dancing monkey courtiers in dance floor flights of fancy
the throne, a perpetual game of “duck, duck, goose”
title of monarchy changes as swiftly as the second hand of the reviled and feared grandfather clock; always chiming on the unsuspecting head of what might well be the last hour
a masquerade waltz parades of ever-changing partners turnstiles at each end of the ballroom
cardboard cutouts holding hands
ladles of wine, party favors strewn about the floors, a punchbowl full of suite keys
the night never ends, but the sun is always rising; it’s busy chasing ghosts, the ephemeral fears of revelation,
a glass onion caricature of something referred to as plainly obvious
the hand strikes midnight, and midnight slashes its throat, severing its artery, just as the reveal portion of the soirée climaxes in a feeding frenzy
the czar must feed its myriad children, with their thousand faces, and their insatiable armada of ten thousand mouths, and their infinite rows of sharpened teeth
a hydra-headed babe, sprawling out of a catacomb of cribs
all of the palace, and all of its occupants, are laid upon the banquet table, or simply devoured whole, right where they stand
the crown smiles upon itself, having satisfied the appetites of its innumerable infant rouges, the task is announced as completed, finis, coup de grâce, “Tetelestai… it is finished.”
everyone walks away, down the grand hallways, elaborately ornamented, hiding beneath the curved eaves
much hustling and bustling, out through the facades
mad, naked revelers, drunkenly climbing the spires and bannisters, and scrambling up the entablatures
some leaping desperately from the nearest fenestrations
all are in the most superb hurry, since the next affair begins in but a moment
and each attendee does so desire to make their grand entrance
each attendee does desire so
the mandatory attendance of these bacchanalias is everything, all that is known
to be seen is to exist
to be missed is to be forgotten
to be forgotten is to be cast into the outer darkness of oblivion
dance with whoever you like, but dance
for to stop the twirling play of flirtation and primping, to cease the endless arabesque of changing hands, and switching costumes, swooning and sweeping across the dance floor
is to find oneself face to face with the mirror
and that, is where the death of childhood hides,
waiting for any one of the throngs of delirious dancers to tire out, and pause in quiet contemplation
so, that death may reach out and throttle them slowly with a heavy chain of opprobrium, the sight of their unexceptional, mundane reflections
keep twirling, never cease smiling, change your masks regularly, slip out of your wardrobe, and don a new costume, at least once, during each polonaise or allegro sonata
spin, laugh, tell jokes, drink, tell lies, twirl, flirt, giggle and be merry, but do not ever, ever… stop
“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.
Below, you’ll find links to get your copy, music videos from Area 25, plus the super-interesting, totally true, absolutely not made up backstory behind the album.
The excellent cover art was generously provided by Dorian Strange.
It really helps me out a lot when you give the videos a thumbs up 👍 leave a comment 💭 and share your favorites on your social media pages ♥️
Videos from Area 25
Unchanged
Into the Fold
Three Day Beard
Hopium Blues
Scorpio
Tact
War on Venus
I Wasn’t Using It
All Around
Upbeat Dance Number
We’re All Gonna Fade Away
At the Bottom
Mandala of Sand, Pt. 1
Trent Boswell Bio
Kevin Trent Boswell is a thing that once blinked briefly in and out of existence. It made noises and gestures while it lasted. The exact nature of its demise is unclear. Some sources say it collapsed beneath the weight of entropy and time. Other tertiary facts suggest the possibility that it was destroyed by a predator, an accident, or perhaps even by itself. The truth of the matter is unknown. Luckily, no one cares.
The Story Behind Area 25
Area 25 is a traveler’s atlas for navigating endless, winding caves, wormholes, cracks in reality, tears in the space-time continuum, black holes, abysmal hellscapes, and all of the most common types of bottomless pits that comprise the modern world.
The somber, dystopian audio guidebook is delivered over an eclectic musical soundtrack of rock, psychedelia, pop, funk, and dire expressions of poetic mental illness.
Area 25 is an exorcist’s manual for the perils of life on Earth for Homo sapiens. It catalogues the sundry catastrophes that plague the upright ape, namely those of poverty, depression, rejection of the tribe, and failed attempts at relationships, friendships, and spiritual endeavors.
Not for the faint of heart (nor the “feint” of heart), Area 25 is a dark, gritty, and gloomy telling of the myriad ways in which hominids undo themselves, rend each other asunder, and even casually rip apart their sole means of survival, the ecosystem in which they habitat. Odd beings, at best; horrible monsters, at worst.
Genesis
An ancient evil spirit was once trapped for centuries inside a dybbuk. Through the foolish mistake of some human, the demon escaped.
The ghoul found amusement in tormenting one particular human critter, who’s name was Trent Boswell. The tortures took shape by possessing the human with an inescapable obsession to create something called “Area 25.”
The demon wanted the brainless exploits of humans captured on record, so it would have something to laugh about, later; much like you might watch an episode of Seinfeld, even though you’ve already seen it several times.
The dark cruelty of this promethean ordeal rested in the fact that the human was entirely lacking the necessary resources for the production of a proper, commercially viable product. It was working only with a ten-year-old Macintosh computer, an old version of GarageBand, an inexpensive condenser mic, a FocusRite preamp, a cheap bass guitar, a pair of 3 1/2” monitors, and a nice Fender Stratocaster.
What the demon didn’t expect, is that the human would actually persist through said tribulations of substandard working conditions, and complete the project. Much to the demon’s surprise, the human finished the project, despite the lack of access to a professional recording studio, or the backing of a major record label.
The end result, a tabulation of human follies and foibles, will now provide the escaped beastie with comedic entertainment for the coming aeons, long after humans have disappeared from the planet; which should be anytime within the next couple of decades.
“Three Day Beard”- music video from the new Trent Boswell album, Area 25
“Three Day Beard” from Area 25, by Trent Boswell
Release date is February 22, 2023. Note, it may be up to a week before the album starts showing up on the various music platforms.
Available on all the major music streaming services, like Apple Music, Spotify, Amazon Music, YouTube Music, and many more.
Album cover art by Dorian Strange.
Lyrics for “Three Day Beard”
I.
Standing in a soup line Sucking on a tail pipe Working on a new crime; Against myself, How many times Can I kill myself? Before I die? God knows I tried To find out
II.
I wandered where the women went Thought my soul could be at ease I never lost my good intent But found myself wishing I’d never had it at all Never had it at all Is that what you’d call A fall from Grace?
III.
Listen here man and wo-man alike I won’t tell you about all the cigarettes And the booze, and the other scenarios I won’t tell you about all the hard feelings And the petty larcenies I won’t tell you about all the Broken bones and homes Rendered in brutal beatings And I won’t even tell you about the sadness; The heavy, “wish we weren’t here” melancholy But I will tell you this: There are people who walk this earth Who are so beautiful, on the inside, They make angels blush And you… Ain’t one of them
IV.
Allow me some time To be angry I’ll shout, not speak my mind I’m hungry; Don’t wanna eat
V.
Forgive my trespass I’m not sorry Thought maybe you had grown, Just a little, I was wrong But don’t worry You will
You will Just not with me
VI.
If you wipe the slate clean, Just kick back and dream: Never learn a thing About what you see
VII.
My license to be blind Has been revoked Just in time And now I see the work Cut out for me
Kevin Trent Boswell 