otherwise, the creature… well, it just may Take hold of your deeds, the words you say
You see, each of us, every single one Is a no-good, worthless son-of-a-gun Anyone who says different is lying to you Or perhaps, to themselves, as so many do
We’re horrible things, down, deep in the core, With lusts for lying, theft, and gore Incestuous, selfish, conniving creeps In daylight, our true nature hides, and sleeps
We’re bullies, crooks; we cheat on our taxes We’d gladly chop up our neighbors with axes That is, if we thought we wouldn’t take a fall But, knowing we will, we don’t try at all
If not for society, we’d be twice as mean, Three times as lazy, rude, and obscene; Running over each other, no second thought Breaking and taking what others have bought
These horrid perversions reside down low In the parts where most are too afraid to go But, the thirst is still there; we cannot escape Our secret desires for pillage, and rape
All that a civilized person can do Is to keep it all chained, not let it get through Most try to ignore it, they try really hard Whistling nervously through the graveyard
These are the ones you can’t really trust; Can’t face their demons, although they must Any part of you that’s even a little bit dark, Is a mirror reflection of themselves, a spark
That spark ignites within them a fury Appointing themselves both judge and jury, Punish you, for guilty feelings of their own Cravings they cannot shake from their bones
Afraid of their shadows, they cast them on you A scapegoat for things that they’d like to do Unable to admit they’d do it, if they could Admit to your urges, they’ll say you’re no good
They tried to starve their monsters to death Their monsters took over, stole their breath Becoming beasts; the beasts having won, Police not themselves, but instead, everyone
Others, they feed their phantom too much So close to the ghoul, it can reach out and touch The fiend strangles, once it takes hold Turning them cruel, heartless, and cold
So, take the advice, and stay to the middle Don’t run from the Devil, or play second fiddle Seduce your succubus, incubus, or imp Trick it, trap it, keep it weak, and limp
Feed the dark beast your unwanted scraps; To prevent you from falling into its traps Give it just enough, so that it doesn’t try To feed off of you, to make you its supply
Magus72 on Patreon – the music, poetry, and madness of Kevin Trent Boswell
Coming Soon
A new album from Trent Boswell, Area 25
Coming Soon – Area 25 -new music from Trent Boswell
Cover art by the elusive Mr. Dorian Strange.
Area 25 – a witch’s brew; 12 original pieces of rock and roll, hard rock, and funk. It’s a psychedelic concoction of madness, lifted from the purse of Venus, pilfered from the wallet of Apollo, and heisted from Jupiter’s garage.
It will be available on all the major streaming services, like Apple Music, Deezer, Amazon Music, Spotify, YouTube Music, and many more.
Americans don’t play enough chess It’s the reason we’re in this political mess The Right has carefully studied for years Constitutional weaknesses, racist fears
They’ve put in long hours, learning the game Motivating their base, pointing the blame Spinning problems as the fault of their foes Scuttling each bill that would end those woes
Like Morphy, Alekhine, Karpov, Nimzowitsch Dangling carrots; a cheap bait-and-switch A Fischer sacrifice; playing the long-game The board no longer looks quite the same
Their rooks and bishops, now in key places We watch with horror, mud on our faces We slept through opening, developing play Their knights are posted; it seems they’ll stay
Kiss of Death at the Opera, then it’s too late Anastasia smiles, threatens Legal’s mate A double-bishop pin, a dovetail, strategic Is needed, or our king will be quadriplegic
Having good pawn structure is fundamental And theirs is proving to be quite instrumental Mate is possible with any piece on the board Except the other king, who may be ignored
Unless, that is, he works his way up the file Blocking the enemy king’s movement, while The officers sweep in to deliver last blows A game is often over before the loser knows
We’d better learn the game, or we’ll be through It’s less checkmate, more authoritarian coup A king can be smothered by his own pieces It only takes a few with deceptive caprices
If the game may be saved, our wits must return Or “How to lose everything” is all we will learn We scoffed at haughty, four-dimensional claims But, with distractions, they hit all their true aims
We’re playing an opponent who is happy to win By legal means, if possible; they’ll nod and grin Beaten fairly, he gives no handshake reward But balls up his fists, and knocks over the board
The only way to beat a cheating, spoiled brat Is to win fairly, but be ready to pick up a bat For this one believes they must win at all cost And will not admit or accept that they lost
The one sitting on the other side of this table Is wily, unscrupulous; cheats when he’s able Demanding to rewrite how the game is played Promoting a pawn, says “A new king is made!”
