This Is A Suicide Note

This Is A Suicide Note

This Is A Suicide Note – spoken word poetry, from my book, Dark Matter; Poems of Horror and Depravity.

With Halloween on the way, doing pieces from Dark Matter just makes sense.


This Is A Suicide Note

This is a suicide note.

If the time ever comes that I decide to off myself,
I am almost certain that it will be
On a very bad day.

I will most likely not be in any mood
To be jotting down correspondences.

So, ever vigilant boy scout that I am
(Or was),
I have prepared one in advance.

So, here goes:

I suppose it’s just fine, being alive and all.
Just the same, I have grown tired of it and so,
I leave it to you. ALL of it.

Take it.

This is my last will and testament.

There. Now, everyone can get back to
whatever it is that they were doing.


©2021 Kevin Trent Boswell

Dark Matter – Poems of Horror and Depravity. Available on Amazon.

Dark Matter  - Poems of Horror and Depravity, by Kevin Trent Boswell
Dark Matter by Kevin Trent Boswell

Help me make more music, poetry and other kinds of madness, by becoming a patron. Get early access, patrons-only content, music downloads, books, my undying love and backstage passes for the end of the world.

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Special thanks to the following people for contributing video for this project:

cottonbro

RODNAE Productions

Matthias Groeneveld

Karolina Grabowska

Alex Pelsh

No Rules

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

They all wait,
Patiently, quietly…
To be us

And we,
Them


©2021 Kevin Trent Boswell


Photo courtesy of Ekaterina

Support the creation of more poetry, music and madness by Kevin Trent Boswell at Patreon:

Magus72 on Patreon
Magus72 on Patreon

parody

in the sixties and seventies,
everyone went over the top

musicians wore outlandish costumes
and behaved as if they were invincible

sometimes, they believed it

but mostly, it was because they had
seen through the facade of the system

they did lots of psychedelic drugs
which taught them that everything…
and yes, i do mean… everything
is utterly ridiculous

there’s literally nothing you can say,
think, feel, believe, wear or do
that isn’t… just plain silly

rather than take ourselves seriously,
why not revel and delight
in the temporal, inane
shenanigans that are
our lives…

ourselves

these days, everyone is
up their own asses,
again

everyone is busy, twenty-four-seven,
trying to convince everyone else
that they’re the coolest, that they’ve
got it all figured out

“if you’re into disco, you’re not cool,
because disco was silly and they just thought it was cool, before everyone knew better”

or

“if you’re into _______,
then you’re not cool, because ________.”

put whatever you want in there,
classic rock, polka, country, surf music…
whatever

someone is going to be
actually offended
that you like it

“if you’re into that, then you’re not cool,
because that’s not what i’m doing
and i’m pretty much the only one
who’s doing what’s cool.”

it only tells us
how terrified you are
of our opinions
of you

and that’s really
the only thing
that sets you apart as being
truly ridiculous

it’s the
not knowing
that you’re ridiculous

that not knowing
is what makes you comical, farcical

acting cool is cool
but believing you’re cool…
well, that just makes you
kitschy instead of campy

but if you start right out of the gate,
convinced that everything about you
and what you’re doing
is utterly ridiculous,
with the intention of milking that silliness
for everything it’s worth…

then it’s not ridiculous at all,
however ridiculous it is

and it is

for the love of god,
please stop trying to convince us
that you’re cool
and that what other people are doing
isn’t

it only makes you into
a sad caricature,
a parody

you see, we really don’t care
what you do,
as long as you do it
with all of your heart
and soul

put on a ten gallon hat
deck yourself out in wild makeup
wear a smoking jacket
sing out of key… in pig latin
play bongos while tap dancing
do the tango to speed metal
dress in leather and do opera
dress in drag and do gangsta rap
wear a suit and tie while you
sing outlaw country music

just know
beyond any shadow of doubt,
that before,
during
and
after

that you were,
you are and you
always will be

ridiculous

and we’ll absolutely
love you for it


©2021 Kevin Trent Boswell

Support the creation of more ridiculousness by Kevin Trent Boswell, at:

Magus72 on Patreon
Magus72 on Patreon, a very silly place.

patience

patience

there’s an air of it
all about the farm, today

having stepped briefly outside
for the dogs to tend their needs,
between pockets of rain,
buckets of it, steadily dropping,
now halted for a short while;
a temporary ceasefire,
however tenuous

everything damp
the cows,
they look like cardboard cutouts,
propped up in the fields

an air of patience leans in,
whispering to me
“the world will wait for you. it will wait.”

it’s an enticing thought,
though, steeped in bitter lies,
it most certainly is

the world waits for no one

the world gives not a single, used damn for you

not for your upper respiratory infection
not for your needing to heal, before you can
move on and finish up all those projects

the world thinks nothing
of burying your carcass in its garden

you’ll make good fertilizer
for its flowers,
it does care about those;
far, far more than it does about you,
at any rate

lots of useful minerals and nutrients
in a decaying human body;
should produce some prize petunias

but all this relaxed barometric pressure
the gentle, lilting fog,
the peaceful quiet,
the slow, calm meandering
of the dogs
and these fake cows

today, it all conspires

enveloping me
in pleasant, wistful fictions,
treating me as its mushroom,
kept in the dark of convalescence
and fed the manure of untruth

back inside, now
the humidifier is gurgling its gentle truths
i dive into the recesses of its deep end
swimming in the mists of vapor,
hints of rosemary, clove, camphor
and the other, colorful fish
who lurk in its dark ocean

i take leisurely swims
in the splintering, fingering streams
of the internet
and all its watery amusements
it too, tells me
wonderfully entertaining lies,
everything i want to hear
and more

but i know better…
about the world
and the possibility of it
patiently waiting

i know how it will steamroll
right over the slow,
the weak, the poor, the infirm,
the drowning;

those who are drowning in debt,
drowning in heartbreak,
drowning in their own lungs

the world is all too happy
to step on their heads,
with its heavy boots
and its callous lack of caring

it cares not
for your concerns
of convenience

i know of the world,
how it is
how it always
will be

i know of the world

i know that,
at least for now,
i will stay here,
in this little, comfortable blindspot,
a nook, a cranny
which the world has
somehow overlooked,
somehow erroneously
missed

the world
be dammed

if you ask me,
it has gotten
its own way
for far
too long


©2021 Kevin Trent Boswell


Support the creation of more music, poetry and madness from Kevin Trent Boswell, over at:

Magus72 on Patreon

conjunct pluto

This piece is from an upcoming collection of poems, called conjunct neptune. The details of the book are in the link, which is the first poem that I wrote in the series. If you haven’t been through that one, it might be more helpful to read it, first. There, I explain what the theme of the book is.

This piece is about Luna, our Moon, when She reaches the point in the roughly twenty-nine day, lunar cycle that She sits in the same space with Pluto… you know, that thing that wasn’t a Planet and then it was for a while… and then it wasn’t, again.

Pluto is similar in several ways to Saturn. The similarity resides in that both Saturn and Pluto/Hades represent a miserly, curmudgeonly, old and cranky energy. They’re both decidedly masculine in presentation but definitely not in a loving father kind of way. Saturn is said to have eaten his own younguns.

Saturn/Kronos Eating A Delicious Snack

Pluto is the Roman God of Wealth. While not identical in nature to Hades, He is similar enough, in many respects.

He holds dominion over wealth, particularly anything that is obtained from the Earth. Since our whole economy is (or was or ought to be; you decide) based on the trading of gold, silver and thousands of other minerals, that’s arguably a rather huge amount of influence on money.

All that goes into the making of the things we buy and sell and trade, it all comes out of the Earth. Even services use material resources (offices, paper recording keeping and endless cups of coffee). This means that they, too, are part of Pluto’s territory.

The Greek equivalent of Pluto is Hades, who is famous for presiding over the Underworld, as it was laid out in Greek mythology. While Hades is not synonymous with Christian concepts of Satan or the Devil, He was still considered to have a brooding, intense personality. It’s said that He was the least-liked of all the gods and usually called upon only for curses.

One thing is sure enough, when astrologers look to Pluto, when other planets are aspecting that body, the effect is one of intensification. Whatever it is, the force of Pluto is one that assists in creating wealth; many uber-rich folks have a Jupiter/Pluto conjunction in their natal chart. But that same energy acts as a multiplier of other ideas and behaviors, as well. Not all of them are good, by anyone’s yardstick.

Pluto generally gives a dark, rather gruff and grumbly, moody tone, one which is keenly interested in power, information, serious research, the accumulation of large amounts of money and so on. The characters of Scrooge and Dr. Frankenstein both come to mind.

Pluto’s influence is the stuff that spy novels, governmental coups and hostile corporate takeovers are made of. So when the lovely, sweet and nurturing energy of the Moon meets with the Lord of Hell, the mood tends to turn a little dark.

