horror – Page 2 – Kevin Trent Boswell

Florida Is Where One Goes to Die

Florida is where one goes to die,
Not to reset, and start again
Death waits in orange groves, to strike
But, one knows not, where or when

Biding their time, a thousand things,
Patiently hoping to kill you dead
Gators, lurking in the murky swamp
To eat you whole, from toe to head

Hell, they have genuine crocodiles
They immigrated; who knows how
They came for the delicious buffet that is you
To eat as much as time will allow

The brutal sun will bleach your bones
And, what’s more, no one will care
Florida is not the nicest of places,
The grim reaper spends each winter there

If the gators and crocs somehow miss you,
In the woods are a great many other beasts
Watching, stalking, ready to pounce
Eager for tasty human feasts

The black bear is one of them
Yes, they’re common in many states
But panthers… now, that’s a singular way
For Americans to meet untimely fates

Florida is where you go to die
All manner of ghoulish demise awaits
Everything there wants to end you;
It’s the Australia of the United States

And, tiny things, like the brown recluse
The black widow, far more ubiquitous
And, if you should sit still too long,
The fire ants are most ravenous

Wild boar will pierce, cut you to ribbons
Their tusks loaded with bacterial goo
If you don’t bleed out, then soon enough
Disease will be the thing that gets you

Watch where you step, careless human
The copperhead, and eastern diamondback
Poison’s a thing these efficient vipers
Most assuredly do not lack

A curious name for something so deadly,
The “kissing bug” spreads a foul parasite
It’s perfectly willing and able to kill you
And, it knows how to do it right

Just off the coast, in the ocean surf
Bull sharks, and deadly box jellyfish
Barracudas take quite sizable chunks
And, they’ll do it whenever they wish

And, let’s not forget the biggest of all
The one whose movie freaked us all out
The one and only great white shark
He’s there, too, swimming about

Florida is where you go to die,
Not where you try to start again
Murder is plentiful, comes in all sizes
And, you’ll never know where, or when

It’s not just the critters that want you dead
The people are willing to rub you out
There are drug cartels, and serial killers
And, Florida Man is skulking about

Of all the baleful, lethal creatures,
Florida Man is among the top three
He’s responsible for the lion’s share
Of death headlines in the news you see

If the citizens or critters don’t do the job,
Of putting an end to you, just for a thrill,
If torturous heat doesn’t manage to kill you,
I imagine that the governor will

Not a place to slip away peacefully,
It will not let you, though you may try
Not exactly a storybook ending,
Florida is where one one goes to die

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Most

Most stories don’t have happy endings
The brutal truth is that most do not
For each hero who makes it home,
In unknown ditches, a hundred more rot

For every song about some brave champion,
There are endless graves without any bones
For there was no body which they could bury
Only lost names engraved on stones

We must admit if we’re honest about it,
Eventually, Death claims them all
Those who we celebrate after a battle
And those who on the battlefield fall

Those who seem to be safe back at home
Are also short candles in a night so late
None escape the long-armed grasp,
Of those pitiless stranglers, time and fate

New Music Album on June 8th

Something in the Air – an album of 10 original songs from Trent Boswell, available on June 8th, 2022 at most major music streaming services like Amazon Music, Spotify, iTunes, etc.

Published Works

The poetry and music of Kevin Trent Boswell

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Dirt

“Dirt” from Out on the Killing Floor

“Dirt” – prose from Out on the Killing Floor by Kevin Trent Boswell

This piece of prose is from a book of horror poetry. What is horror poetry? Imagine that Stephen King wrote poetry and prose instead of novels and short stories.

This particular piece is about the climate crisis. It’s an imaginary interview with an American farmer in the not so distant future, a dystopian vision of the runaway effects of climate change.