Yes, win… but don’t be surprised if the liar Pulls a gun or a knife, upon losing their desire We all must fight hard to get out of this mess We must become better at political chess
Most stories don’t have happy endings The brutal truth is that most do not For each hero who makes it home, In unknown ditches, a hundred more rot
For every song about some brave champion, There are endless graves without any bones For there was no body which they could bury Only lost names engraved on stones
We must admit if we’re honest about it, Eventually, Death claims them all Those who we celebrate after a battle And those who on the battlefield fall
Those who seem to be safe back at home Are also short candles in a night so late None escape the long-armed grasp, Of those pitiless stranglers, time and fate
Something in the Air – an album of 10 original songs from Trent Boswell, available on June 8th, 2022 at most major music streaming services like Amazon Music, Spotify, iTunes, etc.
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The poetry and music of Kevin Trent Boswell
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Magus72 on Patreon – the music, poetry, and madness of Kevin Trent Boswell
I’m offering a special package deal. Below, you’ll find a list of all my poetry titles, as well as my album Flagship. For just $72, I’ll send you a copy of one of each of the poetry booksANDa copy of the Flagship CD.
That’s $39.21 off the cover price. Better still, this flat price includes FREE S&H.
The free shipping offer applies only as long as it’s in the continental U.S. If you want international shipping, you can contact me privately so that I can calculate a specific S&H price for you.
all nine of my poetry books, plus a copy of the music CD Flagship, for one flat price and FREE shipping!
Author’s Note: This one is a little more fun if you read it in Tony Soprano’s voice.
I always defended my inner child Even when change, he’d slow or shunt I spoke to him softly, sweet and kind Never too harsh, rude, or blunt
But his juvenile ways sabotage me Constantly force me to fall back and punt It’s time for him to grow the hell up My progress, the crybaby tries to stunt
If I’m ever gonna get ahead in this world Any luck in life, the brutal hunt I can’t afford to have this kid in my way His juvenile tantrums, I gotta confront
All this baby does is worry, complain He fights reality, finds truth an affront His childish attitudes are holding me back I say, fuck that bratty, squawkin’ cunt
I know a guy; he paints houses, wetwork A reliable button man to bear the brunt He knows how to handle these things A backdoor man; alibi and solid front
I’m sick of his shit, bellyachin’, moanin’ I gotta do it; I’m putting out a hit on the runt I’ll murder this punk and bury his body In a shallow grave by the waterfront
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
I see the blood that spills in the streets Can practically smell the gunpowder air Tasting the ashes, bitter on my tongue I hear the explosions, but I am not there
I cannot claim to fathom their fear Or say that I know the depth of their dread I’ve not had to bear the loss of loved ones Nor have I the need to step over the dead
I live far away from the noise of the horror I close my eyes with no fear of sleeping No aid raid sirens awaken me rudely I read in peace, tea silently steeping
Pictures and articles pour in daily Videos making me a bit more aware I know it’s happening; I know that it’s real But the sadness I feel does not compare
I hear children crying, and nothing stops it I see the confusion and pain in their eyes I smell the smoke and festering wounds But the foulest odor is the stench of lies
A well-heeled madman’s misinformation Distorted guile drips from his tongue Slanderous justifications for the slaughter Of unknown thousands, old and young
But my food is hot; my belly is full I don’t hide underground or need to run There are no tanks parked out on my lawn My hands are empty; they hold no gun
I don’t have a gas mask close at all times My roads are clear, my home is intact The power to stop the storm is not mine It rages on, and the sky is blacked
I cannot order the attack to halt And to send in support is not my decision I don’t determine the fate of anyone else I need not defend my political vision
No sons or daughters go off to fight Because of anything that I say or do But war will not cease of its own accord No moving of money makes it less true
I can say kind things and show my support The only thing worse is not even to care The words I say, meaningless, useless It’s easy for me, for I am not there
If I believed it, I’d say, “Wait. Do nothing; Or else he may set the whole world afire.” I could say I believe to hold back is better But were I to say it, I would be a liar
Powerless, unable to stop a mass murder Intervention may mean the death of us all So, we answer the cry for help by saying, “We pray for you and hope you don’t fall.”
