verse – Kevin Trent Boswell

Age of the Joker

“See, their morals, their code… it’s a bad joke. Dropped at the first sign of trouble. They’re only as good as the world allows them to be. I’ll show you, when the chips are down, these… these civilized people? They’ll eat each other. See, I’m not a monster, I’m just ahead of the curve.”
—The Joker, from the film, The Dark Knight

The school went on lockdown today

A report came in about an armed student
Roaming the campus

Students were immediately instructed
To go to their dorms, and stay put

After some five or ten, agonizing minutes,
The determination was made,
It was only a hoax

This is an old gag
Kids get bored,
Call in a bomb threat
Just for giggles
Or, to get out of a test

Maybe, it’s to cover their tardiness,
When, one more late-show
Would have caused them to
Fail a particular class

But, these days,
On the national level,
There are more mass shootings
Than there are
Days in the year

Who’s to know
When to be truly concerned?
Or, when to be
Merely annoyed?

The young girl on the news said
The thing that bothered her most
Was how no one talked about it,
After the all-clear signal was given;
She said it went on like a normal day,
As if nothing had happened

She said it was as if
Everything was fine,
When really, underneath,
Everyone knew that
Nothing about it was normal,
Much less, fine

The teachers didn’t address the issue
The students didn’t speak
To each other about it, either

One has to wonder,
How many false alarms can occur,
Before the security guards begin
Dropping their guard?
How many, before they stop
Taking the threats seriously?

What happens, when
The real thing goes down,
And they don’t stop it, because
They got sloppy,
Because of too many
False alarms?

This was one of several such incidents
That took place on multiple campuses,
All on this one, particular day

But, at the heart of it all,
This was not one incident,
Nor was it two, or even five

This, is the new normal
The regular, daily pattern of
Life in the United States,
The common thread
In the tapestry of America

This is the age of the Joker

Every card is wild

It’s not always an active shooter
It’s not always a bomb threat
It’s not even always about
An event at a school

It’s sometimes a threat of
Imminent war against other countries

It’s the news weather forecast
It’s the stories of tornado victims,
The death tolls of flash floods,
Hurricanes, landslides, heatstroke

It’s the rumors, dog whistles, and
Outright cries for civil war in America

It’s the empty shelves at the grocery store

It’s the ongoing, never-ending
Supply chain problems

It’s requisite new vocabulary,
Terms like “doomerism,”
And the dusting off of classic, 70s hits, like
“Collapse,” and, The Limits to Growth

It’s the shortages of needed medications

It’s learning the heart-wrenching truth about
The children of Somalia,⠀
And many other nations like it

It’s the mounting lies that
Erode faith in the system
It’s the creeping groan of fascism,
Sinking its fangs into
The Statue of Liberty’s jugular,
Insisting that she report her periods
To the school nurse

That she burn all those lurid copies of
And Tango Makes Three,
The Bluest Eye, and
Out of Darkness

Slapping the “woke” beer out of her hand,
Making her spit out that “woke” chocolate candy

Making her subject to laws that
Relegate her to the status of cattle,
Demanding that she inform on her friends,
Should they seek to cross state lines
For any health care that involves
Their naughty parts

Insisting that she never speak the
Dreaded crimson words,
Words telling of the flowing of blood,
From the sacred place that
Spawned each of us,
Even those who, now,
Refuse to speak of the cycle of life
That is responsible for their
Entire existence

She is soon to be muzzled,
Disallowed from speaking anything
Beyond, a pained statement of duress…
“Yes, I am happy to bear your seed.”

She will wear a red burka,
Shaped like a baseball cap,
Peppersprayed with meaningless words,
About a mythical nation that ever existed,
One built on the backs of slaves,
Slaves who she must never mention
To her children

Ruby is only a gem, and a color,
Bridges are but things we drive over,
In our carbon-spitting SUVs

Parks is not a name,
It is a noun, describing a place where
People go to enjoy nature;
Good, upstanding white folk,
Standing on the skulls of
Nameless hordes of ghosts

These ghosts whisper foul incantations,
“We are here, too! We have names!”

They seek to possess good, caucasian children,
Swaying them into the unacceptable madness
Of admitting various lunacies, such as,
“Yes, these are human beings. They have proud names, rich heritages, and incredible stories of
Overcoming adversity.”

Insisting that the children
Not be allowed to become
The fodder of the Devil’s history,
Declaring, as if it were true,
“These were the Sioux, the Wichita, the Apache,
The Chinese, Pakistani, the Mexican,
The African, the transgender, and
The women, who monthly bleed,
As God saw fit for them to bleed.”

Surely, all will fall into ruin and chaos,
Were the children to speak about
Such horrors as boys, kissing other boys,
Or, girls, kissing other girls

These are not things good folks discuss
At the dinner table, or in places of learning
No, these are things that must never
See the light of day

After all, the clergy, and the Congressmen,
They had the common decency
To perform their fellatios on each other,
And on the young children,
Under the cover of darkness

“Why can’t these godless teachers
Shut their fucking mouths?!
Sorry, I cursed… forgive me, Jesus
I just become so incredibly angry,
When people have the unmitigated gall
To tell our children that
A huge, astonishing, astounding percentage
Of the world’s population
Thinks and behaves
Differently than us”

Oh, the unruly, unkempt insanity
Of spilling the beans about our actual,
True history, soaked as it is,
In the blood of slaves, migrants,
And silently suffering “others,”
Who we would not abide
Who we would not allow
To follow their natures,
However discreetly they sought to do so

“Isn’t it clear? Don’t they see it?
Don’t they see how immigrants
Are coming to invade us?
How these foreigners want to
Take over this proud land that was
Inhabited only by pure, white blood,
For thousands of years?”

