life – Page 8 – Kevin Trent Boswell

Flypaper

You can’t write
Beautiful poems
About love, nature,
Or friendship

When you’re under
An endless barrage of
Of deceit, disaster, and
Disappointment

If you’re trying to
Sit quietly
Under a bridge

And, everyone up top
Is chucking rocks at your head,
Hurling insults at you, and
Some things that are even worse

It’s going to break your concentration

You’re going to get shit
All over the pages
Of your notebook

It just doesn’t work;
You can’t do it

You can’t do it,
Anymore than a painter
Can put the finishing touches
On a huge, oil-on-canvas piece,
While sitting beneath
A flock of seagulls

The dammed birds
Are just going to keep
Shitting
All over that artist’s head

Shitting
All over the painting,
All over the palette

It’s pretty goddamned difficult
To write sweet, starry-eyed,
Optimistic poetry

When gut-wrenching
Distress and betrayal
Keeps falling all over you,
Getting all stuck to the pages

Poetry is flypaper

Whether hits your life,
Whatever hits you
Right in your gut,
It stains the work

It’s probably more accurate
To say that
All the bullshit,
The lies and
The letdowns,

Really,
It stains
You

It’s all over your face,
The dust of it is
In your eyes

The hunger of all those
Empty calories
Is in your belly

The holes, from all the
Drudgery and false promises,
Have punctured your heart,
Your lungs, and your veins

The greasy, foul-smelling
Residue of
All of it

It’s all over your hands,
And so,

You can’t set pen to paper,
Or touch your keyboard

Not without
Getting that shit
All over your writing

Magus72 on Patreon - the music, poetry, and madness of Kevin Trent Boswell — Magus72 on Patreon – the music, poetry, and madness of Kevin Trent Boswell

Toodles, Noodle

Tousle the soggy noodle
Stir it in the pot
It’s no longer stiff and sharp;
More inclined to rot

It’s decidedly well-seasoned;
Overly so, perhaps
More than oregano, salt and pepper;
Too many spices, in fistful slaps

Dusty, rotten crumbs, from kitchen floor
Grease, tracked in from the streets
As well as lint, and various perversions
That flaked off bedroom sheets

Along with the turmeric, garlic, and basil,
There’s a reduction of sweat and tears
The pot overflows with olive oil,
And existential fears

The noodle once stood proud and tall,
Looking sharp, in a new cardboard box
Advertising logos, and bright colors,
Like a shiny, gold brick in Fort Knox

Now, it’s soft, it’s overcooked,
Full of inconsistent flavors
And, the intense heat of the kitchen
Hasn’t done it any real favors

The noodle is tired and sickly now,
You’ll likely find it tasteless
It’s slathered in clashing sauces
The ingredient choices, baseless

Still, the noodle is all that is left,
And one must attempt to preserve it
It’s the only meal or means there is,
Whether or not you deserve it

The pot, too, has been banged about;
It’s hardly fit for duty
It’s been kicked more than a martial artist
In the head, and in the booty

It’s scratched, and chipped, soiled and bent,
The handle held in place by hope
Too look at all the permanent stains,
You’d think it was allergic to soap

But this, too, is necessary to keep
One can’t simply throw it away
Without this beat up utensil,
Where would the noodle stay?

This kitchen debacle is a catastrophe
Of lowbrow, modern cuisine
But, a noodle in a pot is all we’ve got
And, I know that you know what I mean

©Kevin Trent Boswell

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we

in desiring ourselves,
we desire to fancy
ourselves as creations
of god’s divine light
it is true, we are first;
shattered and broken
vessels of sound,
which could not hold light

dance with us, come
come, and be joyful
be mirthful, be drunken
come, and forget
we are the new wine
the skins, having bursted
the host could not drink
and, did sorely lament

let us throw shadows
in every direction
join us in the song
which shall never be heard
the cheerless dirge
of uncelebrated things
a melody of madness,
fallen short of the word

for, nothing is anything
if anything is nothing
and, what is our reward
if we have not control?
so, let us pretend
that we are the light,
not the darkness
which shall never be whole

telling all those
who would stop to listen
how they, and not we,
fell into disrepair
how they, and not us,
are the lost, lonely devils
whose deeds caused the light
to weep in despair

let us join in agreement
and be not divided
details of narrative,
we shall conceive
and, dividing all things,
we fall into slumber
allowing ourselves
a story, to believe

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from the forthcoming book,

mandala, versicles of heaven and hell

Imminent

“Omnes una manet nox.”
The same night awaits us all
Loud or soft, when death, it knocks
Each, alone, must heed the call

On papyrus, the old Roman bard
Horace scrawled with ink and quill
All of us end, either soft or hard
Old or young, for good or ill

That night crawls to us, or races quick
The usurper puts another in place
Details wrapped in fog too thick
Erased by time, our name and face

Omnes une manet nox.

—Horace, Roman poet

The Latin approximately translates as, “The same night awaits us all.”

Coming September 30th, 2022

Area 25 – a new album of twelve original songs from Trent Boswell

Area 25 - music by Trent Boswell - coming September 30th — Area 25 by Trent Boswell – coming September 30th

The music and poetry of Kevin Trent Boswell.jpg — The music and poetry of Kevin Trent Boswell

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

Support This Work on Patreon

Inside Job

Author’s Note: This one is a little more fun if you read it in Tony Soprano’s voice.

I always defended my inner child
Even when change, he’d slow or shunt
I spoke to him softly, sweet and kind
Never too harsh, rude, or blunt

But his juvenile ways sabotage me
Constantly force me to fall back and punt
It’s time for him to grow the hell up
My progress, the crybaby tries to stunt

If I’m ever gonna get ahead in this world
Any luck in life, the brutal hunt
I can’t afford to have this kid in my way
His juvenile tantrums, I gotta confront

All this baby does is worry, complain
He fights reality, finds truth an affront
His childish attitudes are holding me back
I say, fuck that bratty, squawkin’ cunt

I know a guy; he paints houses, wetwork
A reliable button man to bear the brunt
He knows how to handle these things
A backdoor man; alibi and solid front

I’m sick of his shit, bellyachin’, moanin’
I gotta do it; I’m putting out a hit on the runt
I’ll murder this punk and bury his body
In a shallow grave by the waterfront