dark – Page 5 – Kevin Trent Boswell

Cut It Out

Cut it out of the sternum
And place it on the altar

I no longer want it,
This bitter heart
In my mouth

A locked chest full of feathers,
Little lockets and silvery trinkets,
Walking sticks and reeds of bamboo,
Straps of leather and heavy chains,
Strange wires and clockworks,
Flowers of unusual, grand, noble gestures,
The teeth of pirates, the entrails of kings,
And the bones of beached sharks,
Now too frail to feed

The carpet needed
A little splash
Of red, anyway

You know, just a little something extra
To accent the curtains

The dusk and the music box
Both wait in the corner
To spit fire and agony
Into the flesh of the evening

Surrender to the waves

The waves were always wiser

They always kept moving,
Never weighing themselves down

Fight off all of those
Ridiculous impulses,
Provocateur pushes
To the edge of another,
Another one of those nothings,
Exactly like all the ones
That come night after night

Resist the pulse,
The catalyst incentives
To do yet more stupid things,
Stupid things like breathing

Sew this dumb mouth shut
With a spool of black thread
Stolen from the undertaker’s
Trench coat pocket

Do it before all of those sounds
Escape

All those sweet, garbled mysteries
That fell into it while I was drunk
On her flesh

And still foolish enough
To believe I was alive

Capture them in stitches
With the Devil’s dried-up veins
And a needle of blackthorn

Line the casket with
Old newspapers

And line the birdcage
With red silk

Pour me a bowl of stone gravel
And a ladleful of sour milk

Plug my ears with wax,
While they are still full
Of her laughter

The ancient cathedral
Has more than enough novenas,
And indeed, the blind priest,
He will not miss just one

Pull out these bloody eyes
With spoons made for ice cream

And press them both tightly
Between the pages
Of an old book of secrets

Here, they’ll be safe,
And spared the pain
Of seeing

Stuff the eye sockets full
Of meaningless words

Wrap it all up, and
Place it all in a box
A box made of yew,
And cedar and cypress

Then, nail it shut with
Rail spikes of iron,
Hammer them in tightly
With the skull of a ram

Stretch it over completely
With the skin of my body
Pull it good and tight,
As taught as the head
Of a plaintive dirge drum

Place the whole lot of it
In the hole and cover it over
With a shovelful of mourning
And a fistful of yesterdays

They’re far superior to these
Rubrics of today’s fabrications and
Tomorrow’s rumors of
Trial-and-error pleasures

But sing to it softly,
As you cover it with fresh earth,
So it will feel less alone
As it communes in silence
With all the roots and rocks beneath

The gris-gris is not sealed
Until you etch the proper glyphs
Into the tablet of lead, and you
Speak the words over it, and then
Place it in the ground

But miss nothing about this,
It is not buried treasure
Make no maps, no monuments,
No markings on the calendar

It is only a sarcophagus,
The coffin of a scorpion
Who dreamed itself once
A bright pharaoh of the valley
But awoke screaming in the night
To the songs of its madness
And it crawled into itself
And there, ever, it remained

Listen now to the kettle,
How it raves and howls,
How it steals hot kisses
From the streetlights below,
And thumbs its raised nose
At wandering ghouls

There will be no snow this winter,
Only weeping glaciers

And the sea will be taking
Its out-of-time cues
From the heartless sun
Who is thankful for itself

The ferryman waits for me,
On the bank of the morning

His oar is readied
And impatiently thumping

It is time to go

But You Can’t Say It

Sometimes, you know the real reason,
But you still can’t be the one to say it
You know well why they did the thing,
But it doesn’t matter, doesn’t matter at all

It must come from within, in its season
On some level, they know but won’t admit
The canary’s mouth closed; it will not sing
And Van Gogh’s ear refuses the call

By themselves, they’ll have to figure it out
No matter how obvious it may be to you
If you spell it all out, simple and plain
They’ll only reject it as a selfish ploy

Some fall deep into the well of doubt,
Won’t do what the heart most wants to do
They’ll forge on ahead, no matter the pain
Things that love, and are loved, destroy

Avert the eyes of the face in the mirror,
Admitting mistakes, the need to change,
They’ll rake themselves over hot coals
To keep everyone happy, all but the self

Unless it cuts deep, so they feel it clearer
Regardless of how unnecessarily strange
They’ll stick to expired, worn-out goals
Try not to look at the dreams on the shelf

You want so badly to explain it in detail
You know their truth even better than they
If they’d only admit it, they’d be satisfied
You want to scream, draw them a diagram

If you say it for them, your intentions fail
Suspicious of the things you do and say
Fear, manipulations; you must have lied
Some play the willing sacrificial lamb