This is the golden age of the false narrative,
Wiggling in “lies” about Murika being built
By “people” from Ireland, Scotland, France,
Africa, Spain, and even many other
Godless lands

“They want our children to believe that
We enslaved an entire race of coloreds
I mean, obviously, we did, but…
What the hell else were we going to do?
That cotton and tobacco wasn’t going to
Pick itself

“They want to murder
The memory of our heroes,
Our General Custer’s, and
Our great General John Wayne
Replace them, with lies about us
Slaughtering innocents, and taking their lands
I mean, obviously, we did do that, but…
What kind of monsters want
The children to know
The truth of it?!”

They have enough to worry about,
Trying to sort out who is the real President,
Whether or not our elections are rigged;
The same election process that put
The other guy in the big chair, last time

Trying to decide if the man
Walking toward them will offer help,
Or rape, or murder

We can’t protect our children from
Being shot at school, or from
Getting high-powered weapons,
And irreparably harming others,

Instead, we focus on preventing them from
Getting a hold of far more dangerous items,
Like condoms, and birth control pills

We rabidly foam on about the
Tyranny of ideas, and events
That are common knowledge

Mandatory background checks,
For anyone who is trying to buy
A semiautomatic weapon?
Unacceptable

Clearly, anyone sensible enough to know
That they need the protection of an AR-15
Is sensible enough to keep their names
Off government lists!

It’s really quite simple…
Childhood pregnancy? good
Females bleeding? not good

Books, scary
Bibles, awesomeness

Ar-15s, yes
Disney, a total mess

Migrants (or women) crossing borders? No
Barbara’s Bleeding Logbook? God bless

The collapsing climate?
Must suppress.

Tax cuts for billionaires, they do impress

Lose an election? Just don’t confess
More than two genders?
We must redress.

The economy, must never recess
Historical facts… “His story,” nonetheless

See? I told you it was simple.
Try to keep up, stupid.

But, anyway,
The school went on lockdown today

But, it was only a prank

So, everything is
Just fine

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

Search for Kevin Trent Boswell poetry on Amazon.

The Poetry of Kevin Trent Boswell

Toodles, Noodle

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

©Kevin Trent Boswell

Patreon

we

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

Patreon

from the forthcoming book,

mandala, versicles of heaven and hell

Florida Is Where One Goes to Die

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

The Patreon Page

Feed the Beast

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

https://patreon.com/Magus72

Imminent

“Omnes una manet nox.”
The same night awaits us all
Loud or soft, when death, it knocks
Each, alone, must heed the call

On papyrus, the old Roman bard
Horace scrawled with ink and quill
All of us end, either soft or hard
Old or young, for good or ill

That night crawls to us, or races quick
The usurper puts another in place
Details wrapped in fog too thick
Erased by time, our name and face

Omnes une manet nox.

—Horace, Roman poet

The Latin approximately translates as, “The same night awaits us all.”

Coming September 30th, 2022

Area 25 – a new album of twelve original songs from Trent Boswell

Area 25 - music by Trent Boswell - coming September 30th — Area 25 by Trent Boswell – coming September 30th

The music and poetry of Kevin Trent Boswell.jpg — The music and poetry of Kevin Trent Boswell

Stand Trial

I do not deserve the swift, easy dying
I should go out suffering, cursing, weeping
No gentle slip into long, peaceful sleeping

I deserve harshness, for there is no denying
I’ve done terrible things, things all too horrid
Covetous, vengeful, hateful, and torrid

I’d get no comforts from friends or family
A slow, painful demise; lots of time to think
It’s too good for me, the “gone in a blink”

For my legacy is ugly, a shameful homily
A sad sack of blood and bones; all gone bad
A sour brain on a stick, and a soul, quite mad

I got in a little goodness, here and there
But these brief occasions, they came and went
In truth, half of them were by accident

I failed to be of use, and even less, to care
And, squeezing in the rare, unselfish act
Does not grant one release from a devil’s pact

Less honorable by the day, I should’ve quit
And yet, I’ve persisted, doing more and more
With sins innumerable; I cannot keep score

And yet, upon pondering, I must admit
As bad as I am, I can’t conceive; it’s true
What would be a fair and just fate for you

While I do not go in for all that silly stuff
Political yarns of heaven, hell, and purgatory
The guilt-tripping duress of bedtime story

Absolutes, ethics, and morals… all but a bluff
Inventions for feeling better about ourselves
But our deeds will not go back on the shelves

We could keep debating until all cows return
Where, who, or what made our foul kingdom
Whether it’s intelligent, impelled, or random

Bickering fictions; eternal bliss, or to burn
Regardless, one point is impossible to miss
And, try as we might, there’s no escaping this

Wherever we go, from wherever we came
We’re here while we’re here; as all the others
Failure is in failing our sisters and brothers

Allowing them to suffer, passing the blame
Holier-than-thou, and treating them as less;
The only real sin we’d ever need to confess

Fail or succeed, by any standard you choose
Any yardstick or metric of money or power
Cruelty and apathy are a waste of the hour

A precious moment, we soon enough lose
I should die kicking and screaming, it’s true
If I’m honest about things that I failed to do