This is compounded by the fact that (among Her sweeter qualities) Luna is also a harbinger of mystery, confusion and sometimes, even madness. These are usually (although by no means, always) in reference to initiations and rites of passage. But sometimes, it’s the plain ol’ garden variety crazies.

When Luna conjoins Pluto, attitudes in general lean toward the more greedy, distrustful and even the downright paranoid.

This is not to say that a person who has Luna conjunct Pluto in their chart would have these terrible (or the more positive) traits. A person has many Planets and aspects between them, each thing acting as a counterweight against the others.

Here’s a neat list of famous peeps who have this aspect. They’re a wide mix of personality types, though it’s safe to say that most of them lean toward the intense side of things, even when it’s a positive flavor of intensity. So this piece isn’t about bashing anyone who has that aspect (nor is any other piece in the collection).

No, this is about the energy of these two stellar bodies, by themselves, if we were somehow able to isolate them from everything else. We cannot, obviously. In this hypothetical case, the nurturing of the Moon is almost always degraded and polluted by the the obsession that Pluto represents. The wealth multiplication of Pluto is deranged by the comfort-seeking of Luna and results in “I need all of it, so I can feel good.”

If you enjoy the poem, consider supporting more such creative madness and lunar/plutonian madness, by yours truly, over at Patreon/Magus72.

Now, bearing all of these arcane ideas in mind, I give you (or rather, I row you across the river Styx, to the dark, forlorn shores of)…

conjunct pluto

what fresh hell
is this?

of what use,
is your clever array
of pointless words?

when all, soon enough,
becomes kindling
for the black flames
of unforgiving abyss?

sour not, my tired ear,
you tiny, petulant slug

muddle not, what little respite
is left, of sweet, peaceful silence
with all your futile mumblings
of hope and dreams
and other, such
soap opera nonsenses

leave me alone

and keep all your words…
all those pathetic, condemned souls,
standing foolish on the gallows,
as if last words were ever
anything more than
last

ask me no favors

i expect you to lie

for i see into the murky heart
of all your dark, shady schemes
all your plotting and planning
to stab me in the back
once i am not looking

and because of this,
i am always looking

i am always
watching

i never sleep

i have cameras
and listening devices, bugs
planted everywhere
and a legion of spies

because one must take great care,
and use only a measure of the mean,
an average of what intelligence they offer
using only the most plausible bits
of what the bulk of them say

never place all your bets
on the words of any one, particular spy
because you cannot trust spies
nor words, nor people,
nor intelligence

nor anything else,
for that matter;
not that anything matters

the only thing
that you can trust
is that trust
in anything
is, in itself…
untrustworthy

trust only that things will always break
and that they must be repaired
trust only that things will die
and that the burial of these things
is expensive

the undertaker is himself,
always on the take
and hence, i abstain
from the taking on of
anything that has a pulse
because such things are merely
mouths to feed
they are things which get sick
and doctors, too, are expensive
and they are things which
disappoint you, break your heart

but i’m more sensible than all that;
i paid the doctor to remove my heart

most sensible purchase
i ever made, that surgery

hearts and souls and conscience,
these are luxuries that are far too expensive
too many sick days, lost wages
and worries which are not worth
the wear and tear

but the point is…

i’m watching you
because i know
your ways

you and your patiently,
waiting for me to die
or to slip up or fumble,
so that you may
usurp my power

i know of all your clandestine,
assassin’s designs
your machinations
for the taking of all that i have
all that i have worked for
and all that i have stolen
all that i have swindled away
from the trusting
all that i have, only because
i possessed the backbone,
the fortitude,
to slay the meek
to take what was theirs
and make it my own

in short…
i know
you

because i see
the bitter truth of things,
how all are self-concerned,
consumed with self
and nothing, nor anyone else

therefore, i keep to myself
and i keep everything for myself
i retain all that is,
as my own

since when did anyone
ever do anything
for me?

you must take by force and by fakery
by clever graft and by hard work
and by brute force and by the bloody blade
and you must never give anything away,
not ever, not to anyone
and never sell anything
that you may need, later
and never keep anything that you can sell
and never sell anything too cheaply
but never hold onto anything that is cheap
and will depreciate in value, over time
but never spend too much on anything

you understand?

you must be wily and wise
and clever and most of all,
ruthless and cunning

for all
that there is,
in this barren world,
is the having of things
and the having, not of things

there is the taking
and the being took
and nothing else

and they’ll all try to take
everything that you took
from someone else

they’ll try to take it
for themselves
in a heartbeat,
leaving you with
nothing but
an empty basket
of space,
where things used to be

except that there will be
no basket,
because they’ll have
taken that, too

and so,
mark my words,
you dying insect…

not that words
were ever anything
worth marking down,
unless they were
the words on the deeds
to land and bank accounts…

you mark my words…

you’d better take
and take quickly
or else be
took from

and you’ll be left
not a solitary crumb,
not a single morsel,
to put into the
greedy, little mouths
of all your expensive,
insect offspring

now, off
and away with you

i’ve no time
for you

i’m terribly busy,
watching everything
that was or is
or ever will be

watching it all burn
and crumble
into ash
and blow away,
into oblivion

© 2021 Kevin Trent Boswell


Latest Book Release

remission, poetry by Kevin Trent Boswell
remission, by Kevin Trent Boswell

remission


Other Titles Available

Dark Matter

on the page

Liber Ex Liberi

Chaos Comes Apart

in the current

Next

The Poetry of Kevin Trent Boswell
The Poetry of Kevin Trent Boswell

The Poetry of Kevin Trent Boswell

More Information

KevinTrentBoswell.com

YouTube

Magus & The Plastic Infinity

the music album, Flagship

Music Streaming, Amazon 

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Music Streaming, Spotify

SoundCloud

No More

Author’s Note: This piece is brand new. This piece is ancient. It speaks of things which happen daily. It shares memories of the long, long ago. It is deeply rooted in yesterday. It is severed from everything except tomorrow.


No More

No more crawling, borrowed knees
To beg or steal a parched penance
Privilege of chewing
Tiny, tinfoil excuses

Receipts, all signed
Cuneiform zero
There, in the register
Where it speaks of the balance
Which is long overdue
A large and loud emptiness

The slaying of pragmatism
And the prodigal son
The wisest of investments
Healthy, constant dividends
Since there are no returns

Assets freely traded
On the scales in the marketplace
Sacrifices, invisible, smoking
On strange altars of doubt

Multiplication of manna eaten in secret
Loaves baked, foreign recipes
Nets tossed into distant waters
Plucking up fishes, filling the nets
Pouring floods out of the wide mouth
Fleeing the estate, belly of greater fish
Absconding from duty
Tariffs of masticating consummation

Cutting off the heads of what was,
Peeling away, shedding foul-smelling skin,
Pulling off all those silvery flakes of armor
Toss carcasses in frying pan,
Serve with herbs grown in new earth
Feast, fructifying small kingdom
And a table for one

No more buried talents
All now upon display
A day of rest is earned
In the refusing of yesterday’s complacency
Tossing out its tired labors

Cutting down the vines
Which brought decades of wine
Wine that choked those throats which drank
In the seeking of blindness
Attempting to drown out
All hearing of familiar, droning complaints

A fatted calf not missed,
From the cool, shaded hammock
That swings peacefully in a calm, quiet
Where the only shadow cast
Is that of the grand, old oak tree
Whose face is always welcome
Who speaks only and ever
Kindly of its kin
Or not at all

Wait now, at the oasis,
For the promised bride’s coming
Who brings the cool water from the well,
For a desert weary camel

All is soon to be right,
For the steadfast resistance
Against worldly temptations

Sovereignty steps out
Dropping the broken, black irons
Of miserable bondage
Lead, flowing through the river veins
Of miserly brothers
Cruel rage of bad blood

New, mazel tov celebrations
Of kaphar, divine grace
Selah and hallelujah
In a day of jubilee

The god of forgetfulness,
Is ever gracious and joyful
Drunk on the charms
Of plentiful, good company

Regaled today, by delightful tales,
Told by they who arrive on the morrow
During a banquet, yet to bloom
Banking on its promise
Of them and their warm presence

A toast is drunk daily
To what is seen
Which is nothing
For what is
In the eyes
Most of which
Is good

A steward, in secret
Stealing everything that was sacred
Receives all, in due course
New master’s blessings
Of themselves, a fine reward

And spared a death, daily
The stoning of harsh, marble law
Seven generations
Removed from the sight
And all senses

Tools of old bone
Hand me down worries
Covet, instead, that wild courage
Which rails against the unknown

Naked, cast out
No starved, gulag wages
Demanding the whole
The lion’s share of nary
A single thing

Punished sin of necromancy
Crime of insisting upon the rubric
Of a heritage of heresy
Brooding there, in the long lines
Where impatient fools bicker and stew
Wrestling with the dogs over scraps

A hindsight, an insight
A bird advances, eagerly
Plopping itself into the hand

The exiling of perdition
Raises up its secret children
High above the floods
Where the true blessings of heaven
May kiss them upon their heads
Sealing in immunity against sorrow

That these should never dwell
In that place of woeful wandering
Stone gardens of Golgotha
Where is never and nothingness
Only long, dusky shades
Commiserating with the dead

© 2021 Kevin Trent Boswell

Photo by K. Mitch Hodge


Latest Book Release

remission, poetry by Kevin Trent Boswell
remission, by Kevin Trent Boswell

remission


Other Titles Available

Dark Matter

on the page

Liber Ex Liberi

Chaos Comes Apart

in the current

Next

The Poetry of Kevin Trent Boswell
The Poetry of Kevin Trent Boswell


More Information

KevinTrentBoswell.com

YouTube

Magus & The Plastic Infinity

the music album, Flagship

Music Streaming, Amazon 

Music Streaming, Apple Music 

Music Streaming, Spotify

SoundCloud

Strange Leaf

You might have heard the audio track but the video is an entirely different kind of experience.

