Kevin Trent Boswell

precious sister

precious sister…

the journey cracks

grand science, now able,

functions beautifully

that dreaming noodle

rears the head

flailing blows

and the sudden,

hard obeisance

sleeping through those

sweet rituals,

falling tiger

wags an

accusatory finger

consumer of logical winds

a simpleton’s vanity

peculiarity of the weather

doctor points his caduceus:

inside becometh out,

yea, verily

let us worship the

revolver medicine

as to movement,

these are but hard woman

promises

death, a reluctant song,

now tumbling into

guilt-ridden odyssey

careless waves of infinite days

armies of unrelenting dawns,

one upon another,

each

weaker

than brother

any here, for i, is her

a hopeless moonlight crumbles

her covers burn the sleepless skin

granting every excuse for you

to slip outside

into the pisces pool of

what is not yours

escape from the mouth

of rendering

emptiness

find me

in that dark place

or find something else,

whatever

works

at least there is always the

faint, corduroy comfort

of believing

that the sullen orb

listens

we hold no such

hopeful vigils

for our dear, sweet sister

of vacancy

Magus

(Kevin Trent Boswell)

Take a look at my Patreon page at https://www.patreon.com/magus72

I’ll be cross-posting here, what I publicly post, over there. Patrons-only content will be available, over there.

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Magus & The Plastic Infinity

Conjure Work

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flash

… standing right on the tip

of a spoonful of madness…

now, there’s a guy

who understands

the depths

of loss

I fell into a well

of brilliant colors

covering lungs

in layers of

dark gloss

no wiser,

or better

for the experience

but

never a lament

will you hear

from me

time…

and other…

four letter words

(aside)

a plethora of pleasures and miseries

have I earned and yearned,

pleaded against and welcomed

with banquets

for and through my guilt by association

with the bleating of these mild sheep,

cloaked in the

dripping, hollow fangs

of serpents

crashes

of symbols,

off beat {snares}

four/for MaDN”u”s

and off key stares—————–> II

II.

study well this deranged diatribe

tests are continuous,

apparatus is on its way

to assist you…

with those

already concluded

we’re

watching

you

III.

are the bad ones

bothering you

again?

take

this

and

end

Magus

(Kevin Trent Boswell)

Take a look at my Patreon page at https://www.patreon.com/magus72

I’ll be cross-posting here, what I publicly post, over there. Patrons-only content will be available, over there.

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Magus & The Plastic Infinity

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blogspot

untitled

Universe Collapsing

Constant Arousal

Continual Unravelling

If you are Quiet…

You will Hear

If you Look…

You will See…

Nothing

Magus

(Kevin Trent Boswell)

Take a look at my Patreon page at https://www.patreon.com/magus72

I’ll be cross-posting here, what I publicly post, over there. Patrons-only content will be available, over there.

Patreon

Magus & The Plastic Infinity

Conjure Work

antiverse

blogspot

waste

my love is dancing

in your sleep

and you, here now…

all a waste,

in your flight,

an empty,

downward embrace

return we,

to one,

when you, pointed,

lick the

ground

touch the girl’s insides

but realize…

empty s pa c e

is what

comes

not-one,

for timidity’s sake

the eyes cast lots

of salty war

upon his gorgeous shelter

they still marvel

at your lame,

dead hero

a shady vision of candy dilemma

bump the mouthful of riches

stick precise flesh

between

fast, clever eyes

us, to hollow leaves,

we went

and to ash

and for this,

but a tangle

of whispers,

am i

Magus

(Kevin Trent Boswell)

Take a look at my Patreon page at https://www.patreon.com/magus72

I’ll be cross-posting here, what I publicly post, over there. Patrons-only content will be available, over there.