A thousand missed kindnesses; this, I know
Things I could’ve done to ease pain or fear
Looking out for myself, covering my rear

I know what I deserve, and how I should go
I can’t say for certain if you’re bad or good
If you lift up others, or do as you should

Most of us will admit, once, we were wrong
Careful to leave out the details of those cases
The omission shows guilt, egg on our faces

We try to appear sweet, covering our tracks
But, I know what I’ve done, I cannot get away
From knowledge of things I did do, and say

Slander, both overt and behind people’s backs
All the times I chose, the other way to look
The times I was a liar, a scoundrel, a crook

Criminally negligent, someone should stop us
More awful by the hour, delusion and fantasy
Thinking self noble, in all of self’s infancy

I should suffer, if there’s a god, or any justice
I’ve got it coming; the blade shouldn’t swerve
But, I’ve still no idea about what you deserve

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Coming Soon

A new album from Trent Boswell, Area 25

Area 25 - music by Trent Boswell — 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.

A preview from Area 25

Americans Don’t Play Chess

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

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Most

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

New Music Album on June 8th

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.

Published Works

The poetry and music of Kevin Trent Boswell

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Special Offer

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 books AND a 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.

Time for Nothing $8.88

Chaos Comes Apart $7.77

on the page – poems for artists, writers, and other hooligans $12.50

Liber ex Liberi – the Book of Children $7.77

in the current $8.44

Dark Matter – Poems of Horror and Depravity $9.99

remission $12.72

Next $15.72

Out on the Killing Floor $18.42

Flagship CD $9.00

Total: $111.21

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Time for Nothing, by Kevin Trent Boswell — The newest poetry title, Time for Nothing- Poetry, Prose, and Song Lyrics

All Around

“All Around” – music by Trent Boswell

I can’t find it I don’t see it
Though I’ve looked nowhere over
I was certain I’d have found it
By now

Thought I had it once
In my hand like a clover
But it flew away
Somehow

I’ve rubbed out my eyes
Squinting through the dark
But my eyes are too full
Of dreams

Want nothing so much
Thoughts of self not a spark
And I still do not know
What it means

Collecting each one
Not mine in a moment
All tomorrow’s
Forgotten yesterday

Yourself saw you with them
You know of the torment
A sideways hello
Didn’t say

Slippery little thing
So many to climb
Fall so fast and without
A sound

Never had your gift
Of yours all this time
Wrapped tight and spilling
On the ground

All time gone by
Flirting with the dawn
Seeking for a higher
High score

Those things which remain
To this day are long gone
These things are all things
No more

Don’t know why I bother
I bother not to know
It’s never too much
Not to say

A slight tinge of joy
In each thing to show
Everything never came
This way

The secret only shared
Never told never kept
All the smiles that cannot
Be got

Always not moving
Ever happy it wept
In the open it hides
Where it’s not

Close the window my friend
Despite how it looks
It is going to be
A fine day

For it has the good sense
In verbose old books
All words refraining
To say

A slight tiny sting
Four missing leaves of clover
Ending all applause
Curtain bow

Can’t find it don’t see it
Having looked all over
Was certain I’d have lost it
By now

Lyrics available in print:

Time for Nothing - Poetry, Prose, and Song Lyrics, by Kevin Trent Boswell — Time for Nothing – Poetry, Prose, and Song Lyrics, by Kevin Trent Boswell

Support This Work on Patreon

Inside Job

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

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

pennyworth

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

From the book remission

remission, by Kevin Trent Boswell — *remission*, by Kevin Trent Boswell

Photo by cottonbro

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

But I Am Not There

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

Photo by Алесь Усцінаў

my friends

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

Photo by Mo

When I Think About Tomorrow

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

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

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

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

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

Kevin Trent Boswell on Instagram

Main photo by Gabriel Hohol

how dare i

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

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

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

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

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

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

©️2022 Kevin Trent Boswell

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

Too

You’re too young

You’re too old

You’re too timid

You’re too bold

You’re too forgiving

You’re always holding grudges

You’re too straightforward

You’re all winks and nudges

You’re too kinky

You’re such a prude

You’re too nice

You’re terribly rude

You’re too poor

You’re way too rich

You’re too loyal

You’re a backstabbing bitch

You’re too punk

You’re too straight

You’re too early

You’re far too late

You’re too logical

You’re too black and white

You’re too much of a pacifist

You always pick a fight

You’re not broad enough

You’re too eclectic

You’re speed is too slow

You’re pace is too hectic

You’re the same, old, usual

You’re too avant-garde

You’re too soft

You’re just too hard

You’re too boring

You’re too, too much

You’re always gone

You’re here way too much

You’re too stupid

You’re a little too smart

You’re too far ahead

You’re too close to the start

You’re too involved

You’re too apathetic

You’re too fat

You’re too athletic

You rhyme too much

You’re too free-verse

You’re too offensive

You’re afraid to curse

You’re too angry

You’re too sad

You’re too worried

Why are you so glad?