Strange Leaf” by Kevin Trent Boswell.

This world has been encoded for your protection. The original poem, “Strange Leaf” is published in the book title, remission, available on Amazon and at Conjure Work.

The audio track for “Strange Leaf” is available as a free download at the Patreon page, Magus72.

While you’re there, look over the benefits and perks that patrons get, exclusive content and lots of other bonuses.

If you enjoyed this video, don’t forget to:

Give it a thumbs up 👍 on YouTube
Subscribe ✅
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© 2021 Kevin Trent Boswell

Beat

That is not dead which can eternal lie
and with strange æons, Death itself may die.

      –H.P. Lovecraft

If you found yourself in Cthulhu’s shopping mall, probably in the swim wear section, you might well hear this, playing over the speaker system.

Zero times hydra, to the power of existence, cubed, over the square root of straight jacket. Solve for Y.


This is “Beat” from my horror collection, Dark Matter – Poems of Horror and Depravity.

Beat – from Dark Matter, Poems of Horror and Depravity

It’s been set to a beat, so that your strange æons might be somehow just a touch more symmetrical in nature.

The .mp3 file is attached, feel free to download it and share with anyone you like. Just click the DOWNLOAD button below, to play the track. Or hold the button down and select your SAVE option.



See it on YouTube:

To continue drinking from this strange well of madness, hit the thumbs up 👍 subscribe ✅ and ring the notifications bell 🔔 and select “all”.


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 heroes
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

Copyright 2021 Kevin Trent Boswell

If you dig this particular brand of madness, you’ll want to support the creation of it and get lots of bonuses that aren’t available here or anywhere else, over on Patreon:

Patreon – Magus72

Latest book release:

remission

Other Titles Available:

Dark Matter

on the page

Liber Ex Liberi

Chaos Comes Apart

in the current

Next

Patreon – Magus72

YouTube

Magus & The Plastic Infinity

the music album, Flagship

Music Streaming, Amazon 

Music Streaming, Apple Music 

Music Streaming, Spotify

SoundCloud

Blind In The Sun

If you like bands like Queens of the Stone Age, Jane’s Addiction, Jimi Hendrix or The Mars Volta, then you’ll probably dig this.

This is a brand new recording of the song that I wrote many years ago but never had a chance to record it until now. I’ve played it live with my band quite a few times but unfortunately, we never caught it on tape.

I’m playing the bass and guitar parts and singing. Everything that you hear on this track is me, except for the drums. That’s because I don’t have access to a live drummer right now. Besides, feeding and caring for a wild animal like that is expensive.

Here’s the full video on YouTube. Don’t forget to hit the thumbs up 👍 subscribe ✅ and the notifications bell 🔔

The song is called blind in the sun and the lyrics are below. Originally, it was a poem and I set it to music (hence the Roman numerals in the lyrics).

The .mp3 file is attached to my Patreon page, so you can go there, download it (for free) and play it whenever you want.

I forget sometimes that people don’t always follow my rather eccentric, artistic choices, so I will explain something about this track. I purposefully chose not to clean up the sloppier guitar licks on this track, because it’s the feel that I was going for… teetering on the edge of the abyss.

Going back and punching in smoother, cleaner guitar parts is easy enough. I just didn’t want ’em, not for this. I’ll mention two songs that inspired my playing on this. One is “God”, by Tori Amos. Her guitar player is way better than he sounds on that track. It’s dirty, gritty and foul, for a reason. The song is about existential angst and the loss of faith, so it’s gotta be grimy.

The other is “Come On (Let The Good Times Roll)” by The Jimi Hendrix Experience. On that song, he does what jazz musicians refer to as “going outside”, meaning that he lets his solos wander just a little bit out of time and out of key, on purpose. Of course, he brings it back in or it wouldn’t be interesting. I chose to step outside on this track but hopefully not too much.

Feel free to share the link to this page or the Patreon page, or the YouTube link on your social media, that’s the best form of advertising there is for underground artists. I thank you in advance. Enjoy!

Just click that big, unwieldy link, below, to listen to the track. Or go to the Patreon page. You can download the song from the Patreon page and have it for your very own. Just don’t forget to water it every few days and never feed it after midnight.

Blind In The Sun

https://c10.patreonusercontent.com/3/eyJhIjoxLCJwIjoxfQ%3D%3D/patreon-media/p/post/45543356/0114204adf4a4bb2b4c492b3e1d80cbd/1.mp3?token-time=1609345733&token-hash=2ZL8WItz55_ogZDHvUN7Am6ticXKPOwsOUgMUTJy7_k%3D

I.

Blind in the Sun⠀
Can you cringe beneath
The shadow of a fly?
You’d better try
Running ‘cross the sand
Fire in the hearts of your band
In the joy of being alive
Stripped of delusion
And so forwardly stride

Lost in the garden
with canonized illusions
There are the keepers
Of the tower
But I am not a member
Of the dark December
The light of the sun refracts
In my eye

II.

Everything is water
Electric fluid matter
In a paper cup
Called Time

III.

Somewhere in the North
There are real vampires
I know you go to visit
From time to time
To roll in the stench
The decadence of
Thirst for blood
To dine with a pack
Of wild gods

I have no intent
Of adopting your bent;
Partying down with the devil
On your shoulder

I have no intent
Of going where you went
Beating on a skull
In a hellish midnight circle

But who am I to say?
That you are not ok?
I will simply stay
Behind

Copyright 2020 Kevin Trent Boswell


Copyright 2020 Kevin Trent Boswell


Latest book release:

remission

remission , by Kevin Trent Boswell
remission

Other Titles Available:

Dark Matter

on the page

Liber Ex Liberi

Chaos Comes Apart

in the current

Next

The Poetry of Kevin Trent Boswell

KevinTrentBoswell.com

YouTube

Magus & The Plastic Infinity

the music album, Flagship

Music Streaming, Amazon 

Music Streaming, Apple Music 

Music Streaming, Spotify

SoundCloudBlind In The Sun.mp3

Strange Leaf

It’s not about just one thing.

You will easily spot some of the references to what’s going on right now and you’ll be tempted to stop thinking about it any deeper. But there’s far more in this than just what’s on the surface. This piece has no less five, separate meanings.

At the link below, you can listen to the recording. It’s an audio track of a poem that I set to music.

It starts very subtly but as it goes on, more and more layers of sound are building up in the background.

When you click the button, it gives you two options. If you just want to listen, click “view”. If you want to keep it, click “download”.

The words are posted below, in case you want to read over it. Feel free to share it with anyone you want.

Enjoy.

Strange Leaf

Turning over the strange leaf

Turning over the strange leaf

This disease is twisted

Scroll of crisp, fleeting knowledge

Closed

Knowledge of fire

Imminent

Throttle the breath

The king demands to be suffocated

In his sleep

Open the store for business

Give away the store

Surrender the kingdom to foreign invaders

Exposing palace guard

To various and sundry diseases

Each lure is enticing

More flies with honey

Otherwise, who would pay

With their histories?

Draw them all in with promises

Dates, compensation

Envelopes of flesh, pay offs

Reward for job well done

Blown secrets

Welcoming the killer

Taking them in hand

Pressing the lips to theirs

The people marvel, asking… how is it?

That one is so keen on this ruin?

Sitting amid the ashes and smoke

Of everything that has been built here?