Patreon

Magus & The Plastic Infinity

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blogspot

Conjure Work

almost something like it

you say you’ve been

to the mountain

and now you’re a big to do…

funny but i don’t remember

the mountain

ever mentioning you

i am not your memories…

that frame cracked,

when I outgrew

shards of recollection,

now strewn about your rug

a steep cleaning bill is due

i am no longer boxed in

i‘ve outgrown my previous place,

mounted on your wall, to view

i no longer fit in your wallet

or inside of any container

that also contains you

Magus

(Kevin Trent Boswell)

Take a look at my Patreon page at https://www.patreon.com/magus72

I’ll be cross-posting here, what I publicly post, over there. Patrons-only content will be available, over there.

Patreon

Magus & The Plastic Infinity

antiverse

blogspot

Conjure Work

bell

just as

a lover does

god

wishes to be

wooed

cried out for,

desired

hunted

I have called…

now,

for a

great

time

and

I am

weary

my eyes,

heavy

from the

looking out

my voice, tired

I am become

as a

sounding

bell

a chiming

in the darkness

an echo of

an echo

of a long

ago

heard only by

the ear

that sits close

to the mouth

who uttered

the sound

in the beginning

sound…

the genesis

of all things

beginning is

answered

only by

ending

god

not

somewhere

in the circuit

between

mouth

and

ear

instead,

there is only

mouth,

the ear

words,

the space

silence

between

yearning,

not knowing,

finding

remembering

and forgetting

loneliness

crying out

in the wilderness

for the return

home

Magus

(Kevin Trent Boswell)

I am getting back on to my Patreon page at https://www.patreon.com/magus72

I’ll be cross-posting here, what I publicly post, over there. But other, patrons-only content will be available to patrons, there.

Patreon

Magus & The Plastic Infinity

antiverse

blogspot

Conjure Work

Art Matters

I wrote a post, over at ConjureWork.com that I feel is important. It pertains to art, poetry, music and accurate thinking and how we all need it more than we may realize.

Rather than recreate it here, I’m just linking it: Art Matters.

somewhere in wilmington

waiting and wilting

baiting and quilting

an intricate weave

an alluring network of delicacies

through hell bent phosphorescent mind

of elder kinsmen magician sort

what to say

of lovers and wise men,

scoundrels and boys in the sticks

and creative stories:

hey, is that true?

no. it’s made up and so

we believe it

because it’s a wonderful rose

that grows

incandescent strobe light wonderful

god, i love that word:

wonderful

it’s not quite said enough

yet, says enough

and yet, not

and therefore…

much more, you see?

it’s simple

and silly, yes.

after all,

isn’t everything?

it is in wilmington

things often stated

rather matter-of-fact-ly

like ideas that

hit you in the lung,

real wonderful like;

something like joy

like knowing it will all be o.k.

even though you

really don’t know that

it will all be o.k.;

like finding out that

your brain will

chase its own tail, if you let it

and not making that mistake again

and not hiring woe

to spend all your money

woe?

oh, no.

i apologize.

the subject was joy.

or was it wonderfulness? (;)

or was it wilmington? (;)

or was it silliness? (;)

i believe it may have been

willingness;

willingness to accept certain things;

to accept the fact that

you is you

and you

is the only you

you get, you.

they do forget you.

one way or another, brother,

they forget you

wake up

and you realize

that this is the

karmic scheme of things

and many dreams it brings,

in the wee small hours,

that seem like days

because you’ve been dreaming

for years

that you were

really here

but you were really

just asleep

and dreaming

that you were

awake

and

baked

somewhere

wilmington

last day

in the days of short pencils

and long papers

an earned renunciation of earlier

struggles

supernatural glimpse of a

well cooked tomorrow,

lying on the plate

beside the knife of

decision

bringing in the trot lines;

wrestling with those large, fat fish,

ready for the pan

and the flame

no more kung-fu

arduous battle with

quadratic equations

instead, glancing at a

moldy clock,

I see that the

little hand is on armistice

and the big hand is on

congratulations

Magus

(Kevin Trent Boswell)

I am getting back on to my Patreon page at https://www.patreon.com/magus72

I’ll be cross-posting here, what I publicly post, over there. But other, patrons-only content will be available to patrons, there.