You’re too sensitive

You’re too thick-skin

You’re too quick to finish

You’re too slow to begin

You’re too far gone

You’re too stable

You bite off too much

You don’t give all you’re able

You’re too frigid

You’re too horny

You’re too grabby and needy

You’re too distant and thorny

You’re too quiet

You’re too proud

You’re too humble

You’re too loud

You’re too unpredictable

You’re too strange

You’re too normal

You’re too subject to change

You’re too ambitious

You’re too restrained

You’re too big-boned

You’re too big-brained

You’re too reserved

You’re too outgoing

You second-guess too much

You think you’re all-knowing

You’re too brazen

You’re too fearful

You’re too cold and harsh

You’re too sentimental, tearful

You’re too specific

You’re too cryptic

You’re too Pollyanna

You’re too apocalyptic

You’re too masculine

You’re too effeminate

You’re too tight-assed

You’re too indiscriminate

You’re too hands-off

You’re too political

You don’t tend to details

You’re too analytical

You’re just way too picky

You always say “whatever”

You’re not very bright

You’re think you’re so clever

You’re too pasty

You’re too tan

You’re too girlie

You’re too manly-man

You’re too dense

You notice too much

You never ask for help

You always need a crutch

You’re too red

You’re too blue

You’re too much of everything

You’re way too much you

©️2022 Kevin Trent Boswell

the others

dark nighttime
holds illusions,
all seeking
to guide you

into madness
and cringing
under too-short,
coarse covers

trust your gut,
sweet child;
only light
is inside you

the same
may not always
be said
of the others

look
before crossing
strange threshold,
take care

there’s a light
that’s inside you
that light,
true and bold

and then there’s
the everything
else
that’s out there

some lights
have gone out,
but haven’t yet
been told

devils
can appear
as angels,
so beware

they would
warm themselves
by the fires
of your favors

they return
your good deeds
with nothing
but despair

gratitude
is absent;
all the usual,
good flavors

are not nearly
so much in them,
not so much
as their needs

you’d help them
if you could
but you can’t…
nor can any

any goodness
you offer
is repaid with
foul deeds

their love was
all strangled
by weeds,
so many

caring is a
thing they’re
far too good
at feigning

but they’d not do
so much
at all…
were they able

to give you
assistance
they assist
by restraining

they’d have you
assist by
being food
on their table

in the dark place,
your kind rules
won’t replace
good sense

your eyes
fail to hear;
your sight goes
deaf and dumb

you’re a good child
and a smart one;
always keep
strong defense

against the weaving
of webs
that would have you
succumb

listen not,
to easy tales
of leisure
or love

be generous
be grateful,
but too much so,
one discovers

there’s humanity
in your heart
and it fits you,
like a glove

but the same
may not always
be said
of the others

listen closely
when light whispers
its soft,
gentle warning

go not lightly
where sternly
it would guide you
away

lean gently
upon your genteel
manners
of good morning

shield carefully,
your beacon;
shining,
that it may

ward off those
hungry things,
slinking in the
twilight

committing
many crimes
to justify their
sadness

your large heart
would feed them
but the briefest time’s
highlight

your manners
won’t give them
a single moment’s
gladness

a hunger,
baleful,
returns ever,
without pauses

more hot
and more fierce,
much stronger
than before

opening you
slowly,
hiding
true causes

growing
more bold
once you open
the door

in knowing
what nice, warm
feelings
spill out of you

on your noble,
good faith
they’ll come again,
to dine

a stitch of
incredulous
keeps away
death’s hue

after all is
said and done,
it almost always
saves nine

trim the wick
of your candle,
its bright light,
inspire

keep your powder
all dry
and your lamp tinder
lit

small steps
can lead you
into darkness,
more dire

so, be careful
and wise
and don’t fall
for it

odd misgivings
may cause you
to shirk,
with an attitude

even the
friendliest
of those come-hither
smiles

the first thing
to go,
once they’re in,
is your mood

a lengthy
and foul one
means you’re taken
by their wiles

hold your memory
on tight
and never let them
touch

trust your
way-down-deep
when the good feeling
lacks

harken
which hands
reach for you
too much

a bother
in your belly
stops you dead
in your tracks

your energy
will fail,
long before
their thirst

a visceral fear,
in your
tenderhearted,
warm guts

take the
hooked bait
and you’ll soon see
their worst

suspicious
of yourself
and feeling like
you’re nuts

when uneasy
twinges
drive you back,
second-guessing

from a seemingly
obvious
act
of benevolence

they’re there
to warn you
of something bad,
pressing

even daddy’s
good breeding
can draw to you
malevolence

some feed on daddy’s
manners,
mother’s charm school
propriety

it’s less commentary
on your love
and more on their
bleakness

in spite of all
politeness
good intentions,
sobriety

resides in
a maintenance
that guards against
your own weakness

you are glowing
with life, child;
remain balanced in
your poises

stay out of
the shadows
and out of
the foolish

they’ll drag you
into dins of
the most horrible
noises

pulling you
from the light,
down into…
the ghoulish

when your social
sensibilities
are suddenly
eviscerated

and it happens
without logical
reasons,
not one

a thing which,
on the surface,
seems
uncomplicated

do not question it,
dear child;
instead…
turn and run

when abdominal
doubt
scorns the stranger’s
handshaking

when something
inside of your
knotted-up,
deep self

signals
a threat, with
inexplicable
quaking

though they look
the good deal,
put them back
upon the shelf

never wander
too closely
to the edges
of the dark

shadows
have been known to,
on occasion,
jump through

to leap out,
swallow flickering,
pretty things
that spark

the sparkling,
pretty lights
in pretty things,
like you

keep close
to the guard dogs
who growl
behind fierce eyes

when temptation
comes close,
offering you
strange favors

don’t lean in,
too closely
or listen
to their lies

the keepers
of darkness
and light are
close neighbors

and sometimes
those shaded
boundaries
fall open

since some always
go there,
eager to
steal keys

this may shock
or confuse you;
sensibilities,
all broken

but disappearance
in the night
happens with
great ease

not all
are so nice
as you, child;
you must know

that some
are the weight
of a great,
heavy stone

not all would
have you live
or leave
or let go

but would gladly
consume all,
even marrow
of your bone

your mommy
and daddy
and friends want you
to live

but monsters are
more common
than they bothered
to explain

taking each
precious drop