These modern assassins

With their blades that are not sharp

And somehow, still cut into the chest

Death hides in expensive papers

Slow poisoning

Curses, binding victims

Black operations

Enchantments of vapor

Fog, happy delusions

The superior general is nowhere to be seen

He is conscious

Too clever

Cannot be made

Knows the angles

Lives and breathes the routine

False front

Encryption easy, plaintext works fine

No one puzzles anymore

Steganography is in the obituaries

Citizens are exhausted

Too tired for such crossword puzzles

Going out for a smoke instead

Trade information

In the marketplace

Exfiltration

Bring the defector

Home

Bite down on the dangling bait

Taking it all in

Believing every breath

Of the lies

Hide in plain sight

Got him by the throat

Control every decision

Deep cover

In the king’s pocket

Eight ball, corner pocket

Potentate busy in the honey pot

Playing with the handler’s mice;

Brief pleasures

Foolish pursuits

The intelligence all warned of these things

Plant the propaganda cypher deep

Where invisible moles dig up dirt

Behind enemy lines

Behind the iron curtain

Inside the iron lung

Flimsy robes providing no cover

Leaving your backside naked

Ass hanging in the wind

Summon the executioner

Simple curling of the finger

Roll up the scroll again

Match strike

Set it all off

Breathe in the satisfaction

Knowing operation is in motion

It’s coming soon

Playback is sanitized

Redaction, blot out the salient bits

Stopping up the pipes

Sell the story to the people

Want to play the game

Mutually assured destruction

Broken rhythms, code

Exorbitant bills

Gray sleeper

Uncle should have had the trigger in place

Monitoring the pulse

Cut out

Build up the legend

Elicitation of consent

Keys handed over for favors

Stay on the reservation

Travel in packs

Operative signals

A cough

Smokescreen

Run out to the store

Real quick

Dead drop

Delivery of small packages

Sabotage

Spanner in the works

Monkey mouth

Tinkering with toys

In terminal waiting rooms

Going to see the tailor and then

To see the cobbler

Fitting out the gear

Getting ready for the ball

Cinderella stories

Surreptitious flaps, seal the lips

Ghouls scour the graveyards

Where soon enough, all walk

A stainless steel ride

On the smooth train

Smoke stacks churning

Nonstop trip over the river

The L-Pill is long and round

It feels warm and pleasant as it

Sweeps the room…

Never know where the bugs are hiding

The chessboard is covered

With hundreds of rooks

Provocateurs and their purple ravens

Send in the pretty bird

She who swallows the signets

Conversation starters

Asking if she can bum a ride

No one can resist sharing with her

A most deadly resource

Infiltrating deep inside

Her smile

Lights up in the house

Show time

All sing like canaries

Under her spell

All light up with anticipation

We’d lose it all, were it not for her

Lost inside these dark clouds

Hearing that sultry siren voice

Regularly calling us

Out into the open

Vulnerable

Always comes

Dressed to kill

In something see-through

How excited each one gets

Peeling off those thin, flimsy wrappings

Hurriedly tossing them aside

For the insanely craved

The fumbling, shaky

Handful of minutes that it usually lasts

Carnal knowledge

Taken inside

Surrendering to the temptations

Wiles of the seductress

Little rituals and pats on the bottom for luck

One is literally turned upside down

Her charm is so strong

She deals in illusions,

Mirages, smoke and mirrors

Her stock and tradecraft

She’s good…

She’s very, very good

Never even questioning the matter

Asses feverishly chasing butts

Into oblivion and ash

Nursemaids gather on the back porch

On every coffee break

Swapping nuggets, juice, gossip, stories

Melodies of the official musicians

Open up the secrets of the music box

Sing the song of familiar comfort

Putting tips into the black hat

Saving up ducats to spend at the commissary

The doctor too, is an asset

Take the medicine

Change in the wind

Even dispersion through the system

Everything flows into place

Pouring in waves

Filling the containers

Enemy assets have infiltrated the realm

Moving now in the open

Impunity

Friends begin to distance themselves

Seeing the information come out

Noting how the map keeps rolling up

How it won’t stay in place

No one wants all that mess

Rubbing off on them

Second hand knowledge of good and evil

Disinformation

Civilians

Collateral damage

Innocents… it’s peculiar how they sound

Like innocence, itself

Out of the loop

Not in the know

Once, we too were innocent

Now, so much dirty laundry

So many secrets

Deeds that cannot be undone

We were all so green

Initial brush contact

Obsessed birdwatchers

True converts

Believers

In the cause

Now we maintain silence

Unnoticeable tip of the head

From across the room

Stepping out back for a quick exchange

And back in before anyone is missed

Dropping an innocent postcard

From time to time

Cultivation

Till the rough soil

Turn the flowerbeds over

Spread the chickenfeed

Spread the seed

Burned

Compromised

Smoking gun

A bit of dry cleaning

Removes the odors and stains

Burn the microfilm, papers, documents

Bona fides

Take off your shoes… all of them;

Don’t forget anything

Think hard about where

You might have hidden some

Step onto the scales

Feel the weight

Step away

Take a seat, bow out, tap out

The man in the coat and tie

Will be in to see you soon

Too much heat in the kitchen

Stepping back

Away from the blowback

Maintain cover, deniability

Pockets, littered with hiding

Cooling off in the shade

Double-cross the bridge

A trip to the hospital

Dressed up like a throwaway pig

In a coffin company suit

Book of matches, tucked into the vest pocket

A sequence of numbers inside

Picked up in grandma’s Cadillac

And going to the penthouse

For the all day long

Erase the problem

With assistance from the Dutch

And all of their superior, problem-solving skills

Transfer of power

Exchange

Change, slight

Sleight of hand

A hand in it

Too many hands

Off limits

Safe house

Tall brown grass

Walking sticks

Dead

Drop

Hush, little baby

Never heard a word

Assure the dying

All is well


From the book remission, by Kevin Trent Boswell. Now available on Amazon.

remission , by Kevin Trent Boswell

© 2020 Kevin Trent Boswell

Patreon

Flagship, by Trent Boswell

YouTube

Sound Cloud

Other poetry titles available:

Liber Ex Liberi

Next

on the page – poems for artists, writers and other hooligans

Dark Matter – Poems of Horror and Depravity

Chaos Comes Apart

in the current

“rain” – The Open Mic Series

This series features pieces of my poetry, read by my friends. The first post has more information about it. Check that out, here: none

Here’s the second piece, read by my friend, Dawn Leith-Dougherty. 

This one is called “rain“ and it’s appropriate, because it’s drizzling here, today.

rain_Kevin_Trent_Boswell.mp3

If you would like to read along (or just see the text, for yourself), here’s where this poem was originally posted:

rain


Copyright 2020 Kevin Trent Boswell


Support the work at my Patreon page:

https://www.patreon.com/magus72

I cross-post the public works here. Patrons-only content is available, there.

Patreon

Magus & The Plastic Infinity

Conjure Work

antiverse

blogspot

The Open Mic Series – “none”

Here’s a really neat project that I’m pretty excited about!

I asked some of my friends to make recordings of themselves reading my poems. Quite a few thought it was a great idea and were more than happy to contribute.

The link here is the .mp3 of the first one I’ve chosen to present to you. You can click on it and just listen or right-click and save, if you want to keep it. It’s free!


Recording of “none” by Kevin Trent Boswell


By the way, if you want to help out and support more cool stuff like this, see my Patreon page, Magus72.


I’ll be posting them here, one at a time. I’ve had a lot of fun putting this together and I hope you enjoy listening to them.

The main thing I wanted to achieve here is get a variety of people, reading the pieces… in the way that they hear them.

None of the readers were given any prompts about how to read. A few people preferred to have something assigned to them and so I picked for them. But in most cases, they chose their own pieces to read.

This first poem is called “none” and it’s from my book in the current.

in the current, by  Kevin Trent Boswell

Our guest reader is Xander and he did a great job with it. 


Recording of “none” by Kevin Trent Boswell


I’m posting the text, as well. That way, you can follow along or read it first, then listen or just listen and find out where it takes you… your choice. Enjoy.

none

mandala being nightmare…

nothing being curse…

still we strive for 

something!

she cries 

in her 

elliptical 

orbit

cycle of nothingness 

somethingness

separation 

dance

eros 

chance

death, 

arousal and 

denial

correct, 

of course

the role being 

after all 

seductress

how could one say 

that she was wrong?

how could one argue 

that anything

was ever

wrong?

polarities

cry of response 

no avail

she is 

in heat

hears 

nothing 

of my 

dharma

portions of 

infinity 

etc.

no wrong

only difference

how must one 

proceed in 

seeking

to curse

the void?


Copyright 2020 Kevin Trent Boswell 

from the book, in the current


Support the work at my Patreon page:

https://www.patreon.com/magus72

I cross-post the public works here. Patrons-only content is available, there.