To cover our fears of atomic destruction Supportive words hang on digital display Perhaps if we allow the bully his toy He’ll go no further after getting his way
If only it were true that a taste of victory Made conquerors quit; one land controlled The wanton wishes of children who know Nothing of madmen, bloodthirsty, bold
I cannot assist in their hour of darkness Or insist that others answer the pleading My heart hurts for those brave defenders But my pain is painless; I am not bleeding
I cannot say “Fight,” nor can I say “Wait.” It’s not my problem or burden to bear After all, it’s easy to speak in abstractions It’s easy for me because I am not there
good morning, all you beautiful people you lovely, angelic folks i call friend i want you to know that i’m thinking of you though fiery days, together, do blend
whirling quick, down the drain of time not seeing your faces, hearing your voices distance and schedules demand this of us circumstance offering no other choices
i want to take this brief opportunity to say that you still mean a great deal to me i’d rather that we were conversing, laughing than where and how we happen to be
more often now, do i have these thoughts since all appears to be coming apart the wretched state of things all around us… i think of you, how i miss your heart
each moment is truly a blessing, unique neither taken for granted nor guaranteed i’d pray for you to have happiness, joy if i thought it helpful to request or plead
but alas, our time on the big, blue marble ephemeral, flickering, fleeting, concise disappears quickly, precious little warning like a glass of sunsets, smiles and ice
tumbler, carelessly knocked from our hands by a stupid stranger, passing by in a roar an ignorant ogre with a love of wealth a disdain of beauty and a love for war
beastly creatures, not one, but many loving too much, to climb and to fall punching holes in our collective boat though surely it sinks and dooms us all
the cup of this world, spills over with promise wonders of nature, so much opportunity carelessly ruined by the madness of kings who with stolen gold, kill with impunity
we, being lovers of kindness and good seeing their greed, the destruction it brings it hurts our hearts, we sigh and conclude “i guess that we just can’t have nice things”
as we watch them ripping it all into pieces everything beautiful, too soon to die i want you to know how much i love you i’d hate if the chance were to slip idly by
i want to tell you that you’re all in my heart and in my thoughts, your memories glow i’d not forgive myself if i wasted the opportunity to let each of you know
just over the horizon, a banshee wails as we near the welkin, do smile, once more i’ll be thinking of you, as we take that step through the long, strange and endless door
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
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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.
There are no words, none that suffice None that may cover or explain None that express the loss of loved ones Or which help to heal the pain
Anything that we might say Anything we try to do It all falls short, next to the grief And only grief shows through
When someone has lost a special someone A lover, family, pet or friend There’s not one, single word we can speak That will put them on the mend
No expression of condolence helps Or will the pain, forestall The only thing worse than feeble attempts Is to say nothing at all
In times of loss, in times of grief We’re not much use to those we hold dear It’s best that we assume as much And say only “I am here.”
Speak nothing, hoping your speech is useful Know that we hold no such power Say only “I am here with you, In this, your darkest hour.”
The most that we might possibly do For a friend who has a broken heart Is to demonstrate respect, by saying “I don’t even know where to start.”
To offer our humility, saying “I can only imagine the weight of your pain. I can do nothing for you, except be here. And for you, here, I will remain.”
No matter how brutal each one was Each Winter must eventually bend Give way to the heat of warmer times Ultimate truth, all Winters must end
Yet, Summer is a cruel despot, too Who, by violence, iron fist, ascends Crushing the good comforts of Spring Mocking, with scorn, its means and ends
The subtle politics of seasonal power A judge who was, ‘til now, always present By checks and balances, ensuring fairness So each would eventually lead to the pleasant
The judge grows old and is losing sense Slipping always further into dementia Leaving them all to sort it out, themselves Declaring what’s just, for the judge, in absentia
By increments, referee dives into madness By tiny degrees, each step, does descend Yearly, heat grows, cold loses more power Leading soon enough to all Winters’ end
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.
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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⠀ ⠀
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
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…
You might have heard the audio track but the video is an entirely different kind of experience.
“Strange Leaf” by Kevin Trent Boswell.
This world has been encoded for your protection. The original poem, “Strange Leaf” is published in the book title, remission, available on Amazon and at Conjure Work.
The audio track for “Strange Leaf” is available as a free download at the Patreon page, Magus72.
While you’re there, look over the benefits and perks that patrons get, exclusive content and lots of other bonuses.
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Only one beast in all of creation Only one which is anywhere known Finds pleasure, perverse, even vocation Unnecessarily harming its own
Of nature’s many carnivorous creatures A vast array of poisons appear Murder is common among their features Motives of territory, status and fear
Death was here from the earliest days Primal defense and sexual stuff Animals kill in a whole slew of ways But only one just can’t get enough
Horrific numbers and manners of killing In the “most-evolved” is hate diagnosed Not hungry or scared, finds it all thrilling Only one, to true evil, the host
Complex schemes arise in one beast Thrives on misery, whenever it can Though many kill, to say the least The most murderous critter is man
If you like bands like Queens of the Stone Age, Jane’s Addiction, Jimi Hendrix or The Mars Volta, then you’ll probably dig this.
This is a brand new recording of the song that I wrote many years ago but never had a chance to record it until now. I’ve played it live with my band quite a few times but unfortunately, we never caught it on tape.
I’m playing the bass and guitar parts and singing. Everything that you hear on this track is me, except for the drums. That’s because I don’t have access to a live drummer right now. Besides, feeding and caring for a wild animal like that is expensive.