of all the blood
you could give

some quietly
feed on
the wellbeing
in your brain

not keeping you in
too good
but rather too many,
different shapes

creepers,
all slithering
down low,
out of light

until you break
their spells
and your spirit
escapes

well-hidden,
under coverings,
many put up
no fight

but will linger
and drain you
until you rise up
and slay

some appear
tricky,
as a lamp
or a torch does

shielding you
from the bright,
good and sensible
day

storms,
wearing rainbows;
where color,
never was

any light that
splinters out
is artificially
made

those devils
would lay you down
on razor-sharp
pillows

dressing you
in black cloaks
of drowning
in the shade

some wicks
take light easily,
like dried-up,
old willows

candles burning
through the night,
on first strike
of one match

but some things
only look like
a flame
or spark

but their sweet,
sugar poisons,
sharp, in the throat,
catch

you’d use up
all your matches
and still be
in the dark

they will never, ever
burn,
no matter how hard
you try

for they’re just
not the good,
useful, light
type of stuff

they will always
break things
and take things
and lie

try to help them,
you’ll discover
that it’s never quite
enough

a mask-wearing
face appears
like innocence
and hope

lovely or kind
at first glance,
they may
look

but with a lot
of hard scrubbing
and a fair
amount of soap

you’ll discover
the ruse
and note all that
they took

i’m sorry to
have to say, child
not all is
as it seems

in fact, most things
are not
at the bottom
of this matter

in this world,
there are things
far worse than
bad dreams

and the daylight
does not
cause all of them
to scatter

some things
are stubborn
slow dying,
sowing trouble

and you’ll never
get back
those things
which were taken

it’s much better
when you’re older,
to pop
your own bubble

childhood
dies easier
with your confidence,
unshaken

but die
it must do,
since it’s nothing
but a blindness

the warm blanket
of sheltering,
by fathers
and mothers

the love you
possess, child
rewards kindness
with kindness

the same
may not always
be said
of the others

From the black book of fiendishly foul, frightening things, Out On The Killing Floor

Out On The Killing Floor, by Kevin Trent Boswell

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baby elephant

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Out On The Killing Floor, poetry by Kevin Trent Boswell

355 pages, available now on Amazon

8 different titles available

Search for Kevin Trent Boswell poetry

Elephant photo by David Blackwell

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The Next Ones

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Main photo by Alex Green

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

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

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

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The Thing About Bunkers

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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There Are No Words

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.”

house of ghosts

it is a house of ghosts

every corridor
veers into shadows

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

anymore, only whispers
float through these rooms

no one has lived here for many years

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

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

it still is

this house has
never been empty

End of Winter

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 book Out On The Killing Floor

End of Days

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

H. H.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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More Machine

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sumus Solum

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

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

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

“Hurry up, Father.
We’re lonely.”
the words beating
in his ear like a drum

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

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

“Let me show you,
all that you can have”
and reaching into his mind,
showed him his every desire

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Main photo by Khoa Võ

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Down, Down

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Photo by Louis Vizet

So Much Blood

It’s almost Halloween, kids. So, gather around, for a little story. It’s about some of the strange things that go on, out in the deepest parts of the woods, where people rarely go.

But there are always those who think it will be nice to have a cozy, little cabin, way down in the valley, where no one ever goes. Sometimes, something bad happens to those people. But what exactly, it was that happened… well, no one knows.

Enjoy the story, kids. And sleep well, tonight… especially those of you who live way out in the woods.

So Much Blood

They was so much blood
On them walls, the carpets, even the ceilin’
Hardly anythang in the room
That t’weren’t coated with gore

What sorta person… what sorta creature…
Could do such a thing?
Whatever t’was, it looks as if it come
Up from out that thar hole, in the floor

I reckon it coulda been human
But I doubt that’s the case
‘Cause there ain’t no bodies…
Just them awful, red stains

Sick fellers, they’ll sometimes kidnap folks
And some of ‘em’ll kill you
In either case, they leave somethin’
Some type a clues or remains

But there ain’t no footprints, nowhare
And they’d have to be some
In all of this blood, if anyone
Was ta walk out that door

But they ain’t nothin’
Just them nasty trails of slime
An some type of excrement
I ain’t never seent before

Whatever it t’was,
It was slow but fearful strong
Theys signs a strugglin’
Pert much everwhare

It weren’t quick… poor bastards died slow
Y’all see where they tried fer the doors,
Tried climbin’ out the winders
But couldn’t get there

Y’all see, right here and over yonder
How they was grabbin’ fer weapons
Whatever was close, them scissors
That pistol and that there knife

The poor souls all this blood belonged to,
Looks as though they fought hard
To defend themselves but it t’weren’t
Enough to save their life

Them locks was all still bolted
There ain’t no evidence of nuthin’
Comin’ into the house
From anywhare, outside

And from the looks of that hole,
Whatever t’was, it ain’t here, no more
T’was somethin’ godawful big
Too damn big to just up and hide

Whatever left them bite marks
In the top a that bedpost,
T’was something mighty huge
Somethin’ with a heap a sharp teeth

