I crawl into the womb of death
By evening
I, fetus-like, encumbered
By the naive expectations that
I, childlike, mistake for dreams
I, quietly humbled,
Tug and tear at my many skins
With the teeth of anxiety…
Light the wick of castration,
Come, clear eyed, to the morning
So that existence might say:
The fort is secure,
No danger from the
Chipper, patronizing advances
Of winter⠀
I have tended bar at many a fool’s convention
While they conversed of heaven, piety, hell,
Struggle, etc, though not one of them had
Touched any of these
I grasped and tugged at the coattails
Of bishops and entrepreneurs,
Who cast aside cities, like empty matchbooks
I dabbed at their spilled martinis
And imported beers, with my beard,
Offered them my white robe, to dry their hands
Gurus shuffled nervously about, eating their karma
Waiters, offering caviar on crackers
They talked of Death as though She were a waitress,
Whose butt they would pinch, as She fluttered by,
In Her short shorts, eager to serve them
Rainbows fall into their pockets,
When they aren’t looking
Kings of the calm, quiet, opiate dream
Make stew with the meat of baboons,
The plate is garnished with money, fruit of the jungle
Master painters and artisans of steel come around
With bowls of cool water and cloths to wipe away
Delirium sweats of malaria
They are followed closely by
Children, carrying shrimp and pineapple on skewers
Ice sculptures and chandeliers, carved out of rain,
Dance around in the smoke
The light plays tricks on their appearances
Pictures woven into tapestries
Tell the tales of dark champions, who teach
The meaning of dark truths, through terms like ‘box cutter’
“Now, on to the evening’s entertainment!” they shout
Down into the dungeons and out come the lions,
Crushing entire civilizations in their jaws
The timid are made short work and all applaud;
The lions go off to sleep⠀
These walks on the moon are no longer
The pleasant outings they once were…
Or at least, that they seemed to be
But now, we succumb⠀
Necessary submissions to the
Keeper of forgetfulness;
Due process⠀
I do my part,
Reluctantly
©2026 Kevin Trent Boswell
From the book Next by Kevin Trent Boswell, published in May of 2020
Next is NOT for the faint of heart, and is not FDA approved. It is exceptionally habit-forming, extremely volatile, and politically incorrect, generally insensitive and rude, should not be mixed with SSRIs, NSAIDs, NSAs, CIAs, FBIs, or milk. Do not read this book under any circumstances. You will be butt hurt and you will cry. Then, you will pout, and then you’ll climb a clock tower with a potato gun and much carnage is certain to ensue. You have been warned, by somebody else, because I think it is pretty fuckin’ great. But then again, I’m an asshole. Not available in some counties of East Virginia or West Dakota.