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quiet

an original poem

floating in a soup

of strange sounds.

listen to the track,

watch the video.

but do it quietly.

Here is an mp3 of the song,

free to download.

quiet_magus72_the_plastic_infinity.mp3

share liberally,

it’s better that way.

a glass of yesterdays

at nineteen

I was smitten with a girl

who loved gin and tonic

she was a preacher’s daughter

in South Carolina

I discovered that

all of what people say

about preacher’s daughters

is blissfully true

I introduced her to

the bubbly summer fizz

and she introduced me to…

well, let’s just say…

I learned to mix

a mean

gin and tonic

as she lay beside me,

naked and asleep

on that motel bed,

I took tequila shots

and reveled in the majesty of

Austin City Limits

the television and I,

both sloppy drunk

with the sounds

of John Hammond

slurring curses through

a mouth harp,

the tube on his finger

causing that steel guitar

to scream bloody murder

and holler for its momma

I sat stupefied

on the edge

of a cheap mattress,

covered in awe

and still coated

with her

Delta Blues cut

jagged holes

into my memory,

with its muddy banks

flesh, sights, screams,

wailing demons

and wobbling fingers

only a cheap television screen

and a cigarette ash,

backlighting

the carnal event

she, now quiet on the bed

Hammond on the screen,

now brutally howling

as if in some type of

infernal pain

a blistering welt

from the bite of a hell hound,

now sulking somewhere

in the mosquito-infested

darkness

“Oh!!! Say,

my momma don’t allow me…

to stay out

aaaaall night long!”

I, now

consumed completely

by cactus juices

and cascades

of flaming guitar notes,

flying out of the

Devil’s fingertips

I straighten my back

and draw in closer

to breathe in her hair

then, toward the television screen

and I fall sleepily beneath

the heavy spell

of it all

now,

standing in a friend’s kitchen,

I think back

on all of it

I spy a bottle of gin

with a little less than

a shot left in it

I open the fridge

lo and behold,

a fresh bottle of

tonic water

I mix the two

and raise

a toast

to the various potions

of summer’s forgetfulness…

to the southern gene pool,

with its extraordinary ability

to produce the most

exquisite specimens

of the female form…

to the Delta blues

its vinyl static,

scratched into my soul…

to John Hammond,

masterful and

merciless…

to the claw marks

on my back…

to the fear

of Jesus

Magus

(Kevin Trent Boswell)

I am getting back on to my Patreon page at https://www.patreon.com/magus72

I’ll be cross-posting here, what I publicly post, over there. But other, patrons-only content will be available to patrons, there.

Patreon

Magus & The Plastic Infinity

antiverse

blogspot

Conjure Work

filter

when I was a child, my aunt told me

that if rain fell while the sun was shining,

it meant the Devil was beating his wife

I never had the slightest clue

what it meant

but today,

it may just be true…

for the sky drips purple wax

on slippery horizon

flickers bright with

wick dipped in fire,

angels of sun,

showering out plumes

of fractal light

something vast, immense

holds space between sparse clouds

a light spray of water

cascades over my vehicle

and busy spirits of air

float and move about,

vying for better positions

I move intentionally,

purposefully through the scene,

hurried to escape a day

that will not be missed

hurdling over a variety of nonsense

machine churns over road…

not as fast as I imagine it should

not enough ground

falls between myself and

all that I seek

to leave behind

I am allowed to briefly glimpse

a pristine, white mare

eating peacefully in the pasture

by the side of the highway

she is without blemish

and without any earthly substance

she is something etheric,

angelic and full of joy

(or so I imagine her to be)