The book is available here:

Out on the Killing Floor

– Bleak, dark, dismal apocalyptic poetry of the most depressing possible variety

– The end of all life on Earth & other children’s stories

the others

dark nighttime
holds illusions,
all seeking
to guide you

into madness
and cringing
under too-short,
coarse covers

trust your gut,
sweet child;
only light
is inside you

the same
may not always
be said
of the others

look
before crossing
strange threshold,
take care

there’s a light
that’s inside you
that light,
true and bold

and then there’s
the everything
else
that’s out there

some lights
have gone out,
but haven’t yet
been told

devils
can appear
as angels,
so beware

they would
warm themselves
by the fires
of your favors

they return
your good deeds
with nothing
but despair

gratitude
is absent;
all the usual,
good flavors

are not nearly
so much in them,
not so much
as their needs

you’d help them
if you could
but you can’t…
nor can any

any goodness
you offer
is repaid with
foul deeds

their love was
all strangled
by weeds,
so many

caring is a
thing they’re
far too good
at feigning

but they’d not do
so much
at all…
were they able

to give you
assistance
they assist
by restraining

they’d have you
assist by
being food
on their table

in the dark place,
your kind rules
won’t replace
good sense

your eyes
fail to hear;
your sight goes
deaf and dumb

you’re a good child
and a smart one;
always keep
strong defense

against the weaving
of webs
that would have you
succumb

listen not,
to easy tales
of leisure
or love

be generous
be grateful,
but too much so,
one discovers

there’s humanity
in your heart
and it fits you,
like a glove

but the same
may not always
be said
of the others

listen closely
when light whispers
its soft,
gentle warning

go not lightly
where sternly
it would guide you
away

lean gently
upon your genteel
manners
of good morning

shield carefully,
your beacon;
shining,
that it may

ward off those
hungry things,
slinking in the
twilight

committing
many crimes
to justify their
sadness

your large heart
would feed them
but the briefest time’s
highlight

your manners
won’t give them
a single moment’s
gladness

a hunger,
baleful,
returns ever,
without pauses

more hot
and more fierce,
much stronger
than before

opening you
slowly,
hiding
true causes

growing
more bold
once you open
the door

in knowing
what nice, warm
feelings
spill out of you

on your noble,
good faith
they’ll come again,
to dine

a stitch of
incredulous
keeps away
death’s hue

after all is
said and done,
it almost always
saves nine

trim the wick
of your candle,
its bright light,
inspire

keep your powder
all dry
and your lamp tinder
lit

small steps
can lead you
into darkness,
more dire

so, be careful
and wise
and don’t fall
for it

odd misgivings
may cause you
to shirk,
with an attitude

even the
friendliest
of those come-hither
smiles

the first thing
to go,
once they’re in,
is your mood

a lengthy
and foul one
means you’re taken
by their wiles

hold your memory
on tight
and never let them
touch

trust your
way-down-deep
when the good feeling
lacks

harken
which hands
reach for you
too much

a bother
in your belly
stops you dead
in your tracks

your energy
will fail,
long before
their thirst

a visceral fear,
in your
tenderhearted,
warm guts

take the
hooked bait
and you’ll soon see
their worst

suspicious
of yourself
and feeling like
you’re nuts

when uneasy
twinges
drive you back,
second-guessing

from a seemingly
obvious
act
of benevolence

they’re there
to warn you
of something bad,
pressing

even daddy’s
good breeding
can draw to you
malevolence

some feed on daddy’s
manners,
mother’s charm school
propriety

it’s less commentary
on your love
and more on their
bleakness

in spite of all
politeness
good intentions,
sobriety

resides in
a maintenance
that guards against
your own weakness

you are glowing
with life, child;
remain balanced in
your poises

stay out of
the shadows
and out of
the foolish

they’ll drag you
into dins of
the most horrible
noises

pulling you
from the light,
down into…
the ghoulish

when your social
sensibilities
are suddenly
eviscerated

and it happens
without logical
reasons,
not one

a thing which,
on the surface,
seems
uncomplicated

do not question it,
dear child;
instead…
turn and run

when abdominal
doubt
scorns the stranger’s
handshaking

when something
inside of your
knotted-up,
deep self

signals
a threat, with
inexplicable
quaking

though they look
the good deal,
put them back
upon the shelf

never wander
too closely
to the edges
of the dark

