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
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
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
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.
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The poetry and music of Kevin Trent Boswell
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Magus72 on Patreon – the music, poetry, and madness of 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.
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
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.