she never sees me

she has no idea

who I am

and so… I am

utterly and completely

jealous of her

I have not been filtered

through the windows of her eyes

I have not polluted the peaceful

realm of her mind

with all of my chaos

there is, for her,

only eating and walking

and other things

of equal pleasure

she has no idea who I am…

and neither do I

still, I drive by

and for something

not exactly a second

and not quite a lifetime,

I live vicariously through her

perhaps the breadth of a heartbeat

in looking on her,

tasting the carefree grass of her world,

I am for one, solitary moment,

free from Samsara

I have no hurt, no rage,

only a sky full of purple wax

and preoccupied angels,

angels who watch

over the quiet beasts

that are the mare

and myself

angels who possess

wider eyes

eyes

that screen out the dross,

placing a clearer lens over it all

I breathe in my quick look

at what serenity is dancing

just beneath the veneer

and for a frozen moment,

the mare and I

are both

full

Magus

(Kevin Trent Boswell)

Patreon

Magus & The Plastic Infinity

antiverse

blogspot

Conjure Work

I am getting back on to my Patreon page at https://www.patreon.com/magus72

I’ll be cross-posting here, what I publicly post, over there. But other, patrons-only content will be available to patrons, there.

untitled

I am getting back on to my Patreon page at https://www.patreon.com/magus72

I’ll be cross-posting here, what I publicly post, over there. But other, patrons-only content will be available to patrons, there.

untitled

Don’t question it too long

You did nothing wrong

At least, that is what

You’ll tell yourself, soon

Guilt leaves without a trace

All you need do is replace the face

None of it made the cut

All of it wanes, with the fading moon

Magus

(Kevin Trent Boswell)

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The Kitchen Floor

From my book, in the current,

available at ConjureWork.com

The Kitchen Floor

the orange octagon pattern

on the linoleum

looks to me

like a mandala

it reminds me

that there is

symmetry

in everything;

in the trees,

in your smile

some think the

idea of a

high divinity,

attributed to

inanimate objects,

is foolish and

childlike,

a quirk of immature intellect,

comical ideas

about cycles

and karma

under various names

and guises

but the physicists tell me

that all the atoms

of my body

(and yours, too)

came from stars,

in distant galaxies,

so many years ago

that it cannot even be imagined…

that we are,

literally,

star dust

every time you breathe,

you inhale

molecules of air

that were once

the same breaths

of air

taken in by kings, queens,

murderers, trees,

you name it.

we are all parts of each other.

The people around you

really do

rub off on you.

perhaps my kitchen floor

now holds a molecule

that was once

part of a hair

on Mozart’s head

or, maybe a fingernail

of Christ’s

or, a piece of

the Buddha’s skin

I’ve heard it said that

if you sit in one place,

long enough,

the whole world will

pass by

but I need not wait

my orange,

octagonal mandala

already contains

the whole

of the universe

Magus

(Kevin Trent Boswell)

Magus & The Plastic Infinity

antiverse

blogspot

Conjure Work

Lens

All sight being monstrous

Through that darkened lens

Which gravely shows

Only what and who we can use

To angrily curse and cuss

Dwell in separate dens

Peace or war, casually propose

We ourselves, get to choose

Not every player wins and thus,

Some steal chips by twos and tens

Yet each heart clearly knows

There’s no good reason for any to lose

Magus

(Kevin Trent Boswell)

Magus & The Plastic Infinity

antiverse

blogspot

Conjure Work

easily

i tug at
a thin, colorful strand
of recollection

struggling to pull
the memory of your image
back into my eye

all the while,
the taste of your mouth
lingers easily
in my own

Magus

(Kevin Trent Boswell)

Magus & The Plastic Infinity

antiverse

blogspot

Conjure Work

oh to weep

to feel the tears, gliding
the joy that is a chasm
of painful knowledge,
the dark heart of
recognition

to gaze into the
eyes of suffering
and see its immense love for you
to peer into ecstasy,
become… fully…
cognizant…
of its ambivalence

to gasp and choke
on crumbs of empty space
to burn with hunger
at the brimful table of eternity;
the hall is so large,
the table so long, that
the head chair sits far,
outside the kingdom…
the queen is, by definition,
in permanent exile