shadows
have been known to,
on occasion,
jump through

to leap out,
swallow flickering,
pretty things
that spark

the sparkling,
pretty lights
in pretty things,
like you

keep close
to the guard dogs
who growl
behind fierce eyes

when temptation
comes close,
offering you
strange favors

don’t lean in,
too closely
or listen
to their lies

the keepers
of darkness
and light are
close neighbors

and sometimes
those shaded
boundaries
fall open

since some always
go there,
eager to
steal keys

this may shock
or confuse you;
sensibilities,
all broken

but disappearance
in the night
happens with
great ease

not all
are so nice
as you, child;
you must know

that some
are the weight
of a great,
heavy stone

not all would
have you live
or leave
or let go

but would gladly
consume all,
even marrow
of your bone

your mommy
and daddy
and friends want you
to live

but monsters are
more common
than they bothered
to explain

taking each
precious drop
of all the blood
you could give

some quietly
feed on
the wellbeing
in your brain

not keeping you in
too good
but rather too many,
different shapes

creepers,
all slithering
down low,
out of light

until you break
their spells
and your spirit
escapes

well-hidden,
under coverings,
many put up
no fight

but will linger
and drain you
until you rise up
and slay

some appear
tricky,
as a lamp
or a torch does

shielding you
from the bright,
good and sensible
day

storms,
wearing rainbows;
where color,
never was

any light that
splinters out
is artificially
made

those devils
would lay you down
on razor-sharp
pillows

dressing you
in black cloaks
of drowning
in the shade

some wicks
take light easily,
like dried-up,
old willows

candles burning
through the night,
on first strike
of one match

but some things
only look like
a flame
or spark

but their sweet,
sugar poisons,
sharp, in the throat,
catch

you’d use up
all your matches
and still be
in the dark

they will never, ever
burn,
no matter how hard
you try

for they’re just
not the good,
useful, light
type of stuff

they will always
break things
and take things
and lie

try to help them,
you’ll discover
that it’s never quite
enough

a mask-wearing
face appears
like innocence
and hope

lovely or kind
at first glance,
they may
look

but with a lot
of hard scrubbing
and a fair
amount of soap

you’ll discover
the ruse
and note all that
they took

i’m sorry to
have to say, child
not all is
as it seems

in fact, most things
are not
at the bottom
of this matter

in this world,
there are things
far worse than
bad dreams

and the daylight
does not
cause all of them
to scatter

some things
are stubborn
slow dying,
sowing trouble

and you’ll never
get back
those things
which were taken

it’s much better
when you’re older,
to pop
your own bubble

childhood
dies easier
with your confidence,
unshaken

but die
it must do,
since it’s nothing
but a blindness

the warm blanket
of sheltering,
by fathers
and mothers

the love you
possess, child
rewards kindness
with kindness

the same
may not always
be said
of the others

From the black book of fiendishly foul, frightening things, Out On The Killing Floor

Support

The Thing About Bunkers

characters Heather and Burt Gummer,
driven up onto the roof of their bomb shelter
– from the 1990 film, ***Tremors*** (Universal Pictures)

“Food for five years, a thousand gallons of gas, air filtration, water filtration, Geiger counter, bomb shelter! Underground… Goddamn monsters.”

—Burt Gummer, from the 1990 movie, Tremors – lamenting the loss of his desert fortress, due to something he wasn’t prepared for and never could have possibly foreseen

The thing about bunkers
and hunkering down
Is they’re not supposed to be
a permanent solution
You can store up food and weapons,
safely underground
But what if it’s many
thousands of years of toxic pollution?

If nothing is left to come back to,
if you can never go outside
If the world is never livable again,
somewhere down the line
A few years in, most folks will
start committing suicide
Rather than live in a subterranean box,
after society’s decline

In a total climate collapse,
everything would come undone
It’s not like one nuclear bomb drop,
in a single place on the map
The whole of Earth, uninhabitable,
you’d never again see the sun
Any psychologist will agree,
without sunlight, people snap

A few years after a nuke,
the radiation may die down and then
People might come back up top,
from the way-down-there
That’s if there’s any kind of habitat
for plants, critters and men
But what if it’s still too hot
and you still can’t breathe the air?

