clobber with slobber
the foaming beast
tumble over rover
not bothered in the least
a bull and a pig
shopped for china one day
and a minefield dig
for archeological play
toppling the workloads,
tumbling down card towers
a brief symposium
of how energy is released
drenched in sweat
and love and tea
a most brutal pet
killing all boredom, sending it away
Copyright 2020 Kevin Trent Boswell
the dark nighttime
has many visions,
lost illusions, all seeking
to guide you
into foul madness,
struggling beneath
too-short
and coarse covers
trust your gut,
sweet child
for nothing but light
is inside you
the same
may not always
be said
of the others
look both ways
before you cross over
the unknown
threshold
there is the light
which is in you
true
and bold
and then there’s
all of the everything
else
that’s out there
some lights
which have gone out
but haven’t yet
been told
devils may take the
appearance of angels,
so always
take care
these would
warm themselves
by the fires of
your favors
but themselves,
cannot
return
the good deed
gratitude absent,
and all the
usual,
good flavors
are not nearly so much
in them,
not so much as
they need
caring, something
they’re sometimes
quite good
at feigning
but they would
not do so much
at all,
were they able
to give you
assistance
they assist
by restraining
so that you make
in their making
up the food
on the table
in those dark places,
your rules don’t
make up
for the senses
your eyes
often fail
and your hearing
goes dumb
you‘re a good child,
a smart one
keeps up
strong defenses
against the weaving
of webs that would
have you
succumb
listen not
to easy tales
of leisure
or love
be generous
to the grateful,
giving too much,
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 the light
whispers its
soft warning
go not lightly
where it would
sternly
guide you away
lean gentle
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
sadness
your large heart
feeds them
but the briefest
time’s highlight
your manners
won’t bring them
single moment’s
gladness
baleful hunger
returns ever,
without
pause
more hot and fierce,
and much
stronger
than before
opening you
slowly,
hiding
their cause
growing more
and more bold,
once you open
the door
in knowing
what warm,
nice feelings
spill out of you
upon your noble,
good faith,
they come
again to dine
a stitch of
incredulous
will keep 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
the pushers
of darkness,
small steps lead
to the dire
be careful
and wise
and don’t
fall for it
strange misgivings
will have you
to shirk,
with sudden attitude
even the
friendliest
of those come
hither smiles
the first thing
to go,
once they get in,
is your mood
lasting longer
than it should,
means you’re taken
by the wiles
hold your memory
tight
and never let them
touch
trust, when the way down
is nagging
and the good feeling
lacks
harken which hands
reach for you,
too awful
much
a bother in your belly,
stops you
dead in your
tracks
your energy
will fail,
long before
their thirst
that visceral fear,
in your warm,
tenderhearted
guts
if you take
the hooked bait,
you’ll soon see
their worst
suspicious,
uncertain
and thinking that
you’re nuts
those uneasy
twinges
that drive you back,
second guessing
from the most
obvious act
of a seeming
benevolence
they’re there
to warn you
of something
bad, pressing
despite daddy’s
words good can
sometimes draw
a malevolence
some feed on grace,
manners
and mother’s charm school
propriety
it’s less commentary
on your love
on more so,
on their bleakness
in spite
of polite
good intentions,
all sobriety
resides in your
maintenance
against your own
weakness
glowing with life,
you are
and so, must remain
in your poises
stay out of the
shadows
and out
of the foolish
they, and it, wane
into dark dins
of the most
horrible noises
which lead
away from light
and down into
the ghoulish
when your social
sensibilities
are suddenly
eviscerated
and it happens
without logical
reasons,
not one
something upon surface
seems
rather
uncomplicated
do not question it,
dear child,
instead…
turn and run
abdominal doubt
scorning the
solid
handshaking
is hidden
inside of
your knotted-up,
inward self
signal of a threat,
through
inexplicable
quaking
though they look
the good deal,
put them back
on the shelf
never wander
too closely
to the edges
of the dark
shadows have
been known,
on occasion,
to jump through
to leap out and swallow
flickering,
pretty things
that spark
those that reside
inside of
pretty things
such as you
keep close
to the guard dogs
who growl
behind fierce eyes
when strange
temptations
come close,
offering favors
do not lean in,
or listen
too well
to their lies
the keepers
of darkness
and light
are close neighbors
and sometimes
those shaded
boundaries
do fall wide open
for some
always go there,
eager to steal
keys
this may shock
or confuse,
sensibilities,
all broken
disappearance
in the night happens,
with the greatest
of ease
not all are so nice
as you, child and know
that some are the weight
of a great, heavy stone
not everyone
and everything
would have you
to live
some would
consume all,
even marrow