her hound sounds
a trumpet of returning,
to the entrance,
where all exits
meet in a hollow nexus

its howling pierces stars
and summons perception
a doleful remembering
of cheer, unborn
a triumphant, vigorous celebration
on stages of victory,
a victory that needed
to do nothing but roll out of bed
and put on pants…
the rest was a seamless
unfolding of breath and
muscle memory

thick troubles,
shaped from
thin dust
and triumph,
collected in buckets;
it falls nightly…
no requisite asking,
pleading with fate,
to set aside its sickle
but for an hour

no prayers ascend
all prayers ascend

trouble no more for joys,
imagined leprosies that they are

sing no more praises of defeats
leaden, decrepit bullion

all these… fancies
dancing echoes

there are but few
frail glimpses
and each,
its own
meaningless
useless
miracle

Magus

(Kevin Trent Boswell)

https://antiverse.webs.com

https://trentboswell.blogspot.com/

https://conjurework.com

https://www.patreon.com/magus72

Depths

Wrangle up a monster

From the down below

Summon up a beast

That one can keep and know

A tiny, personal demon

One to call your own

In the furnace flames,

An angel image shewn

Burn the picture well

Into your flesh and mind

Hook it into every pore,

Be sure to be unkind

For the creatures that do dwell here,

In these dark and lonely parts

Sing songs of woe and cowardice

Emanating from empty hearts

Little, naughty things

That upon the pain will feast

Siphoned off a tank of dreams

Of which you know the least

I can retell an ancient tale,

Bound by honor, I will never

To have a shallow type of glory

A broken attempt at being clever

My own private monster

Would certainly not be pleased

It takes the choice and refuses to

Be taunted, mocked or teased

All the lovely portions and parts

Hungers it has now sated

Replaced in time by stupid rhyme

And nonsense, well-debated

This is the thing that demons do

And it’s what fascinates us so

All the places and all the things

They can make us do and go

The Nascent Magician magick course

Conjure Work

The Nascent Magician

Hoodoo, Ceremonial Magick, witchcraft

I don’t normally use this forum to talk about my esoteric practices.

But I have received the nudge to cast a wider net, because there are some searchers out there, looking for where they belong. So I’m putting up this one post, essentially it looks like an advertisement… and it is.

But look deeper and you’ll see that deep down inside, in between the words, there’s a message. It’s not for everyone. In fact, it’s not even for most. It’s only for a few. They will know who they are because they will feel it gnawing in their bones and churning in their guts.

So read this little ad and if it isn’t calling to you, just ignore it. I’ll post a poem right after this to make it up to you 😉

Through Monday night only… automatically get upgraded on The Nascent Magician magickal correspondence course.

The Nascent Magician

Get the Survey Student package and you will automatically be upgraded to the Graduate Student package.

If you get the Graduate Student package, then you will automatically be upgraded to the Complete Package!

Through Monday at midnight. Don’t miss the opportunity to practice the arts of Ceremonial, Hoodoo, Pagan magick and Sorcery. Learn to walk the walk.

For Want Of Her

May the eye of her needle

Be passed through by the camel

My beast is ready

And eager to ride

May the comfort of her robes

Cover my animal

The temple of her refuge

Is warm inside

May I sail my vessel

Into her power

And not be tossed

By her storm

May I know the nectar

Of her flower

And be one with the flower

I will be the thorn

Magus

(Kevin Trent Boswell)

https://antiverse.webs.com

https://trentboswell.blogspot.com/

https://conjurework.com

https://www.patreon.com/magus72

Razor, Bramble, Thorn Child

You shall not slow me

to your 2/4 beat of destruction

I shall hurdle high over you,

Your highness, queen of disappointment

I shall prevail, in the

New dawn form of a creature,

who changes & morphs

into the red stream of power,

flowing through the mountains of

never-ness & nought

The river that flows upstream and

winds through the land of the impossible,

to where the globe of knowledge

floats in a glass of contentment

I shall prevail,

I will sail through the hate and

see the blessed sunrise

that you have sought to suppress

Magus

(Kevin Trent Boswell)