There are snazzy bomb shelters,
well-thought-out, for sure
Decades worth of water, food, meds
and every type of supply
And lots of entertainment to help you
psychologically endure
But ultimately, you face the hard question;
you need a reason why

If there’s never a return to safety,
an opportunity to re-emerge
Then, no matter how well
you think you’re equipped
If nothing grows up top,
if heat and humidity constantly surge
The very best bunker in the world
is just an expensive crypt

From the black book of horrifying, awful, terrible things that will keep you up late at night and drive you to drink, Out On The Killing Floor

WARNING!!! Take only as prescribed. Keep out of reach from children, pets, pregnant women and anyone who still has any hope for the future. May cause sleeplessness, fatigue, depression, anxiety, suicidal thoughts or visions of impending doom. Some readers may experience weight… not weight gain, just the heavy weight of existential dread. User assumes all risk and releases the author from any and all legal liability. This book is not approved by the FDA or anyone else who enjoys being happy. May be illegal in your area.

Support the creation of more madness:

H. H.

If you ever were in any kind of doubt
About the evil in the hearts of men
Think about Chicago, circa 1890
And what happened there, back when…

A hotel was built on S. Wallace and 63rd
Owned by one of the devil’s own pawns
A slimy little man by the name of Holmes
He raised the money through elaborate cons

How he went about his money schemes
Is bad… but it pales, when compared to why
He built the place up with the sole intention of
Trapping people there, to die

This fiend kept all his contractors in the dark
So none knew the true nature of the place
Hallways, leading nowhere, many fake doors
Each worker had a puzzled look on his face

A great many builders, all with small jobs
There was no reason to suspect anything foul
Lots of secret passages, trap doors, thick walls
So no one would hear the victims howl

The store, up front, was innocent enough
The apartments on the third floor, too
But the second floor and the basement,
These were where… awful things, he would do

Chutes that lead to the basement below
A huge bank vault, for… something diabolical
A crematorium and acid vats to get rid of bodies
And a labyrinth… not at all metaphorical

A maze of hallways, sinister booby traps,
So much evil, it’s hard to imagine it all
Thing is, it wasn’t a movie, it was a pet-project
His own, private, murder mini-mall

To say he was mad, well… that just doesn’t cut it
It was deeper and much more perverse
Hollywood has made millions and they do try
But have yet to dream up anything worse

Dahmer… he was mad, liked eating the dead
Ted Bundy killed women for sexual kicks
Richard Ramirez, Ed Gein, a whole host of sickos
But none of them ever bought pallets of bricks

H. H. had a slew of craftsmen and laborers
To build a museum of death and by age 35
He was eventually hanged, after confessing to
27 murders, some of whom were still quite alive

The Zodiac escaped capture and Scotland Yard
Never did apprehend the ol’ Ripper, Jack
But neither of them ever went so far
As to construct even a shanty or a shack

I have to admit, I’m unable to fathom
The depravity of such a despicable plan
How so much planning went into the thing
And all of it… from one, single man

I promise you, I don’t find anything whatsoever
About any of this gruesome story funny
But I shudder to think, what some other lunatics
Might’ve done, if only… they’d had enough money

If had a bunch of cash, I’d probably build the
Finest recording studio that anyone’s ever seen
I can’t imagine my first thought would be to build
The set of something like Saw, Part 14

But one man had exactly such a thought
Unspeakable evil was just his idea of fun
He may have killed as many as two hundred,
Yet, they could only convict him for one

How many victims? No one knows, because
Acid and lime don’t let much remain
He admitted to 27 but some were still alive
The only certainty was that Holmes was insane

I’ve seen and read about many ghastly things
Some of it factual and some, fictional mystery
But you can go read all about H. H. Holmes
In any reliable source of modern history

I’m bothered to the core by the sickness of men
The terrifying things that killers will do
But H. H. perturbs me, far more than most
Because all of his story is entirely too true

There are madmen and there are murderers
But you can’t just say something’s “not right”
That a man dreamt up such a chamber of horrors
Well… it’s why I lock my doors at night

From the black book of awful, horrible, despicable things, Out On The Killing Floor

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