mental – Page 4 – Kevin Trent Boswell

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

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

usurper

fractional, piecemeal

tattered royal robes
of a child sovereign

dancing monkey courtiers
in dance floor flights of fancy

the throne,
a perpetual game of
“duck, duck, goose”

title of monarchy
changes as swiftly
as the second hand
of the reviled and feared
grandfather clock;
always chiming
on the unsuspecting head
of what might well be
the last hour

a masquerade waltz
parades of ever-changing partners
turnstiles at each end
of the ballroom

cardboard cutouts holding hands

ladles of wine,
party favors strewn about the floors,
a punchbowl full of suite keys

the night never ends,
but the sun is always rising;
it’s busy chasing ghosts,
the ephemeral fears
of revelation,

a glass onion caricature
of something referred to as
plainly obvious

the hand strikes midnight,
and midnight slashes its throat,
severing its artery,
just as the reveal
portion of the soirée
climaxes in a
feeding frenzy

the czar must feed
its myriad children,
with their thousand faces,
and their insatiable armada
of ten thousand mouths,
and their infinite rows
of sharpened teeth

a hydra-headed babe,
sprawling out of
a catacomb of cribs

all of the palace,
and all of its occupants,
are laid upon the banquet table,
or simply devoured whole,
right where they stand

the crown smiles upon itself,
having satisfied the appetites
of its innumerable infant rouges,
the task is announced as completed,
finis, coup de grâce,
“Tetelestai… it is finished.”

everyone walks away,
down the grand hallways,
elaborately ornamented,
hiding beneath the curved eaves

much hustling and bustling,
out through the facades

mad, naked revelers,
drunkenly climbing
the spires and bannisters,
and scrambling up the entablatures

some leaping desperately
from the nearest fenestrations

all are in the most superb hurry,
since the next affair
begins in but a moment

and each attendee
does so desire
to make their
grand entrance

each attendee does
desire so

the mandatory attendance
of these bacchanalias
is everything,
all that is
known

to be seen
is to exist

to be missed
is to be forgotten

to be forgotten
is to be cast
into the outer
darkness
of oblivion

dance with
whoever you like,
but dance

for to stop the twirling play
of flirtation and primping,
to cease the endless arabesque
of changing hands,
and switching costumes,
swooning and sweeping
across the dance floor

is to find oneself
face to face
with the mirror

and that,
is where
the death
of childhood
hides,

waiting
for any one of the
throngs of delirious dancers
to tire out, and pause
in quiet contemplation

so, that death may
reach out
and throttle them
slowly with a heavy chain
of opprobrium,
the sight of their
unexceptional, mundane
reflections

keep twirling,
never cease smiling,
change your masks regularly,
slip out of your wardrobe,
and don a new costume,
at least once, during each polonaise
or allegro sonata

spin, laugh, tell jokes,
drink, tell lies, twirl,
flirt, giggle and be merry,
but do not ever, ever…
stop

and above all,
stay far
away
from the
mirrors

death
waits for you,
there,
in the
mirrors

©️2023 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

Patreon

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.