Patreon

Magus & The Plastic Infinity

Conjure Work

antiverse

blogspot

What’s Left

thundering jaws

of ten thousand locusts

precise darts of prejudice,

blood dragons, each

entering with passwords,

polite, unassuming…

a pair of waiting and frail,

glass, lidless eyes

a clamor of messages,

all tattered, forgotten

mentioned in the never

and not even one,

ever put to sweet rest

urgencies, oddly angled

in ambivalent anxiety

inked into the crumpled,

sticky papers that fell

behind tired yesterday,

underneath

that old

shoe

somehow this,

and less so, the twisting

of syllabic, golden emblems

who tumbled readily down,

out of that stiff mouth, stuffed full

with reproachful disgrace;

scrambling as it does,

against the mocking barb

of tinfoil and iron

and just a touch

of freshly picked parsley

a thing branded promise,

the pledge of a feather…

that soft and superfluous

(perhaps a touch prideful)

grace of a king

in evening’s repose,

enjoying the dessert

of golden balcony light

in the smooth, gilded sunset

and that trancelike, wild aura

that it sprinkles on the children,

who play in the courtyard

of royal toys,

down below

the come-hither awareness

of a flittering scent

which lingers on a fickle hint,

of watering breezes

in a dallying, broad summer,

now too late for the dance

soon these specters of brief visitation

become rusty, bent turnstiles,

small, awkward entry points

into the twisted wilderness,

swallowed by the clanging,

stormy, brown cupfuls

of dingy, soiled clouds,

spilling over, full

of their heart’s hateful sickness

and penance, kneeling quietly

at the headstone of dawn

these, and the falling of a 

thousand yellow flakes

of crumbling memory 

waiting there, as prude passers 

of irascible judgements, harsh laws,

resting now more sternly

upon that shredded, old tongue;

the only one that remembers

how its meals were brought forward

on the silver and linen

and lovely, laced smile

determined, stayed flesh

all raked and peeling off,

at the tender, quick bone,

by white, stropped, dream blade

and its curled, new awakening

a thin, crisp snake

in its cool, keen infancy,

all smooth and glittery

and sly, to the touch

flying through the reels

of spring’s old, home movies

and bounding with gusto,

through autumn’s false reckonings

plunging into the downy,

limber, white gristle

that new, tinkling home

where all goes up with excitement

and is carried frenetically

into that ray of loud swiftness;

a focused, clear light

and tiny ringlets of dew,

a moistening of the jowls

of those murderous, howling,

mad beasts of oblivion

gathered early, for supper

at the table of long privilege

and tall, wealthy poise

where several chairs down

is still a praiseworthy elevator

shortened only by a skip

and a contract of devotion

and that signature handshake

which might allow one, if lucky,

to scramble into a hurried,

apathetic bliss

onto the next,

of those stained flights

of narrow steps,

hammered into place

with the gigantic, steel bones

of ruthless, porcelain dolls

archways of ascension

leading the feeble militia

into pathways of plenty

of sweat and spilt blood

and on, to the pined-for illusion

of the every bit

more

© 2020 Kevin Trent Boswell

Titles now available on Amazon

Liber ex Liberi – The Book of Children


Dark Matter

Dark Matter – Poems of Horror and Depravity


in the current


Chaos Comes Apart

Chaos Comes Apart


Next, poetry by Kevin Trent Boswell

Next


Magus72 on Patreon

Conjure Work

YouTube music channel

Conjure Work YouTube channel

SoundCloud

My album, “Flagship”, on CDBaby

Antiverse

Wednesday Night Group

during his therapy session,
while each were sharing,
respectively, what they felt
was their higher purpose in life…
Jerry spoke up

undeterred by his own rudeness
in cutting off a fellow confessor’s
heart-wrenching story
of loss and liquid lament,
mid-sentence

Jerry spouted out,
with a strangely calm resolve,

I think that I was meant to do a lot of cocaine.

it was peculiar that he raised his hand,
since he clearly wasn’t willing to wait even one more second;
he’d started speaking, before his arm had even reached
full extension

there was, after that…
a noticeably uncomfortable
five or so seconds of…
silence

numb jaws,
flushed faces
perplexed looks

Jerry continued

I believe in the perfect perfection of God’s Will.

Nothing has ever occurred
that was not originally
of God’s intent.

Furthermore,

and here, he smiled broadly,
clearly pleased with his own, peculiar, thought process

God is nothing at all
like people have assumed.
God is like a reliable toaster
and He always pops out perfectly toasted bread.

I do a lot of cocaine.
And so I conclude that
I was meant to do a lot of cocaine.
Because, if it wasn’t God’s will,
then God wouldn’t allow it.
God wants me to do a lot of coke.
It’s part of the divine plan.

quite a bit more…
silence

those in attendance checked in,
with the inside of themselves,
that yes, they were indeed awake
and not just dreaming
in their beds

the woman sitting beside Jerry
felt her tongue
growing heavy and thick

the usually quite reliable and familiar-feeling
muscle in her mouth
now plummeting down into new,
strange unfamiliarity,
functioning as little more than a
old, motel carpet with a bad, floral pattern;
lying in the way of her breathing,
collecting fuzz and dirt and hair
from the boots and flip-flops of loud, annoying vacationers
and conventioneers from Indiana, police conferences

one throat cleared…

this sound was a decidedly clear signal, as if the
all-clear flare had just been fired up into the newly interesting air,
signaling to the combat-weary troops that they could,
once again, raise their heads out of the tired trenches

a solitary cigarette ash fell onto a designer shoe knockoff
one, older man shifted angrily in his wobbly chair
and managed to slosh a bit of coffee
on his brand new, polo shirt

several others nervously sipped their own coffees and sodas
while others sat in amazement
and some in a giddy but hushed, chuckling amusement

Tom, the group’s bemused leader arched forward in his chair,
placed his elbows on his knees
with an unusual force,
trying to anchor his anger
and remain diplomatic, despite the outburst against order
and after releasing his clenched jaw,
he somehow allowed himself to say

Thank you for sharing, Jerry.

Anyone else have anything…
anything…
at all?

 

Copyright 2020

Kevin Trent Boswell

From the new book, Next 

Now available, on Amazon 

* Next, cover, tiny

Enthusiasm

 

The Divine Healer works through their hands
Those hands wrapped in latex,
Connecting and disconnecting tubes,
Wires, IVs, pushing gurneys, handing out tools,
Pulling charts close to see through the tears
Holding up those who are no longer able
To stand for themselves
Holding the hands of the terrified mothers,
Fathers, brothers, sisters, wives and husbands
As they check the vitals
Wiping away the sweat from patient’s brows
Giving their colleagues a thumbs up
When they manage to wrestle one back,
However briefly,
From the infinite void
Wringing those hands into fists
As the frustration and fear and
Righteous anger hit the boiling point
Stroking the cheeks of those who are
In the very throes of death

Through those nauseated nostrils,
God endures the stench of bleach, blood,
Latex, alcohol and unidentifiable cleaners
Pushing through that palpable sense of fear,
Usually noted only by dogs
Now an ever present part of
The olfactory landscape
The scent of patients who have
Shit themselves or pissed themselves
The nervous farts in close quarters
That somehow make their way past the masks
The strange, surreal scent of fresh flowers
Coming from out of nowhere,
As the Angel of Death slips quietly,
Unseen into room 318
Those noses that itch but cannot be scratched
That need desperately to wipe away the snot
But cannot be wiped

God moves through their legs,
Running them down the halls
For the fifteenth time, just this morning,
To answer the incessant, mad calls of
Code after code after code after code after…
Lifting patients from gurney to bed
Then from bed to stretcher, go the dead
Those muscles holding them up,
Refusing to quiver and wilt
Under the weight of an
Obvious abandonment
Refusing to crumple up into a ball
And cry themselves to sleep
Because supplies are needed on the next floor
And someone must take them and
There is no one else to do it
Walking on eggshells at home,
Careful not to touch anything
That their loved ones might touch
Resting those weary limbs on
Uncomfortable cots and pullout couches,
Instead of resting in between those soft,
Cotton sheets on memory foam mattresses,
For the dread fear of infecting their families

God speaks through those mouths,
Slipping into their cars to go home,
After impossibly long shifts
After inscrutable regimens of scrubbing,
Decontaminating, full of the mortal terror
That some spot might be missed…
Out, out! The invisible blood,
Staining the hands, full of imagined guilt
Which is not truly theirs, to bear
Screaming in those parking lots,
Inside otherwise normal cars,
Station wagons and sedans
Minivans and trucks,
Bloodcurdling moans of sadness
A helpless sense of futility,
Beginning as words but crumbling
At last, into spirals of gibberish
A chasm of meaningless mumbles
And heartbroken sobs
God speaks through those mouths,
Calmly reassuring those who have come,
Reluctantly into the belly of the beast itself
Knowing the dread shock of lying side by side
With those who are almost certainly doomed
Speaking softly in friendly tones,
Half for the benefit of the patient and
Half to convince themselves that
“Everything is going to be ok.
We just have to put this tube in,
So you can breathe”
God makes stupid jokes
Through those mouths,
Little, ridiculous comments,
In an attempt to keep everyone’s
Spirits up and to keep them focused
To keep them from completely collapsing
The Angels prophesy through those tongues
Whispering discreetly to one another
In those sullen hallways
“This one won’t last much longer.
We need to discuss who gets that machine next”
The Spirit of love talks through those mouths,
Insisting to themselves that after only a few,
Restless hours of tortured sleep,
Full of sweat and nightmares,
That they MUST roll out of bed and
Force something into their bellies,
To strengthen them for the fight
Assuring themselves that yes,
It is the right thing to do,
To walk back into the mouth of the whale,
To surrender themselves
To its insatiable hunger for more bodies
Those hungry mouths, that cannot eat
Until the end of a 12 or 16 hour shift
Those mouths, full of the
Acid of a gut that produces inordinate
Amounts of stress
Those mouths, dry and thirsty,
Unable to stop at the water fountain
Because they cannot touch their mask
The tongues of insane healers, willing
To dwell in Death’s living room,
For complete strangers
Informing dosages, calling out instructions,
Calling for tools and esoteric medicines,
Strange cyphers, in languages
That only the minds of Angels
Could ever comprehend
God whispers,
One Holy mouth to another Divine ear
“I know.
You did your best.
There was nothing more you could have done”
The Holy Spirit delivers
Those impossibly awful messages
To the bereaved
Speaking the
Unspeakable news to the families,
Telling them how truly sorry they are
For their loss and how
They so desperately wish they
Could have done
More