of your bone
every precious,
last drop of
all the blood
you could give
some of the
monsters feed
quietly
on your brain
not keeping you
in such good
but a good many
shapes
most monsters fall out
from the ordinary
and there,
they remain
until you break
their spells
and your spirit
escapes
creepers
all slithering
down low,
out of light
shielding from
the bright, good
and sensible
day
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
often does
but are only
cloaks of
drowning
in the cool shade
storms,
wearing rainbows
where color,
never was
any light
splintering through,
artificially
made
devils with dowries
invite you to
lie on razor sharp
pillows
with sweet, sugar
poisons,
sharp in the throat,
catch
because some wicks
take to light
easily,
like dried-up, old willows
candle burns through
the night,
on first strike of
one match
some things
look a lot like a candle,
a flame or
a spark
but they
will never burn,
no matter how hard
you try
use up all
your matches
and still,
in the dark
some will
always break things
and take things
and lie
about other things
like innocence
and light
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
they took
I’m sorry to
have to say, child
not all is
as it seems
in fact, most
things aren’t,
at deep heart
of the matter
in this world,
there are things
far worse
than bad dreams
and the daylight
does not cause
them all
just to scatter
some things
are stubborn
in slow dying,
sowing trouble
and you’ll never
get back
those things
which were taken
guard against the losses
and in time,
pop your own
bubble
childhood
dies a bit 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 be said,
always
of the others
Copyright 2020 Kevin Trent Boswell
Latest Book Release
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Author’s Note: This piece is dedicated to anyone who is still awake and should not be, to anyone who is worried about what things are waiting, up ahead.
Nighttime
Trouble, in the nighttime, fell
Upon too wakeful brow,
Which ought to sleep
Coins cast in tainted well,
Uncertainty of where and how,
Enough to cause anyone to weep
Pitching gold piece of its own,
Came an angel of repose and rest
With curious question, whispered, quiet
“A myriad things, all unknown…
How is it you’re certain… to fail the test?
Without shred of doubt, that may deny it?”
Of course, no good answer was there, for this
And searching, mind grew sore and tired
Eyes heavy, in downward creep
The angel placed soft, loving kiss
Upon empty head, thoughts all expired
Drifting peaceful now, into the deep
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.
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
In the land of Furyu, we don’t have us no states
No countries or borders, not a single, county line
Everybody lives just up the road, from everyone else
And the way we see it, that works out, mighty fine
Words like security and safety just ain’t never used
Since crime is a thing that ain’t nobody invented
Birds sing and people do their own, chosen tasks
For the pure satisfaction of a job, well-dented
Wanting for nothing and always happy
Folks here tend to spend a lot of time outside
We talk and dance, because the music is always playing
And we laugh when the children go down the slide
There’s a church in town, where we pray to Love
And in turn, Love takes care of every little thing
Suffering is something that we don’t quite understand
But goodness is guaranteed, each day, to bring
Rains fall from the sky and folks around here
Call it Heaven, nursing all the crops
It makes the food grow and that food feeds the people
Who eat well and often and gratitude never stops
Folks share craftsmanship, art and new skills
And all manner of things, each a labor of love
You see, in the land of Furyu, everything is easy
And if it ain’t now, it will be, soon enough, push come to shove
In this place, each person’s got a special use
And there just ain’t no reason for nobody to be left out
You belong and that’s because you’re family
And shucks, we figure that’s what it’s all about
Everybody knows because, ain’t none of us simple
That a neighbor is just a brother, a step or two away
Or a sister or cousin or something along those lines
But kin is kin, is what we’re trying to say
It’s a confounded shame, but folks over yonder
Done gone and forgot how to get back over here
It’s a strange thing to all of us, since well…
We ain’t exactly gone nowhere
But we’re all up at the house, and like I mentioned
It’s right up the road, just about a mile or two
We’ll set out an extra plate and we’ll wait up a spell
And you’re always welcome, in the land of Furyu
Copyright 2020
Kevin Trent Boswell
Now available, on Amazon:
Liber ex Liberi, The Book of Children
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.
lovely thing
inspired
a poem
lesser fortune,
it drips
blood
slight,
the wound
crude,
its cause
as such,
it shall
remain
ever so
brief
Copyright 2020
Kevin Trent Boswell
Now available, on Amazon:
Liber ex Liberi; The Book of Children
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.