https://antiverse.webs.com

https://trentboswell.blogspot.com/

https://conjurework.com

https://www.patreon.com/magus72

Beat

Nameless, black

Void and choice-less

Surrendered to night,

Full of dark

Wanting nothing,

Now all is empty

Free to take up any chain

Any desire that one might wish for

No desire, no restriction

No thirst for servitude

There is only the vexing slumber,

Hunger for the fat of a new kill

Is somehow become as a stranger

Wandering, wanton hex

A nubile delving into psionic prisms

Load the chamber

With hollow shells of the dead

Projected visions of delirium

Angelic chasms

Frightful clamoring in the cranium

Call back the dogs

And let them sleep,

For the dawn will soon enough

Overtake their prey

That tender light, shredding matter

Rending garment and flesh

Quite succinctly

No need of drummers

To time the pulse of this tune

The rhythm of it,

A vacillating pendulum,

Lo, it is even without the ability

To stray from its precision

The striker upon the cylinder

Is the pointing, bony finger of

The hand of death herself

The hammer that clangs the bell

Is the Mother of Night, incarnate

The femurs of a thousand heros

Beating against the tanned hides

Of the children of the same

Her crooked digit,

A culminating of perpetual cycle…

Stick meets skin, head warps and

Sound emanates through eternity,

Stick meets skin, head warps and

Sound emanates through eternity,

Stick meets skin, head warps and

Sound emanates through eternity,

A beat all too well pounded into the

Collective memory,

Burned into a hive mind,

Fallen into cerebral pits of

“Never before”,

We have at last, found the true past

It is even more horrid and shameful

Than we feared

It is full of monsters,

It is full of us

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stain

he was speaking vodka,

a language that I all-too-well

understood

as I sat on the edge of his bed,

I handed him the joint

that I had just finished

carefully rolling

he lit it and taking a small toke,

he became suddenly

and uncharacteristically

serious

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

it must have been obvious that I had no clue

how to answer that

and so he continued…

“When I was just a little boy,

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

‘Son, you’ll pull time

before you hit twenty’

At nineteen, I did six months”

before he could say another word,

several drunk people filed into the room

and the party took over,

as if the writer of this dark, comedy of errors

had carefully placed it

into the script, for dramatic effect

about fifteen years later,

I stood in the yard

with my father,

one morning

we burned a mattress

in the yard

a mattress with a peculiar red stain

on the top end of it,

right about where a man

would lay his head down

to sleep

smoke climbed through the

bare tree branches,

coating the limbs,

blackening the sun,

giving twisted,

new meaning

to the wind

with each searing crackle,

each hot, little iron that launched out

from the flame,

the notion was solidified…

that you would not

be with us again

that red stain has been

forever removed,

taken off and away from

the bad blend of cotton

and synthetic fiber,

its ugly, lack of aesthetic,

removed from the eye

we have instead,

embroidered you,

into the heart

in gold-letter,

on satin

a little redirection,

a simple trick of the firelight

and of the mind

a touch of pre-approved

manipulation,

vocabulary and memory,

now twisted to suit ourselves

with semblances of sanity

and yourself, in a new suit…

one to bring you

over the threshold of the

next beginning,

in a dapper style

we have gathered many flowers

you were one,

and we gather more

still, we do so wish

that you were not so still

we seem to be so much

more careful now,

with our words

we never had to

monitor our tongues, before…

we counted on you,

to always say something deliciously profane,

hysterical, sublime…

something far more terrible

than we would ever manage (or dare)