God sits behind the eyes of them…
Those bloodshot, horror-stricken eyes
Watching, through the tears
Through the sweat that cannot be wiped away
Filling up the goggles that shield them
Against everything except the misery
Those itchy, swollen eyes
That gaze upon the convulsions
Of those who are drowning
Inside their own lungs
God looks with infinite empathy
Upon those who stare the
Thousand yard stare of
A battle-scarred soldier,
One who has been too long in the shit
And has lost too many friends
Who has witnessed entirely too much
Death
And suffering
God looks into the panicked eyes
Of each person on each bed
And knows full well
Of their very real and very reasonable fear
God cries through those eyes
And yet, upon losing so many children
Looks not backward to the dead
But ahead to those
Who might still be saved

The God who is beyond All Names
Shines total love on you,
All ye sacred brothers and sisters
Of the caduceus, the Divine Staff
Which heals those struck by the
Serpent of Death
In the lost and lonely desert

You, who are possessed by God’s essence
Are illumined in the LVX of the All…
The God who is benevolence itself,
Far more loving than even
Those most generous, kind and
Merciful ones,
Those whose Names we all know well
The God who is is beyond
The idea of God
Is touching us,
Through you

after the crying

It is truly strange, our choices

In the certain light of death

Each of us inclined to 

A different manner  

Of dispensing or dealing with 

The final breath

One will merely smile 

And go for a long walk 

Another gathers the family 

And prepares a meal,

Over which they might talk

Some will scream silently, 

Slumping down and over slow, 

Into nothingness 

While a newly widowed spouse, 

Enflamed, seeks out a final fling 

with some sexy piece of dress

The bitter recite litanies of pain and 

Assign all manner of important blame

The fighters assault random strangers

Beat them into the ground

And assign them terrible names


Priests herd sheep into house of prayer 

To deliver the last rites 

Of final sleep

Lovers kiss and promise;

This living briefly with the awareness 

of impending loss

causes them to cling and to 

relentlessly weep

Children huddle, whimper and 

Meekly question 

What thing comes next… 

After the crying…

The bony, white lady 

Walks the streets of night, 

She sweeps up the losses

And calls it dying


Copyright 2020

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

zipper head

zipper head,

open your tender teeth

reveal yourself 

in all 

of all 

that 

you are

clench

the mail

betwixt your steel jaws

deliver the cypher 

into waiting hands

so many crude 

assumptions 

of what you might 

or maybe 

may be

you can come into the arms of 

safe haven,

you are the arms of safe haven 

you are anything but 

safe

haven

let the carpet unroll

before your feet

of marbled steel 

kicking rusty sparks of lightning 

from the concrete

bouncing light 

and quarters 

into heaven’s gutters

zipper head,

stay where the rumbles occur 

keep your head high and

out of the trenches

your worn, dusty boots,

dug deep into the stirrups 

of a bipolar bull, 

thrashing one…

torpid another 

through the shiftiest gears,

our protagonist prevails

walk those high wire nights

of cappuccino hallelujah

scratch the blackboard dust

swing at that other head,

climbed into a chasm of dark

make every new 

adoption of nomenclature 

the donning of your sacred title 

a wreathe of laurel highlights 

lay upon your cornflower brow

a teeming of light in your sepia, 

seal eyes

pontificate of sarsaparilla calculus 

you observer of courses 

determiner of courses

forgetter of courses

let all courses be 

subject to your power

and sway

a kingdom which stretches past

all imagination or illumination

let them conduct themselves rightly,

for knowledge of your presence 

they query quick but quiet,

twirling stick in coffee and 

mad scraps of leaky pen napkin notes

and the subtle escapes of breath

from your pulpit

convert them, each 

and all 

to your church

of the considerate virgin

let your christ gnosis

hail the multitudes 

of bovine slitherers 

each now armed 

with impressive equations of 

equanimity, poise

because your scepter

hath provisioned the unwashed

with its manna

lay your miracle on the 

blister of impatience 

and lameness walks now,

with living memorial of 

lazarus sensibilities

oh but could we only attain

unto thee,

hail, most mighty

of the cousins

and czar of all the wanderers of 

the minotaur’s labyrinth 

we invite you to sit with us 

for tea and do tarry

tell us the tales of 

your turns

we are swollen now, 

swallowed and all 

fallen into silence, 

as we wait upon our excitable smiles

for your symposium

of next-ness

zipper head,

fair friend of the white and gray…

let it begin

we are ready


Copyright 2020

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

rain

i can feel the rain coming,

in my spirit


like the old man

in the rocking chair

on his front porch,

i feel it in every bone,

every trick limb and

aching joint


a sweeping sense of despair,

as my head passes through a

deluge

something similar to

a drive through car wash,

only… less convenient

a team of pressurized fire hoses

and huge, comic pom poms,

thwacking me

right in my

frontal cortex

as the weather makes its approach,

a sweeping sense of despair,

as the weather makes its

slow, arrogant approach

i know its imminent arrival,

often hours beforehand…

before the first cloud

rears its muddy black,

disapproving face


my bones crack and my hopes

sag

nothing fazes

the stupor,

a dark, somnolent plague

of inefficient sleep,

brought on by

a simple change of

barometric pressure…

a slight swing of

humidity;


a little water.


a little water can

drown

my

w

o

r

l

d

never approaching

the front page,

ranking only

section c in the newspaper

the c section

opens my skull

and dumps that precious

baby brain on the

cold, tile floor

kicking it into the corner,

near the waste can


those morons at the paper

ought to recognize

that murder is more of a

front page deal

they view it as

a little spill on the carpet,

it’s only water…

don’t cry…

i won’t cry.


but i will sleep;

i am drugged

and stuffed into a canvas bag

by this natural sedative;

carted off to the ocean

of inactivity

and dumped in,

left for dead

with a note,

pinned to my scalp:


“you will submit to my dominance.

you will curl up

in a soggy, little ball

and wait

for me to pass”


i have survived, seemingly

intolerable fires of the spirit,

unquenchable flames of the heart

earth scorching plumes of fire,

setting daily life alight

i’ve dealt with dozens of

major catastrophes,

not to mention hundreds of

tiny conflagrations,

the little fires that need putting out

only to be doused

and completely


extinguished


by a little water


Copyright 2020

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

sweeping

Author’s Note: this piece is NOT a forecast of doom, not in any way.

That is incredibly important to note. Instead, it’s two things.

First, it’s a snapshot of things which have already happened, as well as my disappointment and anger about how the situation has been handled, thus far. It is one artist, responding to real world situations, through the medium of art. That should be easy enough to grasp.

Second, it is a warning NOT to behave as if nothing is wrong or different and NOT to behave as if the world is ending. Neither extreme view is correct. Something real and dangerous is here but need not be catastrophic.

I write poetry for a variety of reasons, one of which is what I refer to as a personal “exorcism“. It’s one of the ways that I personally get my thoughts together, for what needs to be done. 

In writing out worst case scenarios, I get poisonous thoughts out of my head and onto paper, where they might be properly dealt with, in an adult manner.

That being said, the following is not at all a pretty picture. Fear is a constructive tool, when properly guided toward preparedness and prudence. 

So, I encourage you to allow yourself just a few moments to wallow in the fear, as well. Then get busily back to the business of a productive life.

