death – Page 2 – Kevin Trent Boswell

dead, bloated cow

and that sickly, ugly war
raged through the streets,
unhinged and unhappy,
all too costly and unaware
of the damage it deals

it blisters the skin and boils the blood,
ripping down foundations,
blasting apart buildings,
making vehicles cease to exist,
filling the air with a foul stench
of fear and anger

its reward? only carnage
and arrogant blustering,
nothing of validity or consequence;
nothing positive or loving or logical

only the bellowing roar of endless warring

a hotdog cart burning in the road,
and fat, half-dead cow by the river,
making horrible noises of pain,
as it hopelessly calls out for attention

and to think, how everything
could have been peaceful, happy, and quiet

but some will always find it absolutely
unacceptable to have anything other than
their way

Eighty Percent

Eighty percent of all suicides
Are committed by men
In case you weren’t listening,
I’ll say it again

Eighty percent of those who opted
Out of the plan of painful static
Were men, and I seriously doubt
That each one was a drunk or an addict

Labels help us dismiss the men
Who consciously choose not to live;
Toxic Masculinity, effeminate, weak;
Waved off as Liberal or Conservative

We’re expected to behave
As if we’re made of steel
But that’s fairy tale bullshit,
And it’s so far from real

Real men lose hope,
And they check out every day
They’re White, and they’re Black,
They’re straight, and they’re gay

They’re Latinos and Asians,
They’re Christians and Jews
College boys and farmers,
Overcome by the blues

And there was nobody there
Who knew what to say,
Who could (or would) help them
Make the pain go away

We choke on barrels or ropes,
Or we slit our wrists,
You call us narcissists, deadbeats,
And misogynists

If you say “All these men needed
“Was to have faith in God,”
Then your thinking is ignorant,
And dangerously flawed

Our bodies, ruined by painful,
Dangerous hard work,
But a broke or broken man
Is treated like a jerk

Women say, “Open up to me,
“Because I can help you grieve”
But when men share, women scare;
They get turned off and leave

A man carries on in silence for years,
Pain hidden by a noble stealth
But it rarely looks like the typical case
Of depression or poor mental health

More often than not, it’s a mystery
People scratch their heads and wonder,
“But he was so strong, I never knew.
I can’t believe he went under”

When a man can’t provide for his own,
No matter how he labors or tries,
Stumbling beneath an impossible weight,
He collapses from guilt, and he dies

The system dooms most men at birth,
Before we even get a chance to start
It favors the women who hurt us, and lie,
And rip our families apart

But the system wasn’t entirely built
By rich men, on the backs of the poor
There were also many greedy wives
Who yearned for more and more

Anyone who says women don’t lie
Or make up false allegations
Must have been hiding under a rock,
Not living in real situations

Of child support paternity tests,
30% are not the child’s real father
70% of divorces are initiated by women
So, why should a man even bother?

Many modern women think it’s cute,
Clever, and somehow funny,
To tear a man down by cheating on him,
Or using him for money

They say, “Men do it all the time!
“So, turnabout is fair play!”
But it’s not even close to being true
To say most men act that way

The word patriarchy is dropped
About a thousand times an hour
But most males have never known
Real money or true power

We’re told that “all men,” are abusers,
And how a bear could be escaped
But most men have never killed anyone,
Nor beaten a woman, or raped

Eighty percent of the suicide stats,
Men, in pain, and masking
But hey, everybody, we’re all fine,
So, thanks for never asking

Lean on me, brother, if you need to
You’re allowed to hurt and to cry
Soldiers should get furlough and rest,
But you don’t have permission to die

CDC suicide statistics by gender — From the CDC

unspeakable things

I may need someone to
bail me out of jail one day

a few rude words?
I ignore that nonsense

rise above that garbage
pseudo-alpha peacocking

I’ll laugh it off, or stare at you, blankly

but don’t put your hands on me or mine

I don’t know you, so I’ll assume
that you intend serious harm,
and that you’re capable of it

which means I won’t “phone it in”
or give unnecessary warnings

I’ll just break you, snap you in half
like a fresh string bean

I’m capable of far worse things than you,
on your best day, and my worst

I didn’t choose golf or video games
I chose martial arts, guns, and black magic

you are merely uncouth, and ill-tempered

I am polite, well-mannered, patient,
observant, and unapologetically evil

evil to the core

standard operating procedure

standard operating procedure
or the abbreviation S.O.P. for short

throw it out the fucking window,
as far as any attempt to navigate
the world, as it is, right now, today

nothing works the way it used to
and none of the old rules apply

reliability is no longer a feature
most people treat each other as sport

the only thing you can really know
is that for us, it’s probably too late
but there’s no one who can definitely say

it’s no longer just about what you do
it’s not only a matter of how hard you try

it’s easy to find a lovely creature
the attractive-on-the-outside sort

but when the inside parts begin to show
you might turn off or begin to hate
and lose your previous desire to play

if their nature is less-than-true
if they’re the type that’s prone to lie

you don’t need a guru or preacher
nor a bunker, a base, or a blanket fort

only a love to make your heart glow,
to change your mind about your fate
and honest, kind words to say

you need “do unto others, as to you”
and together, you can happily die

undefeated champion

From the book in the current by Kevin Trent Boswell, available on Amazon

waiting at the helm of a great warship
called Spectacle
is the captain

a brave man
become myth

he whose eyes
have seen men perish
in campaigns
not yet born
or even conceived

whose castle walls have not folded
and have not been compromised

whose war dogs bear teeth
that are, themselves,
the very latticework of hell,
the stalagmites in Plato’s cave

his minions know the spiced morsels
of victory
his fruit is purpose;
his seed,
vision

no perverse enigma
flails itself against him
defeat claws at his ankles
but it has no firm grasp
laughing, he shakes off
such ridiculous pests

with a gargantuan arm,
he wields a bastard sword
and lops off the heads of cowardice
impaling indecision
rendering the obtuse
asunder

nonchalantly cuts the throats ⠀
of his desires
with the spur of his boot
and serves them
to his children

this is our hero,
the protagonist who waltzes in,
commanding that fear bow down
and obey him

all the flies of apathy scatter
the vermin of status quo fascism
gnawing off their tails,
choking on the bribes they accepted

some keel over from fright
and others die straight out
from shame when they see
him coming

strutting on the pathway
made from the hides
of indolent fools
he comes
to conquer

in the current by Kevin Trent Boswell — Available on Amazon

Half

No point in trying, we see the impossible
Eighty percent are chopped in two
Everything we ever did was all wrong
Nothing that we were taught was true

It’s no use to refine or reach out
Nothing is left in the bin to sort
We can’t be two halves of a whole
The ball is always dragged into court

Years of digging, chasing the veins
To find the heart, a center, a core
But emptiness only weaves and bobs
Ducks out and fucks off to explore

Half of us cut in half by the clock
Cold butcher knife calendar cleave
Constantly screaming we’re wrong
We load, we chamber, and leave

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