Here’s the full video on YouTube. Don’t forget to hit the thumbs up 👍 subscribe ✅ and the notifications bell 🔔
The song is called blind in the sun and the lyrics are below. Originally, it was a poem and I set it to music (hence the Roman numerals in the lyrics).
The .mp3 file is attached to my Patreon page, so you can go there, download it (for free) and play it whenever you want.
I forget sometimes that people don’t always follow my rather eccentric, artistic choices, so I will explain something about this track. I purposefully chose not to clean up the sloppier guitar licks on this track, because it’s the feel that I was going for… teetering on the edge of the abyss.
Going back and punching in smoother, cleaner guitar parts is easy enough. I just didn’t want ’em, not for this. I’ll mention two songs that inspired my playing on this. One is “God”, by Tori Amos. Her guitar player is way better than he sounds on that track. It’s dirty, gritty and foul, for a reason. The song is about existential angst and the loss of faith, so it’s gotta be grimy.
The other is “Come On (Let The Good Times Roll)” by The Jimi Hendrix Experience. On that song, he does what jazz musicians refer to as “going outside”, meaning that he lets his solos wander just a little bit out of time and out of key, on purpose. Of course, he brings it back in or it wouldn’t be interesting. I chose to step outside on this track but hopefully not too much.
Feel free to share the link to this page or the Patreon page, or the YouTube link on your social media, that’s the best form of advertising there is for underground artists. I thank you in advance. Enjoy!
Just click that big, unwieldy link, below, to listen to the track. Or go to the Patreon page. You can download the song from the Patreon page and have it for your very own. Just don’t forget to water it every few days and never feed it after midnight.
Blind in the Sun⠀ Can you cringe beneath The shadow of a fly? You’d better try Running ‘cross the sand Fire in the hearts of your band In the joy of being alive Stripped of delusion And so forwardly stride
Lost in the garden with canonized illusions There are the keepers Of the tower But I am not a member Of the dark December The light of the sun refracts In my eye
II.
Everything is water Electric fluid matter In a paper cup Called Time
III.
Somewhere in the North There are real vampires I know you go to visit From time to time To roll in the stench The decadence of Thirst for blood To dine with a pack Of wild gods
I have no intent Of adopting your bent; Partying down with the devil On your shoulder
I have no intent Of going where you went Beating on a skull In a hellish midnight circle
But who am I to say? That you are not ok? I will simply stay Behind
This piece is new and is part of a book that I’m working on, called one pass by. The theme is one trip of the Moon through the lunar cycle.
The Moon is the protagonist of each poem, speaking directly to the reader or just thinking out loud. These are musings about the moods and experiences that come up each month, as Luna aspects the other planetary bodies in our solar system.
Our moon travels around the entire ecliptic (faster than any of the other, traditional planets) in roughly 29 days. That means She regularly conjoins (meets) all the other Planets, as well as forming what astrology calls aspects with them, such as sextile, square, trine and opposition.
Each of these angles prompts a different type of energy. Making sense of how these aspects affects us is a big part of what serious astrologers do.
In astrology, the word planet comes from the Greek, meaning “wanderer”. So yes, the Sun (Sol) and the Moon (Luna) are each a proper Planet (capitalized P for respect), even though they are not planets, in the astronomical sense.
In mythology, each of the Planets are ascribed as being the same energy or archetype of a particular God or Goddess. Our versions are named after the Roman Deities and correspond quite closely to their Greek counterparts.
In essence, these poems are the Goddess Luna, on her usual, monthly travels around Earth and Sol, the Sun. She’s talking about Her experiences with each of them, telling us the story of what can usually be expected, when She bumps into the other Gods in some way.
Each piece is written in lowercase, including the proper names, such as Saturn and Jupiter. This is a stylistic choice and nothing else. I probably read too much e.e. cummings and I’m just plain weird like that.
People who understand basic astrology will probably get a deeper meaning of each piece but they written simply enough that people with no astrological background can still get the gist of what’s happening and follow the stories.
The Moon is representative of many things and the easiest of these to grasp right away is emotions. Where the Moon is and how She is interacting with the other bodies out there determines a huge amount of what wee feel, collectively and individually.
This piece is about when Luna occupies the same bit of space as the Planet Saturn, who is the Lord of Time, restriction, boundaries, limitations, duty, architecture, crops (to some degree), geology, slavery and prisons. He also rules over contracts and institutions, especially in their more complex, bureaucratic and byzantine forms.
If you enjoy this and you want to see more of these produced, ha a look over the tier benefits on my Patreon page and become a patron, to support this work.
Kevin Trent Boswell 