to bring forth from our fearful mouths

you said it all for us,

being our favorite devil,

you spared no words,

knowing full well, that your time

was short

now, it has fallen serious and sullen

and ash settles on us,

stealing the still-warm seat

of smiles

we do our best

to preserve the integrity

of your memory

with all your words,

so clumsily wrong,

so horribly right

your faults fill volumes,

all of these now consumed by fire

and forgetfulness

we will not miss them

we are in fact,

glad to be free of these,

free from the weight of your awful acuity

your condemnation of this world,

was felt always, hot upon our necks,

virtually indecipherable

from the indiscriminate joy

that your voice poured out

over our wanting brains

we will not miss the anarchy of your actions,

nor your allegiance to an autocratic indifference

but beneath the

intolerable heavy,

knowing of nothing else to do…

we dutifully lift up our eyes

to the coming days

where you

are not

—

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The Way Out

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

All alone, or in twos

The ones who really love you

Walk up and down, outside the wall

Some hand in hand,

Some gather together in bands

The bleeding hearts and the artists

Make their stands

And when they’ve given you their all,

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

Banging your heart against some mad bugger’s wall

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

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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

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Have Fun With That

Have fun, unknown one
With your new piece of puzzle doubt
Anything that escapes its lips,
Exactly what you’re listening for
Says exactly what you want and why,
Right when you’ve had enough to quit

You may want to run, unknown one
It’ll do what looks like a turn about
Until its bored and your way slips
Does as it damn well pleases and more
Teach it, break it, tame it, go on… try
Should be amusing to watch that shit

Author’s Note:

For the person about to make a mistake, the one who will not understand what they’re getting into until it’s far too late. I do not blame you in the slightest for not believing. You will, one day.

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All Is Lost

All is lost

Hope abandoned in the pines

None dwell here

But angry ghosts

Cursed and crossed

Failed to read between the lines

Where written was fear,

With all its morbid hosts

Treasure spilled

And scattered upon the earth

Freely taken at whim

By anyone that might

Pleasure killed

Stripped of all its worth

Coffers open to skim

Reputation subject to slight

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untitled

I’ve never loved one

Who would love me back

And I’ve never loved one

Who would care

When I reach out

In joy or in fright

There’s never anyone there

You may see what you want

And have what you don’t

And look, but don’t ever touch

And all is yours for the asking, my child

But love is a little too much

untitled

In my dedication to lifting you higher,

I am willing to hold you down,

Until you drop all the words of the liar

And your senses come back around

If you think, you will easily recall…

In fairness, I told you from day one

That of you, I would have all

Or else I would settle for none

In blindness I will take your beauty

In deafness, accept your word

When you give completely, as is your duty

Only then will it be seen and heard

Seeds have been planted in soil, indeed

Despite resistance, they will take root

I will wait for the pruning of the weed

The removal of what does not suit

Once the grapes spring from the vine

In the garden you will find me

Taking the sweet fruit that is mine

As it ever was supposed to be

Magus

(Kevin Trent Boswell)

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Tiger

On the riverbanks of India

The men wade among crocodiles

For fish

In the jungles of Indonesia

The men walk among tigers

For wood

In the backs of our western minds

Among the terror files

We wish

These monsters

Would disappear

For good

Oh, to be alive and in Indonesia

By Kevin Trent Boswell (Magus)

Magus & The Plastic Infinity

Conjure Work

Conjure Sound

Antiverse

birthday basket

On my birthday, June 21, 2018

For all of you

—

glow bright,

torch flame ball

squeezes

through the cracks

in the wall

of the circled garden,

zapping flowers and faces

with light and warmth

illuminating orb climbs atop

the back of a crab carriage

and takes up its reigns

ten miles down the trail

then ten more and

a final ten days, still

of all the gifts

possible to call satisfying,

none is more so

than having a handful of faces

you know and welcome

into your eyes

arms about you,

a band of those who can be counted as your people

and you

as one of their own

in this, my mem-heh day,

I dig into my pockets

and find only useless

bits of nothing,

ridiculous things like gold

and documents of ownership,

certificates of overpriced

possessions,

keys to things,

things that are kept

locked away

for fear of their loss…

I instead grab for paper and pen and offer you instead,

something truly useful

a small scrap of peace

like the Christ split the

loaves and fishes,

I will break this bread of joy

with all of you,

we will divide it between us

until there is no more left

with each disappearing morsel,

may you, like Osiris,

be reconstructed,

made whole

enjoy your slice of cake

it was never mine, anyway;