It looks as if this feller was… eaten
Right here on the bed frame
Theys half a man’s shirt
And an eyeball, underneath

Y’all ‘member them strange stories
Them that great-granddaddy use’ta tell?
Them whoppers, we all reckoned
Weren’t nuthin’ but senile dementia

We just assumed they was just
Tall tales to get us to behave
They said that once, ever hundert years,
“Them critters… they’ll come to getcha”

They said that’s why no one ought never
To live here, in this here valley
“Don’t build there.” they’d say,
Soundin’ all mysterious

‘Course we all reckoned it was nothin’
Just hallucinations they’d had
On account a when they was younguns
That flu had all them folks so sick and delirious

I ‘member this feller tellin’ great-grandaddy,
Some twenty years back, how he was fixin’ ta
Build hisself a house here, wanted to know
If they was any money he could borry

I ‘member the look on great-granddaddy’s face
When he tolt ‘im “No, I shan’t do it.”
But what was truly strange was
How he said “You’ll be sorry.”

It seem’t sensible to dismiss all them tales
As a bunch a dammed nonsense
Just a heap a stories, to get the younguns
To mind and act right

But ‘member how, a few generations back,
A handful of our kinfolk lived in this valley
They went missin’ without no explanation
That were a hundert years ago, as of last night

Now, I ain’t never been known
To be a superstitious man
Y’all know I ain’t a scare’t a no man
And I’ll fight a feller at the drop of a hat

I’m gettin’ the hell outta Dodge, never to return
And I strongly suggest y’all do the same
Ain’t never seent such a mess as this
And that’s all I reckon I got to say about that

This piece is part of the anthology of dark, horror poetry, called Out On The Killing Floor. It’s coming for you, soon.

Photo by cottonbro

Smothered Mate

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

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

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

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.

The image is the property of Chess.com

The Duel

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That One Time

Happy first day of Halloween. I put something dark and sweet into your pumpkin for you.

That One Time

Your belongings will not likely be stolen
In the times you watched them like a hawk
But rather, they up and run away
The one time that you forget about the lock

Your blessings will surely not come to an end
In those times in which you’re praying a lot
No, your blessing well will only run dry
Because of the one time you did not

You’re unlikely to be brutally murdered,
Your corpse buried beneath someone’s floor
On most days, that is…
Unless, of course, you forget to latch the door

Photo by Faruk Tokluoğlu

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

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Even In The Littlest Things

“Even In The Littlest Things”, from my book Dark Matter – Poems of Horror and Depravity

Even In The Littlest Things – from Dark Matter

With Samhain/Halloween/All Hallow’s Eve and Day of the Dead fast approaching, I’m doing readings from my book of horror poetry, called Dark Matter. Most of them will have some type of music and/or sound effects that accompany them, to lend to the experience.

However, for most of these, I won’t be doing anything fancy with the visual aspects. There will be some that have interesting video or photos to look at but this will be more of an auditory experience than a visual one.

This particular piece is different from most of the book, as it’s not really horror. I included it because it’s quite dark, indeed. I wrote it because it was a personal demon that I had to exorcise, get the poison out of my system. I personally find myself both fascinated and revolted by this poem, even though I’m the one who penned it.

This is because it deals with a heavy, human problem… that of deception and who can we trust? We’ve all found out the hard way that someone we cared deeply for was deceiving us about something. If that person meant enough to you, then you most likely considered it not just inconvenient or frustrating but literally horrible.

Lies can be even more efficient weapons than guns or knives, given the right circumstances and for this reason, Even In The Littlest Things rightfully earns its place in the book and into this series of recordings.

Even In The Littlest Things

Even in the littlest things, you lie
Promises of civil courtesies so small,
To fulfill them, one barely need try
Even in the littlest things, you lie

So many pieces to your hate
Some are hidden, some stand tall
None create joy, only weight
So many pieces to your hate

Your darkness is beyond blinding
Wondering if there’s any light at all
Mislabeling what I was finding
Your darkness is beyond blinding

A forgery, nearly perfect, passing
Mask chipped, the disguise did fall
Recidivist, apology count surpassing
A forgery, nearly perfect, passing

But hey, at least you got to try it
Labeled thing, you renamed it all
No one ever insisted you buy it
But hey, at least you got to try it

And now, we all feel less than good
Endless, useless, talking, small
Nothing gained, nothing goes as it should,
And now, we all feel less than good

Dark Matter – Poems of Horror and Depravity

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Requiem For A Fool

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Don’t forget to play Crimson and Clover

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

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

And He Wept

Jesus wept
And I know why
Impossible, the weight
Of this world, to deny

Jesus wept
And I understand it
When so few give love
And so many demand it

Jesus wept
More than he bled
Meaning of the words,
Right over the head

Jesus wept
With heavy heart, breaking
So little effort, to give
All lost, in the taking

Jesus wept
In solemn recognition
Of hatred, beating love
Into submission

Jesus wept
And I do, too
This could’ve been heaven
For me and for you

Jesus wept
Cried harder than I
He knew the potential
We possess and deny

Main Photo by @seb

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conjunct pluto

This piece is from an upcoming collection of poems, called conjunct neptune. The details of the book are in the link, which is the first poem that I wrote in the series. If you haven’t been through that one, it might be more helpful to read it, first. There, I explain what the theme of the book is.