It’s easier to suffer in miserable silence
Than admit what it is they want the most
Swallow feelings, cause no one displeasure
Love is expensive; it’s cheaper to scream

And their beautiful vision dies in violence
While they suffer daily as drudgery’s host
Twist in boredom’s unhappy full measure
Hold the anchor and let go of the dream

Stare

I’d thought I’d seen
A kindness in her eyes

Upon reflection,
It was never there

I had projected love onto her,
Through my arduous staring;
It was not love she felt, but mirth

The kind of infantile glee
That a child feels upon
Breaking another child’s toy

The hateful smile born of one
Incapable of caring
For anyone or anything

There is a type of impish delight
That a recidivistic child will not surrender,
Even upon the pain of death

A wanton emotional sadism
Is the closest thing
That a void can ever hope to call
Fulfillment

Some spirits are only vacant motel rooms,
Unable to accept any guests,
Because they are filled to capacity
With fear

Staring incredulously at
Love’s credit card, and
Insisting upon fifth and sixth
Forms of identification

The only entertainment they enjoy
Is the sneering, bitter amusement
Of watching others
Fall upon their swords

For a vampire,
Every calorie is an empty calorie

Every kill is
Nothing but a sour reminder
Of the eternal need
For more killing

The music and poetry of Kevin Trent Boswell

Throat

I only want for you
To feel the warm waters wash over you
To drop down deep
into the well of experience

There’s no need to touch the depths;
It’s only down there
For those who truly desire the taste

Will you drink of the fountain,
Before you feel the insatiable thirst?

I don’t know when
The need will come

Or how you’ll work in
The solution,
But you can,
If you really want to,
Ride the whole wave down

Right down to the bottom,
Where the most
Pleasurable monster
Is waiting
To slurp your entire being
Right down its
Hungry throat

You may find it easier
To surrender to the creature
And its complete
Consumption of you
Than you had previously
Imagined

storage space

it does not require
very much square footage
to store melancholy

it fits neatly
inside of an eye

discouragement will
fit perfectly
in the bottom
of one shoe,
ennui in the other,

and you’ll still have
wiggle room
for your toes,

as you walk around
no place special,
all by yourself

loneliness doesn’t
take up much space

it fits easily
into a single
empty hand

Foregone Inconclusive Executioner

Not the brightest of men,
I have walked into walls,
Chasing pleasant illusions,
Elusive pleasures

But even I,
Tiny bean brain that I may be,
Have enough sense
To stand back from the flames,
To stay clear of fires that
Rage beyond my control

Red, blustery, passionate,
These rueful waves of the sun
Crackle against the marbled rings
Of Kronos’ cold steel slave rings

The hard master yields nothing easily

I can summon enough sense
To feed myself when my bones
Become brittle with hunger

But I cannot make a meal
Out of the dust and dry reeds
Of another’s feverish pangs

There is no sustenance in another’s
Temporary fits of dissatisfied craving,
The ghoulish haunting caused by
Dwelling in the discontent of
A desiccated shell, which they are
Reluctant to abandon

When war swings its broadsword
At the throat of its enemy with full vigor

And the enemy,
Equally skilled in the art of slaughter,
Parries with a great sword
In just the knick of time,
At a perfect right angle,
There will inevitably come
A clanging sound most awful

Sparks will pour off steel weaponry
Sweat and cruel words will fly,
And the thirst of demons is slaked
With someone’s blood

The only question is, “Who’s blood?”

The answer is always the name of
Someone stupid enough
To stand too close to the fray

Such a someone does not
Keep their name very long

The surgical procedures
Of iron, hatred, and discontent
Removes the name like a tumor,
Placing it in a small wooden box and
Burying it in the yard, like a dead bird,
A former family pet who
Gave up the ghost

Except, that the bird was well-loved, and
Grieved for after its passing

The name of the fool who stands
Between plumes of martial fire
And the incontinence of the unhappy
Is quite unceremoniously
Peeled from the imbecile’s face and
Dropped in a shallow grave
With all the careful consideration
A person observes when tossing
A banana peel into the garbage

A miserly liver of life,
Who cherishes comfort above all else,
Will angrily slit the throat
Of one who offers them a cup of wine,
When the skinflint is busy
Swearing to the deliciousness
Of the sand in their parched throat

A plate of fresh fruit and venison
Is smacked hastily from the hand,
When offered to the prisoner
Who enthusiastically requests
A second helping of gravel and worms

No, it is far wiser to step back

Stay clear of one who is firmly committed
To the cause of consistency,
Merely for convenience’s sake

Let the dice, lightning bolts, and swords
Fall where they may;
So long as it is not upon your neck