nothing ever was

the things I called my own

were spells, illusions,

glamours and self-deceptions

the only thing real is that

which I give to you

may it sustain your hearts

through lonely periods

may it entertain you

during dullness

may it prevent you

from doing stupid things

when you are angry

or afraid

may it protect you

from the attacks of others,

may it protect you

from the awful attacks

that you launch

upon yourself

may it make you laugh

when you’re down

and seemingly out

may it be a cornerstone for you,

as you succeed

and build your new palaces

in the sun

take this and share

like a plant cutting,

spread it

like wildfire,

let it swallow the whole

branding genuine smiles

on the faces of all you people,

you children

of birth and growth,

decline and

the final surrender to sleep

let this stupid,

silly smile disease

infect you,

let the epidemic of laughter

sweep

over the land

taking you utterly

and joyfully

by surprise

By Kevin Trent “Magus” Boswell

ConjureWork.com

KevinTrentBoswell.com

ConjureSound.com

ThePlasticInfinity.com

Nothing Gained

Two or three enemies conspiring in unison,

However petty or untrue their cause

Can turn an army of friends against you,

As if it never was

A couple of soured enemies,

In coveting something you possessed

Banded together for your ruin

But never settled their own unrest

Child A, when refused a toy

That clearly belonged to Child B

Child A smashed it, in a rage, and turned

His eye to the toys of Child C

As many toys as he can jealously take

Each stolen, broken or thrown

Each proves only how sad he is

For never having toys of his own

—

By Kevin Trent “Magus” Boswell

ConjureWork.com

ConjureSound.com

ThePlasticInfinity.com

paranoiaquatic

Bait fish…

bait fish

quick, nervous movements

where to turn?

swim w/ the school,

swim by the rule

swim for yourself,

swim alone

catch 22

still the sponge lung,

pumps an essential fear

evolutionary prerequisites

there in the shallows

the predator swallows

“thanks to our selfless brothers

in the sacrificial, outer circle”

For more, see…

for music:

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and for more poetry:

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oh, little dog of pity

oh, little dog of pity,

i have been of once as thee

cast aside, as tied to a tree

i frown on you not in spite,

nor in mercy, for to

set you free would be right

but i will not unbind you and you will not run,

even if i did, you are too dumb

you would but pant and froth and bounce

and for your master, trot patiently about

for she who scooped you up as a puppy,

only a tiny puff of cuteness fluffy

i know too well of your dilemma

i know of it, yes… am forced to remember

how it happened that once i was cute…

yet somehow, i no longer fit the suit

of childhood’s clothing and abandoned toys;

outgrew the mold of being a boy

as favored youth slips away from thee

you, no fault of your own, lose your novelty

i have been where you were, in her bed at night

i have been where you are now, seen as a plight

i have felt sweet caresses on christmas morn

i have slept in hunger amongst bristles and thorns

i too, was once fed by her hands

i too, lost my charm, upon becoming a man

a friend told me once, in a moment of truth,

that the larger things instinctively protect the youth

but small things grow up, as they always must

and fear compels them to crush them to dust

painfully, these things i have come to understand

it is not by criminality that i have become a man

but instead, it is my fortune and honor indeed

for now, of her milk, i have no need

but you, i will pity forever after

for you do not realize the cruelty of your master

and so, if i loosed you and set you free,

you would only wait for your master, beside the tree

you have grown in your body but not in your head;

you will not run away, though you will not be fed

or given water, or love, or be cared for again

as this is the way of grown dogs and men

By Magus

Kevin Trent Boswell

* Author’s note: The poem is not an actual account of animal abuse but rather a metaphor about toxic relationships. The dog in the picture is Stacie and she’s spoiled rotten, so don’t feel bad for her 😉

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