Happy Friday the 13th!

sweeping

uninformed leaves rustle a bit

and roll over the usual yard

nothing yet, appears to sit 

in a space entirely too soft, nor hard

while standing in the cues 

of what sounds already are, 

in the distance, hear the clues

of misery, sweeping wide and far

an invisible, mushroom leverage

lays its breaking boot of 

concrete and leaden sole

atop the teeter totter

leans down, shifting its tonnage

with devastation under its 

unforgiving weight

bar graphs fly off their easels 

ticker tapes spin out and fizzle

time cards shred themselves with panic

and punch clocks fall off walls 

to dive bomb the rows of empty desks,

which explode into kindling 

all around

file cabinets are set ablaze and 

the rodents are overworked,

spinning all those little, 

interlocking wheels 

of the intercom system

it’s entirely too loud 

in the staff room 

and the commandant

can get no sleep 

despite his bedtime story 

being piped through 

the loudspeaker

outside is the warm normal, 

a blue sky, serene balm of certainty 

a textbook spring, 

assurance nestled 

in the obvious dream

but some strange worm

has crept into the ear of the dreamer

and wiggles its way 

down to the lungs

where it cripples 

the casual breath

combat is hand to hand,

through negotiations 

sterilization weaponization 

settling old scores,

between complete strangers

the best assassin is always

one the target 

already knows well

taking dinosaurs 

right out, at the knees

pyramids and castles 

close their doors

refusing to check the coats

of the newly and arriving guests,

the overloaded sled of dead,

pulled by black, wheezing horses

turned away at the door,

on account of their 

inconsiderate lack 

of a reservation 

or at least the common decency 

to drag along a chest of gold 

with which to bribe the bellhop,

he who rings that iron bell

that sullen, tolls, 

reverberating and shaking 

the whole of the kingdom

wide and through

a brown bag sandwich lunch

sits near the front door and goes stale

there are no baby cubs to suckle

at the teet of intelligence 

since, all the babies‘ eyes 

have been pulled out 

and stapled to screens,

screen doors and screened mouths 

and boxes of screens of varying sizes

each drawing buckets 

of unhealthy surprises 

from the freshly dug, 

poisoned well

trees, a currency, vital commodity 

their crushed skins all disappeared,

the traders find none of their 

hides in the markets 

now more prized than gold, 

is a simple mop 

to wipe away the mess

circles form and fall apart

sticks fly at one or the other 

or both at once 

funny how the numbers

play their cruel tricks

allocating the meals of the masses

to boards of a few dozen 

or six

as digits of ones become thousands,

billions divide into segregated pockets 

of six, five, four or less 

eventually,

someone 

or something 

must come along

and mop up 

the mess

kings decry and verily decree

a restless tribe 

casts lots, 

to question the gods

whether to dig in or to flee

but the answers are yes,

to each and every question,

so sayeth the oracles,

in throwing up their hands,

choosing instead,

to call in for a sick day

no parades pound the streets

one must turn the earth to gather eats

wall off the oceans, sink all the fleets

dim the lights, freeze the meats

a foul wind wails over the dizzy heads

and through the nervous heart

scout upon the watchtower and wait

as machine belches and cranks to start

a breeze blows in 

unhappy news from the east 

a mad king crumples up the paper, 

stoning the raven messenger, dead

as if it mattered, not in the least

soon ancestors say their prayers

closing their eyes, just for practice

all the ice rafts are full

and shoving off, with final waves

their lanterns go dark 

over a feverish horizon

quell, if you, will the wild rumor beasts

it stops not the hunger,

nor the need for the priests,

for divine protection and 

rites of passage 

into the never

of night and time

emptied halls and banquets broken

plays where nary a word is spoken 

cold feet frozen, 

chapel coughs up people 

stockpiles of goods and caskets

confusion, gratis, in gift baskets 

and praying hands, pried from steeple

minds blinking, frozen, in their tracks

the wood chipper roars 

for more easy snacks

like lining up dominoes 

or graham crackers

the wounded’s IV unit,

given to campaign backers

since some lonesome despot, 

wrapped in mist

must sit the wake with what remains,

rule with the iron fist, 

over the land of the dead but free

the endless hordes of weeping 

hungry, Dickensian urchins are we

hand me down frowns

and mouth to mouth, creeping

beat and fan the furnace flames

ideas, flailing and failing

burn all those treasured sames

arson greedily replaces sailing

as the new sport of official Rome

gather wood and gather tinders

slaughter the calf 

and smoke over cinders 

and nail down the doors,

seal off the hearth of home

leap now, two whole seasons far

and spy with that digital, electric glass

what evil now, cometh nigh

and just how twisted 

is that monstrous thing?

the Heavens hold an angry star

Titans conduct a foul, black mass

Distracted by pointing fingers at why

a wretched agenda for the blacklisted 

who bear worst, the brunt of the sting

when mansions, missions, 

shacks and shelters 

close all their fearful shutters tight

to ward off invaders 

riding on gargantuan wings, 

hydra heads 

hunting through the choking day

consuming through the ravenous night

the monument must,

by necessity, be 

simple and we imagine that it might say

there once was, here, 

long ago, that is, ‘til today

a clueless band of marauders

who conspired to steal the fires

of eternal life

now they vanish

more each day,

leaving a legacy 

of fledgling understanding

and a salty, palpable, 

useless strife 

nothing 

is ever anyone’s 

to steal

or to 

own the right

at most, 

all things

we briefly borrow,

to quickly stroke 

and hold

what hubris, it is

placing strings 

on a temporal,

flickering light

one so easily 

blown out 

by a simple, new

draught of cold


Copyright 2020

Kevin Trent Boswell

(Magus)


The new book is out now, on Amazon:

Chaos Comes Apart


Support the work at my Patreon page: https://www.patreon.com/magus72

I cross-post the public works here. Patrons-only content is available, on my Patreon.


Patreon

Magus & The Plastic Infinity

Conjure Work

antiverse

blogspot

Chaos Comes To Town

If perhaps you’re craving some escape, some vitamins of inspiration, to get you through the dull roar of viruses and technological hangups and fearful, dull talk of elections and recessions and limitless to do lists and the hundred things you want to step aside from, for just a few, delicious minutes…

You might enjoy dipping into the eccentric, electric pool of weirdly words that I now release. Images that speak through your eyes and feelings that peer into your ears, reassuring you that, no matter how strange today seems, it’s likely to only get stranger, my dears.

Doesn’t sound like reassurance to you? Then look further, deeper into the expanding woo of kaleidoscope and know, that something bitterly beautiful and magnificent always comes out of every bizarre, however far, at first, it went.

The only thing you can count on for certain is that everything changes and everything… including troubles… settles back into comfortable routine, given enough time for the cooking bubbles.

This is true, whether you struggle against the changes with every ounce of strength or relax, let current carry you, drifting along, entire length.

It all stirs up and then, peacefully settles… back… down… again… even if you do absolutely nothing about it. Try it, breathe it, if you care to doubt it.

So do the things you need to do,
To take care of your own and for care of you
But turn an ear and an eye for moments, few
For a little something to help you through

After all, how can a mind possibly deal with all the chaos, real, of the modern world, if not properly armed, to defend itself? Protect the gray in your skull against the beast, with the malleable mania of poetry priest, and fend off some of the stupid doldrums that are pounding, drooling, at the door.

All good secret agents know, that if facing torture interrogation, they should distract themselves from pain with elation, singing and making up silly stories in their head. This keeps the mind from snapping, a thing that’s certainly worse than dead.

A bit of poetry and music, all that Orpheus ever used and he traversed the depths of hell, emerging unscathed, unbruised. Put some of that magick dust into your pocket and go, it’s only left to trust and know, that everything else is silly, when set beside.

The big bad world is known to cower and lay right down as if dead, when once you threaten it proper, with an unpredictable pipe bomb of poetry, cocked and painted onto its cocky head.

My new book, Chaos Comes Apart, on Amazon:

https://smile.amazon.com/gp/r.html?C=2EIU1YSKTC6SW&K=WFT0JB3LJN3D&M=urn:rtn:msg:2020031021204095b1740d54b345db8aaec4cdad50p0na&R=1OIWENZKO66E0&T=C&U=https%3A%2F%2Fsmile.amazon.com%2Fdp%2FB085RN5WYV%3Fref_%3Dpe_3052080_397514860&H=WMGC3ZTDWE5L1ZBAOSWBAP3UGHEA&ref_=pe_3052080_397514860

107 pages, all original works. Most of these, probably 70% of them have never been published anywhere before.

They were written over just a handful of days, in a maelstrom of creative inspiration, given by the Goddess Venus, to whom the book is dedicated.

The themes are varied, mostly centering around the way our worlds expand and contract, sometimes pleasantly, other times frighteningly, sometimes with plenty of heads up and often, with our pants down.

Writing it helped me cope with some of my own, more challenging changes. I sincerely hope that reading it helps you adjust to yours.

Use the link here to find it, it is still settling in to Amazon’s search system, not quite coming up there, just yet. But this link takes you straight to the banks of the strange river, where your world might just be stretched out of and back into shape.

Enjoy.


