creak of old hinges, original, hardwood flooring clanging of ancient, iron pipes
scraping, scratching from behind the walls, below the floors and from the attic, above
things too small to see things that can’t be seen, at all things that receive no mail, no visitors things that aren’t supposed to be here or anywhere else
quick, bright flashes memory’s dim lenses flecked with dust and specters
once, a place of mirth and much company echoes of laughter, music and children, floating through every hallway
scents of pot roast, potatoes and carrots, cigars, perfumes, liquors, fruit tree logs crackling in the fireplace, roses, thyme, basil, rosemary and lavender from the garden, drifting in through the open windows, freshly baked pies and cookies all washing over the senses of friends and neighbors
finely crafted furniture of oak and leather, where once they sat, sipping teas and sewing, nursing babies, reading the newspapers, scratching the chins of kittens and puppies, holding hands, kissing in the happy hours, consoling each other, after some loss
all of it now covered over by tarps draped with sheets and drop cloths consumed by the dry rot of time or dampness, the mildew and stale, trapped air which slowly made their way in
these too, desired to stay here, forever to find a home, within these walls
anymore, only whispers float through these rooms
no one has lived here for many years
the kitchen, bedrooms, parlor all bare and sullen the pantries stocked only with cobwebs of memory
this house was the home of more than a few hearts a place of comfort and rest for a great many souls
From the black book of awful, horrible, despicable things, Out On The Killing Floor.
Warning: Take only as prescribed. Keep out of reach from children, pets, pregnant women and anyone who still has any hope for the future. May cause sleeplessness, fatigue, depression, anxiety, suicidal thoughts or visions of impending doom. Some readers may experience weight… not weight gain, just a heavy weight of existential dread. User assumes all risk and releases the author from any and all legal recourse. This book is not approved by the FDA or anyone else who enjoys being happy. May be illegal in your area.
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Magus72 on Patreon music, poetry and other, assorted types of madness
“Blood In The Glass” – An original song by Trent Boswell. All guitar, bass and vocal parts, plus the recording and mixing of the song are by Trent Boswell. This is from the album Something in the Air.
Blood in the Glass from the album Something in the Air
Lyrics
You’d only call it a disaster If you were trying extra hard to be nice But all the niceties were crushed up for the mix drinks Because the party was all out of ice
Hush, little baby.. don’t you bitch, now We’ve laid waste to all your pesky fears Just listen to the soft voice of certain death How it whispers such sweet things in your ears
I woke this morning to the sweet sounds Of everything falling apart I can’t find the glue, anywhere I look And I know better than to look in my heart
Doom arrived late night at the soirée As I passed by, I kicked it in the clutch I wasn’t mad at all about what it planned to do Only that a few, it wouldn’t touch
Gentleman and ladies all line up now To stab the eyes, each one has a go Don’t waste your breath, explaining to them how They only blind themselves… they already know
Don’t stop the show, it’s all too much fun Admission price is all the useful parts We sold it all off, dirt cheap, no reservations And long ago, we emptied out our hearts
I remember sunny days and bird songs But all these things are swiftly brushed aside For the sounds of ourselves, the images of others Both from which, we vainly seek to hide
I found a thousand beautiful reasons Then, was told I needed one thousand and one Things like joy, a heart full of kindness, A chameleon face and a gun
Blood in the glass, broken glass on the ground Broken glass and blood on the blade Note the irony with a wry, little smile It’s the finest contribution that I’ve made Watch the smoke rising, a sigh of contentment The finest contribution that I’ve made
It’s getting much harder to keep it all down Throwing it away might be smart When all of it is burned, black, full of poison Most especially in the heart
I woke this morning to the sweet sounds Of everything falling apart I can’t find the glue, anywhere I look And I know better than to look in the heart
We all know there’s nothing There to find, in our hearts
Grief possesses no blueprints There is no schematic For how to remember Or to forget
While walking the gray path of All the scattered leaves and ash Of what was
There is no rhythm To which you might match your steps
No beat To keep time
There is only the labored, Slouching forward, Whenever one’s strength allows; Coming and going as it does, In sloppy, uneven, hot flashes
There is no wrong way to lament
There is no proper sequence For when to laugh, To cry or to sleep
There is no cutout pattern For your sack cloth
No clock chimes, Letting you know that it is now time To rend your garments, To rub dirt in your hair
Anyway, time itself is mourning, Right alongside you
Put your ear to the clock, Listen closely… You will hear it quietly sobbing
But time is only an illusion And being an illusion, It can only mean that…
Time… Is nothing more Than you
So, like you, time is Absolutely beside itself with sadness
All formalities have fallen by the wayside
It flops, impotently, like a fish One that miscalculated its angle, On the jump for a mosquito; It has now managed to strand itself, On a parcel of ground
No idea which way it should Violently spasm, That it might get back Into the good, wet stuff
Time grieves with you, Throttling too quickly In this
Grinding clumsily along In that
Fortunately, Since time is nothing… Nothing more than you… It is always the Perfect time to do Whatsoever your Stunned spirit Feels like doing
Sleep Or do not
Eat Or wait for a while
Wail Or be silent
Work Or linger in lethargic stupor
Laugh Or find joy in nothing
Do whatever is best Or worst
And the rest will wait
There is no hurry
For, in the end, There is nothing That we can do For the dead
Here’s a Pink Floyd cover I did. This is the song “Childhood’s End” and it’s from their album, Obscured By Clouds.
Trent Boswell – vocals, guitar, bass
Lyrics:
You shout in your sleep Perhaps the price was just too steep Is your conscience at rest If once put to the test? You awake with a start To just the beating of your heart Just one man beneath the sky Just two ears, just two eyes
You set sail across the sea Of long past thoughts and memories Childhood’s end, your fantasies Merge with harsh realities And then as the sail is hoist You find your eyes are growing moist All the fears never voiced Say you have to make the final choice
Who are you and who am I To say we know the reason why? Some are born; some men die Beneath one infinite sky There’ll be war, there’ll be peace But everything one day will cease All the iron turned to rust All the proud men turned to dust And so all things, time will mend So the song will end
Words and original music written by Pink Floyd. I’m covering the song but I’m not charging anything for it, because seriously… who can afford Pink Floyd royalties?!
But you can support the creation of more music, poetry and madness by Trent Boswell, at:
Many thanks to the following, for the images in the video. You may or may not like the music but if you like the video, the credit for that is all theirs.
Kevin Trent Boswell 