horror – Kevin Trent Boswell

It Will Not Matter

It will not matter,
What you do or do not
For soon, swift death
Will sweep through the land
Scooping you up onto
The back of its white horse,
The reaper throttles you
With its cold, bony hand

Now Available

A Collage of Chimeras and Phantasms, the 12th publication by Kevin Trent Boswell

A Collage of Chimeras and Phantasms is a
general collection of poems. The material veers wildly in several directions at once. You’ll find stream-of-consciousness pieces, romantic poems, works of heartbreak, dark scalpel slices that reside in the penumbra of horror, and avant-garde bits of absurdism. So, there’s no need to trouble yourself attempting to understand the methodology here—there is none.

216 pages

©️2025 Kevin Trent Boswell

A Collage of Chimeras and Phantasms by Kevin Trent Boswell — A Collage of Chimeras and Phantasms
by Kevin Trent Boswell

Coming Soon

On Saturday, I spent the entire day editing and submitting the manuscript for my new book.

I got it finished and turned in, then treated myself by eating too much pizza.

The author’s proof should be here in a day or two and I can proofread it. Then, it will go live and be available on Amazon.

Waking

It is a waking nightmare,
This modern world
Obsessed with self,
All greed and lust

A dream, inescapable,
The curse was hurled;
A black flower bloomed,
Unwise, unjust

Under Your Feet

Author’s Note: Yesterday, I learned that someone passed away in my apartment building (presumably within a day or so of when I heard about it). I had never met them and they hadn’t been living here long at all. Their death was apparently not unexpected; I was told that they were in poor health before they ever arrived here.

The weird thing is, they lived in the apartment right below mine. But stranger still, I had occupied that apartment myself, up until just a few months ago. When my current unit became available, I took the opportunity to move because it’s quieter on the top floor. While I don’t think I ever met the tenant, it was a brisk reminder that death is never far away.

Death is right under your feet
But try to put it out of your mind
There are chores to do and
Demands to meet
So, try putting it out of your mind

Death is coming up behind you
It is wise to not make a stink of it
Since you cannot stop it, and
There’s nothing you can do,
It’s best to try and not think of it

There beside you, Death hovers
I suggest you pretend not to notice
It will pounce on nervousness,
Any weakness it discovers,
So, just casually appear not to notice

It may approach you from any angle
You are bold, but Death is much bolder
You can tell it’s there by the cold, stale air
That envelopes your throat to strangle
Death patiently perches on your shoulder

soldier

stiff upper lip,
thick-skinned baller,
rolling with the punches,
and all that other
factitious bullshit

the bliss of liar’s cup
is but a cup of blissful lies

dreams of
copious other things,
receding like melting wax,
into the past
fading away,
leaving behind the sweet perfume
of burning plastic and ammonia

hairlines

fissures in consciousness,
blessings of intermittent sleep

control panel fuses
all crisp, and awry of order

all correspondence
resides now in dwellings
other than original
intentions

settle for
smaller and smaller
portions,
pieces

easter egg fractals
of memory

“didn’t there used to be
something that went right here?
didn’t something or someone
occupy this space?”

now, quiet dogs
bed down in the
cold, wet trenches

stale toast and seagull meat
empty ammo box for one
in the center of the house

unseen earthworms,
misunderstood by
all the happy eagles
and fish

whole continents fall,
and yet, not an inch
of ground is gained

roll off the edge of the map,
and onto the floor,
to lie in the dust,
with all the broken grease pencils,
and first draft plans of attack,
torn angrily into ribbons,
and bursting into flame

siphon off
the last sour dregs
of wedding wine

no guest sits at the table
to taste it

it is useful now,
only as vinegar
for cleaning the stains
left behind
by revelers
who dwell in the
realm of the living

wines and cakes
are wasted
on the forgotten dead

celebration farce,
ersatz holy words
of hollow power

the gut pinches up
and knots
at the thought
of each new
sunrise