Copyright 2020

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

the old gal

she angles for the

best seat in the house 

if you don’t watch her,

she’ll own that retirement home 

she’s got to have the comfiest chair

clueless, tactless, all bad breath and 

weak knees

white hair stained teeth brittle bones

poor me looks and 

sighs of discontent,

her current frailty betrays memory 

of the once upon a time,

when she leapt over tall dreams 

never one for small talk, 

you always know exactly 

where you stand with her

she puts her charms to work on men 

and the women all want to be her friend 

now she snores the lazy day long

on infomercial couch

perpetual, old codger thirst

it takes precious time and strength 

to get off the sofa

so, she always manages to 

trick someone into getting 

a drink for her 

there are no children, no grandchildren 

no brothers or sisters 

there is only the waiting 

waiting for company to arrive 

and for dinner time 

she still appreciates touch

but tires of it easily; 

retreats to early bedtime 

old woman has no cats,

she doesn’t like them 

television holds no interest for her

she’s always been more of a

nature lover,

walking for hours, anywhere 

but even this is no longer suitable 

as the heat gets to her fast, these days 

and her weak legs 

no longer do their part

when strangers come around,

she is discourteous, 

barking cliches at them, 

to get off her damned lawn,

even though she 

doesn’t even have a lawn

her mind doesn’t work like yours or mine

it’s as if she thinks she’s in charge

but old friends are always welcome and 

she loves on their familiar faces,

kissing them on the cheek 

and sitting close to them,

imploring to make up for lost time 

she fails to recognize 

some people’s need

for personal space

old woman was fierce in her day

but her day is no more dawning 

and sun sets slowly on her 

throwing dim light on her white hair 

the old gal needs help sometimes,

going up and down the stairs

even needs help getting into bed,

she has a male nurse that softly 

raises her legs up and tucks her in

she must be bathed, 

because left to her own devices,

she won’t do it herself

her caretaker gently puts her in the tub,

soaps her up and washes her clean,

towel dries her and brings her a snack

that old people smacking sound 

happens more than ever before, 

that thing they do 

that makes it sound like 

a stoner just ate a bunch of 

peanut butter but lost their soda, 

so they can’t wash it down 

her appetite is still strong; 

she eats virtually 

anything you put in front of her, 

she’ll even steal food from your plate, 

if you leave the room

the old broad just ain’t got no manners

or shame 

she’s too old to worry what anyone 

thinks of her and far too busy 

with her endless naps

to notice the things they say…

she’s half deaf and half blind, anyhow 

the gal has skills, though

while she never had 

any formal schooling, 

she’s learned a great deal 

over the years in the school of life

and people are always 

impressed with her intelligence 

she’s been through good times and bad

she’s smart enough to know 

when to sit still, when to run 

and when to just play dead 

and wait it out 

while she ain’t too proud to beg 

for what she wants,

she can still flatter you out of

just about anything you’ve got,

with her aged eyes and soft company,

winning you over to her side,

every time 

despite the pitiful, poor manners, 

when this old woman sits next to you,

you know that you’re in the presence 

of a real, true friend,

the type that will defend you 

and tell you no lies

you feel love pouring off of her

and your every arrival at her house 

is  met with her rising up 

on those creaky old bones,

coming straight to the door, 

to welcome you inside 

she wears ridiculous things,

things designed for a girl 

half her age

as if she doesn’t understand her decline 

or just refuses to accept it, 

or both

and don’t be too alarmed 

if you catch her walking around naked

she’s not ashamed of her body, 

in the least

she’s capable of being a mean old bitch

when necessary 

but she won’t spare the energy for it

her nature is that of the lover, anyway 

she really got around, back in the day,

let everyone touch her, all over

it’s not always obvious

but a lot of the old birds

were good girls in name only, 

they let every guy in town rub them 

in that special spot,

the one they open their legs for

but we don’t judge her,

for its in her genetics to be 

loose in the streets, running wild

and accepting attention from all comers

loneliness is what she fears most,

she doesn’t tire of her friends company 

always wants them to stay longer, 

becomes anxious if she has to be alone 

the old gal is cemented into my heart, 

I love her, 

even though she rarely speaks 

she is a warm companion and 

they just don’t make ’em like that, 

no more

I talk to her and stroke her cheek and 

she lets me know with her eyes 

that it means the whole world to her

when she goes down for another nap, 

I curl up beside her 

no jello or cookies for her, 

just like a proper, English lady, 

she takes biscuits, instead

she doesn’t like hot coffee or hot tea,

she usually just drinks 

room temperature water 

despite all her demands for 

attention and her lack of 

personal hygiene 

and her being completely 

devoid of any social grace,

she’s a kind old gal 

and she’s this man’s best friend


Copyright 2020

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

the witch returns

For Carrie, on her birthday

white witch of of the primordial oceans

a sphere of Fire swims 

through vast expanses of deep, 

trudging, Gulf Stream, without end

the wake of each wave is a play space 

for Olokun’s children, bobbing up 

and over the water

delighting in their own weightlessness

waning lunar light glimmers

on the surface of an exoskeleton, 

a creature bearing a barb, 

sharp, it is a needle 

dipped in fiery nighttime 

whiplash smile, able to cut,

deep into the heart of urgent issues

or to hobble an enemy 

with vials of poison, 

whatever job need be done, 

that day

winged heels take to flight  

upon waves of air,

transmission of electronic signals, 

through waves of sightless ether,

collecting data and drops of dew

ideas float on currents, across 

all space and time

sharing a spot with the 

silver tongued trickster 

is a red man of war, atop a war horse, 

bedecked with invisible armor, 

as hard as a hundred mountains 

but light as a hummingbird’s breath

his sword drawn 

and leveled at the temples

of his foes, to skewer the craniums 

of intellectual fools, 

here in his compound of Air, 

he draws on his vast chalkboard, 

designing inventive new ways of war

the warrior’s consort is 

floating neither in Air, 

nor is she hold up in some rich, 

resplendent palace of Earth, 

neither does she take a dip 

in the immense pool of fish pairs

instead, she is bathed in Fire, 

full of wrath and vigor 

and the conquest of all things

she carves her name 

into the trunk of time

and carves the throat out of fear

the ancient architect 

hath built up for himself 

a strange structure, not his typical castle 

and not quite a chariot, 

with predictable, rolling wheels 

nay, his world walks, tank-like, upon on 

an assortment of odd, spindly stalks,

grabbing at the ground, 

drawing their meals

in with Mesozoic pinchers, 

pulling each meal into a small mouth, 

where the Lord of Time 

consumes his peculiar fish

all these dance and sway and spiral,

without end

all chuckle, change and challenge,

wrapped in a weird package, labeled friend


Copyright 2020

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

Back Lash

whiplash

it hurts 

when you have decided 

to be free;

titles are handed out 

readily, 

but nobility has a price

it carries weight

turning 180°

and falling back 

to start

can snap 

that delicate mechanism 

known as your back

and rip you 

asunder

unless

you possess 

flexibility and

resiliency;

as being schooled

in the movements

of birds and

angels

as I lie here, resting my back

from a day of laboring at one of

the hundred horrible jobs I’ve had over the years,

I reflect on the emotions

that have traveled 

up and down 

this bent spine

of mine

I become aware of what

has not been done,

the various manifestations

of which my life has 

sought to take shape 

and yet failed 

for various reasons

I recall seeing a sign

at the chiropractor’s office:

       “Your Back Is Your Life Line!

                                             Get It Straight!”


It is time to change

the way I sit,

to sit up straighter,

seeing straight ahead

to the new things

coming this way

time to change 

the way I sit,

and the way 

old things

sit 

with me


Copyright 2020

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

Fat Gold Mystery

Plums in the pot, bubbling, bubbling

Custard in the pan, cooling, cooling

Logs in the fire, crumbling, crumbling

Infant on the rug, drooling, drooling

Rooftop primed with snow,

Sprinkled brown leaves, like

Shavings of chocolate, on vanilla ice cream

The world is new, and remade 

Every day

Fashioned; 

Threshed out, by the tools 

Of possibilities


Copyright 2020

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.

Magus72 on Patreon

Magus & The Plastic Infinity

Conjure Work

antiverse

blogspot

untitled

dark spectators

file in from the corridor,

to witness death

scepter of violence

shines a smile

electric murder pictures

steal their breath


Copyright 2020

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.

Magus72 on Patreon

Magus & The Plastic Infinity

Conjure Work

antiverse

blogspot

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


Copyright 2020

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

flash

I.

… 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 

it


Copyright 2020

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

untitled

Universe Collapsing

Constant Arousal

Continual Unravelling

If you are Quiet…

You will Hear

If you Look…

You will See…

Nothing


Copyright 2020

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


Copyright 2020

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


Copyright 2020

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

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

in 

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


Copyright 2020

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

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


Copyright 2020

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


Copyright 2020

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.

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

Copyright 2020

Magus

(Kevin Trent Boswell)

Magus & The Plastic Infinity

antiverse

blogspot

Conjure Work

oh to weep

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

 

Copyright 2020

Magus

(Kevin Trent Boswell)

https://antiverse.webs.com

https://trentboswell.blogspot.com/

https://conjurework.com

https://www.patreon.com/magus72

Razor, Bramble, Thorn Child

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

Copyright 2019

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

© 2019 Kevin Trent Boswell, Magus

https://kevintrentboswell.wordpress.com

https://www.patreon.com/magus72

https://antiverse.webs.com

https://m.soundcloud.com/kevin-trent-boswell

https://store.cdbaby.com/cd/boswell