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
I think what this pandemic was lacking is a song, a tune that the people can hum. Therefore, to fill the current need, I have adapted an old favorite, with new (improved) lyrics.
I present to you, “Battle Against The Public”.
[sung to the tune of the famous song, Battle Hymn of the Republic]
Mine ears have heard the glory of the
Omniscient, Orange Lord
He is trampling on the facts
About the PPE we’ve stored
He hath loosed the fateful virus
By the terrible signs, ignored
His untruth is marching on!
(Chorus)
Story, story, tell it to ya!
It ain’t no worse than the flu… duh!
Praise him or he’ll remove ya!
Our Nonsense marching on!
I have seen His message echoed in the
Online, Right-Wing camps,
They have builded Him an altar
Where truth‘s secured with iron clamps;
See through His dimwit message
By the light of Logic’s lamps
His toupée is marching on!
(Chorus)
Friends, who you thought really knew ya!
Tell you it’s a hoax, come to screw ya!
Sit and wait at home, like Buddha!
His Orange is marching on!
I have read a fiery gospel, writ
In CAPS of angry steel:
“Those who deal with My opponents,
Get respirators that might heal”
Let the Orange Nero, play the fiddle
Let Americans all kneel
Trump is God and nothing’s wrong!
(Chorus)
Derogatory, press is unfair to ya!
Common sense has got the blues-a!
From Miami and NY to Chattanooga!
The virus marches on!
He has sounded forth the trumpet
By Easter, we will have it beat;
Well, never mind… but admit,
That the idea was pretty neat!
Doctors say… he’s a mo-ron!
(Chorus)
Gory, the doctors all conclude-a!
Fateful end, you’ll come to-a!
On breath machine, you’ll turn blue-a!
The buck He’s passing on!
In reports that came from China,
South Korea, Italy
The Donald was duly warned
Of illness, born across the sea,
With mighty golf club in his hand,
He said “Let’s wait and see”
As He lied to make men wealthy,
Let us try to make men see,
While the President blathers on!
(Chorus)
Glory, brave souls who blew the!
Whistle, sorry no supplies get to ya!
Your on your own, He never knew ya!
Our health care, shat upon!
Copyright 2020
Kevin Trent Boswell
The new book is out now, on Amazon:
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.
One may never truly know
Into what deep and secret part
A simple kindness, how it grows
Seed taking root in the heart
The depth of its vast potential
That seeming, but not, small event
How vital, immense and essential
When it sprouts, or where it went
Author’s Note:
I read a post on Facebook about a man who, as a child, was regularly, severely beaten by his mother.
He said that watching Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood showed him that he didn’t deserve that cruelty and he said “Mr. Rogers saved my life”. I couldn’t seem to locate the post again but it inspired this piece.
Be kind to each other. When people will not allow you to be kind, then at least be BIG and just walk away.
There’s a huge difference between choosing to avoid arguments/fights and being a coward. People need to understand the difference.
Some people think that every minor confrontation is a threat to their wellbeing or even just their ego. They think that if they walk away, it equals weakness.
The real weakness is lacking the self-confidence to simplify go around it and ignore it. If backed into a corner or loved ones are threatened, then fight; to the death, if necessary.
But if someone is just mouthing off, you can choose to just ignore it. Rather than it saying that you’re too afraid to deal with it, it says that you’re too BIG to deal with it.
And you never know… your complete refusal to be rattled or fearful or angry or to be drawn into a fight, it might just have a profound effect on the person who is challenging you.
They may change, they may not, doesn’t matter. What matters is that YOU will change.
Copyright 2020
Kevin Trent Boswell
(Magus)
The new book is out now, on Amazon:
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.