This piece is about Luna, our Moon, when She reaches the point in the roughly twenty-nine day, lunar cycle that She sits in the same space with Pluto… you know, that thing that wasn’t a Planet and then it was for a while… and then it wasn’t, again.

Pluto is similar in several ways to Saturn. The similarity resides in that both Saturn and Pluto/Hades represent a miserly, curmudgeonly, old and cranky energy. They’re both decidedly masculine in presentation but definitely not in a loving father kind of way. Saturn is said to have eaten his own younguns.

Pluto is the Roman God of Wealth. While not identical in nature to Hades, He is similar enough, in many respects.

He holds dominion over wealth, particularly anything that is obtained from the Earth. Since our whole economy is (or was or ought to be; you decide) based on the trading of gold, silver and thousands of other minerals, that’s arguably a rather huge amount of influence on money.

All that goes into the making of the things we buy and sell and trade, it all comes out of the Earth. Even services use material resources (offices, paper recording keeping and endless cups of coffee). This means that they, too, are part of Pluto’s territory.

The Greek equivalent of Pluto is Hades, who is famous for presiding over the Underworld, as it was laid out in Greek mythology. While Hades is not synonymous with Christian concepts of Satan or the Devil, He was still considered to have a brooding, intense personality. It’s said that He was the least-liked of all the gods and usually called upon only for curses.

One thing is sure enough, when astrologers look to Pluto, when other planets are aspecting that body, the effect is one of intensification. Whatever it is, the force of Pluto is one that assists in creating wealth; many uber-rich folks have a Jupiter/Pluto conjunction in their natal chart. But that same energy acts as a multiplier of other ideas and behaviors, as well. Not all of them are good, by anyone’s yardstick.

Pluto generally gives a dark, rather gruff and grumbly, moody tone, one which is keenly interested in power, information, serious research, the accumulation of large amounts of money and so on. The characters of Scrooge and Dr. Frankenstein both come to mind.

Pluto’s influence is the stuff that spy novels, governmental coups and hostile corporate takeovers are made of. So when the lovely, sweet and nurturing energy of the Moon meets with the Lord of Hell, the mood tends to turn a little dark.

This is compounded by the fact that (among Her sweeter qualities) Luna is also a harbinger of mystery, confusion and sometimes, even madness. These are usually (although by no means, always) in reference to initiations and rites of passage. But sometimes, it’s the plain ol’ garden variety crazies.

When Luna conjoins Pluto, attitudes in general lean toward the more greedy, distrustful and even the downright paranoid.

This is not to say that a person who has Luna conjunct Pluto in their chart would have these terrible (or the more positive) traits. A person has many Planets and aspects between them, each thing acting as a counterweight against the others.

Here’s a neat list of famous peeps who have this aspect. They’re a wide mix of personality types, though it’s safe to say that most of them lean toward the intense side of things, even when it’s a positive flavor of intensity. So this piece isn’t about bashing anyone who has that aspect (nor is any other piece in the collection).

No, this is about the energy of these two stellar bodies, by themselves, if we were somehow able to isolate them from everything else. We cannot, obviously. In this hypothetical case, the nurturing of the Moon is almost always degraded and polluted by the the obsession that Pluto represents. The wealth multiplication of Pluto is deranged by the comfort-seeking of Luna and results in “I need all of it, so I can feel good.”

If you enjoy the poem, consider supporting more such creative madness and lunar/plutonian madness, by yours truly, over at Patreon/Magus72.

Now, bearing all of these arcane ideas in mind, I give you (or rather, I row you across the river Styx, to the dark, forlorn shores of)…

conjunct pluto

what fresh hell
is this?

of what use,
is your clever array
of pointless words?

when all, soon enough,
becomes kindling
for the black flames
of unforgiving abyss?

sour not, my tired ear,
you tiny, petulant slug

muddle not, what little respite
is left, of sweet, peaceful silence
with all your futile mumblings
of hope and dreams
and other, such
soap opera nonsenses

leave me alone

and keep all your words…
all those pathetic, condemned souls,
standing foolish on the gallows,
as if last words were ever
anything more than
last

ask me no favors

i expect you to lie

for i see into the murky heart
of all your dark, shady schemes
all your plotting and planning
to stab me in the back
once i am not looking

and because of this,
i am always looking

i am always
watching

i never sleep

i have cameras
and listening devices, bugs
planted everywhere
and a legion of spies

because one must take great care,
and use only a measure of the mean,
an average of what intelligence they offer
using only the most plausible bits
of what the bulk of them say

never place all your bets
on the words of any one, particular spy
because you cannot trust spies
nor words, nor people,
nor intelligence

nor anything else,
for that matter;
not that anything matters

the only thing
that you can trust
is that trust
in anything
is, in itself…
untrustworthy

trust only that things will always break
and that they must be repaired
trust only that things will die
and that the burial of these things
is expensive

the undertaker is himself,
always on the take
and hence, i abstain
from the taking on of
anything that has a pulse
because such things are merely
mouths to feed
they are things which get sick
and doctors, too, are expensive
and they are things which
disappoint you, break your heart

but i’m more sensible than all that;
i paid the doctor to remove my heart

most sensible purchase
i ever made, that surgery

hearts and souls and conscience,
these are luxuries that are far too expensive
too many sick days, lost wages
and worries which are not worth
the wear and tear

but the point is…

i’m watching you
because i know
your ways

you and your patiently,
waiting for me to die
or to slip up or fumble,
so that you may
usurp my power

i know of all your clandestine,
assassin’s designs
your machinations
for the taking of all that i have
all that i have worked for
and all that i have stolen
all that i have swindled away
from the trusting
all that i have, only because
i possessed the backbone,
the fortitude,
to slay the meek
to take what was theirs
and make it my own

in short…
i know
you

because i see
the bitter truth of things,
how all are self-concerned,
consumed with self
and nothing, nor anyone else

therefore, i keep to myself
and i keep everything for myself
i retain all that is,
as my own

since when did anyone
ever do anything
for me?

you must take by force and by fakery
by clever graft and by hard work
and by brute force and by the bloody blade
and you must never give anything away,
not ever, not to anyone
and never sell anything
that you may need, later
and never keep anything that you can sell
and never sell anything too cheaply
but never hold onto anything that is cheap
and will depreciate in value, over time
but never spend too much on anything

you understand?

you must be wily and wise
and clever and most of all,
ruthless and cunning

for all
that there is,
in this barren world,
is the having of things
and the having, not of things

there is the taking
and the being took
and nothing else

and they’ll all try to take
everything that you took
from someone else

they’ll try to take it
for themselves
in a heartbeat,
leaving you with
nothing but
an empty basket
of space,
where things used to be

except that there will be
no basket,
because they’ll have
taken that, too

and so,
mark my words,
you dying insect…

not that words
were ever anything
worth marking down,
unless they were
the words on the deeds
to land and bank accounts…

you mark my words…

you’d better take
and take quickly
or else be
took from

and you’ll be left
not a solitary crumb,
not a single morsel,
to put into the
greedy, little mouths
of all your expensive,
insect offspring

now, off
and away with you

i’ve no time
for you

i’m terribly busy,
watching everything
that was or is
or ever will be

watching it all burn
and crumble
into ash
and blow away,
into oblivion

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The Poetry of Kevin Trent Boswell

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No More

Author’s Note: This piece is brand new. This piece is ancient. It speaks of things which happen daily. It shares memories of the long, long ago. It is deeply rooted in yesterday. It is severed from everything except tomorrow.

No More

No more crawling, borrowed knees
To beg or steal a parched penance
Privilege of chewing
Tiny, tinfoil excuses

Receipts, all signed
Cuneiform zero
There, in the register
Where it speaks of the balance
Which is long overdue
A large and loud emptiness

The slaying of pragmatism
And the prodigal son
The wisest of investments
Healthy, constant dividends
Since there are no returns

Assets freely traded
On the scales in the marketplace
Sacrifices, invisible, smoking
On strange altars of doubt

Multiplication of manna eaten in secret
Loaves baked, foreign recipes
Nets tossed into distant waters
Plucking up fishes, filling the nets
Pouring floods out of the wide mouth
Fleeing the estate, belly of greater fish
Absconding from duty
Tariffs of masticating consummation

Cutting off the heads of what was,
Peeling away, shedding foul-smelling skin,
Pulling off all those silvery flakes of armor
Toss carcasses in frying pan,
Serve with herbs grown in new earth
Feast, fructifying small kingdom
And a table for one

No more buried talents
All now upon display
A day of rest is earned
In the refusing of yesterday’s complacency
Tossing out its tired labors

Cutting down the vines
Which brought decades of wine
Wine that choked those throats which drank
In the seeking of blindness
Attempting to drown out
All hearing of familiar, droning complaints

A fatted calf not missed,
From the cool, shaded hammock
That swings peacefully in a calm, quiet
Where the only shadow cast
Is that of the grand, old oak tree
Whose face is always welcome
Who speaks only and ever
Kindly of its kin
Or not at all

Wait now, at the oasis,
For the promised bride’s coming
Who brings the cool water from the well,
For a desert weary camel

All is soon to be right,
For the steadfast resistance
Against worldly temptations

Sovereignty steps out
Dropping the broken, black irons
Of miserable bondage
Lead, flowing through the river veins
Of miserly brothers
Cruel rage of bad blood

New, mazel tov celebrations
Of kaphar, divine grace
Selah and hallelujah
In a day of jubilee

The god of forgetfulness,
Is ever gracious and joyful
Drunk on the charms
Of plentiful, good company

Regaled today, by delightful tales,
Told by they who arrive on the morrow
During a banquet, yet to bloom
Banking on its promise
Of them and their warm presence

A toast is drunk daily
To what is seen
Which is nothing
For what is
In the eyes
Most of which
Is good

A steward, in secret
Stealing everything that was sacred
Receives all, in due course
New master’s blessings
Of themselves, a fine reward

And spared a death, daily
The stoning of harsh, marble law
Seven generations
Removed from the sight
And all senses

Tools of old bone
Hand me down worries
Covet, instead, that wild courage
Which rails against the unknown

Naked, cast out
No starved, gulag wages
Demanding the whole
The lion’s share of nary
A single thing

Punished sin of necromancy
Crime of insisting upon the rubric
Of a heritage of heresy
Brooding there, in the long lines
Where impatient fools bicker and stew
Wrestling with the dogs over scraps

A hindsight, an insight
A bird advances, eagerly
Plopping itself into the hand

The exiling of perdition
Raises up its secret children
High above the floods
Where the true blessings of heaven
May kiss them upon their heads
Sealing in immunity against sorrow

That these should never dwell
In that place of woeful wandering
Stone gardens of Golgotha
Where is never and nothingness
Only long, dusky shades
Commiserating with the dead

Photo by K. Mitch Hodge