mind – Page 2 – Kevin Trent Boswell

grown ass sovereign

tiny tyrant, vindictive and petty
useful in the most useless of ways
omniscient, omnipotent, powerless, dumb
toy compass points toward hateful malaise

closed off from everyone, open to all of it
help is the hunger to acquire, to accrue
never learned to do the dance of anything
all those skills are for someone else to do

cocked, sawed-off, double-barrel rage
all of us failed to know what was hidden
couldn’t guess the number of jelly beans
a boobytrapped jar labeled “forbidden”

you should’ve known, even though i don’t
get out of my head, give me some space
i’m so lonely, why don’t you love me?
but i always take time to put you in place

trapped in the mirror, the empty reflection
ripples don’t break the Narcissus spell
no wrinkles in the alarm clock’s sleep
a ladder of bones to a personal hell

an army of me, but none of those copies
are this good, although all are the same
and i know how you love my hurdles when
you say how much you hate this game

one pill or the other; it’s hardly the issue
this one is poison, no name on the jar
many will partake, thinking it medicine
but all will collapse, and none will get far

The music and poetry of Kevin Trent Boswell.jpg — Words and Sounds, Noises in the Dark

Little Despot

Empty-headed blood scepter
Rails on about rights and privileges

But the angel-faced baboon
Will have none of it

Garrison bone hides
Rancid jowls in its ivory jar

Circus clown juggler
Tilts at the mills of wind,
Falls of water, and the
Endless static screen

Burn all that useless crap
In the trash barrel
Out back

Reach in the candy dish
And pull out a fresh squid

This tiny line of chalk
Guides the anchor to its resting place

Cranial trauma
This, too, shall never pass

But the not-subsiding
Should subside
Within a few thousand years or so

Your head only hurts because
We’ve removed it;
Imminent domain

The lumpy piece of flesh
That used to be inside of it
Is now an air freshener
Hanging from the rear view mirror
In the Devil’s Cadillac

He says it reminds him of home

One last thing,

Please sign here:

—————————————————

encroaching

that taste
will not always
haunt the lips

or will it?

it is certain that
other hungers
will swarm the palate
and strangle
the familiar flavor

or is it?

the trail is littered
with the swollen corpses
of fabled monsters
and brittle heroes

the valley is cursed
and the sky is burnt

hedgerows of thorn bushes
quietly weep blood
in the shadows

they sing mournful songs
of blistered eyes,
salted fields full of silk roses,
wolfsbane and hellebore,
the broken teeth of clockwork dolls,
and a thousand crushed hearts
of little bluebirds
overflowing from the
mortar and pestle

beckoning mirage,
a courtyard fountain
that sprays only gossip,
a wishing well
of screaming sad sirens,
hungry to drown
all careless passersby

my history’s pages
are all made of dust

the cap is of old tile,
the gown is a shroud,
and the tassels are all
desiccated worms

guts of tapioca
and bones of papier-mâché

any junior scout
with a compass and a crayon
could’ve easily mapped out
my imminent demise

it would have
saved a great deal
of yet more useless time
had I set my fool’s course
directly for the rocks,
instead taking such
a circuitous route

surely, this was
how I stumbled;
once, at least

craving the honorifics
of a conqueror,
a king

chasing wispy legends,
a haunted city of gold
that lay in the heart
of an untamed jungle
on a remote little island
only rumored to exist

a gnarled patch of land
that only surged up
from deep ocean trenches
in the craven imaginings
of a syphilitic madman

a derelict scoundrel
who scrawled dark heresies
onto pages of black dust
in an ink made from octopus,
the dried blood of
slaughtered griffins,
slain wyverns,
and fallen angels

an El Dorado of oblivion,
always just over the horizon
swelling in the overheated
cranium of a lunatic
drunk on malaria
and a dry, bitter wine
made from red poison berries

any wobbly toddler
could have rightfully discerned
that it was only a cruel game of
peek-a-boo and goodbye

the face keeps disappearing,
disappointing, disapproving,
and daily disavowing

and never allowing
deeper mysteries
to be known

any toy soldier could have
made short work
of my defenses

the walls of my fortress
were destined to fail
and crumble
and be swallowed up
by the ruthless, ever-empty,
ceaseless cravings
of jaws that lust
for everything
and nothing

any busted clock
could have
told the tale
of how I was
out of time
before I ever
began

of how I would,
without doubt,
be swept from the decks
of the good ship of memory,
into the raging sea

it has always been a given,
that I would be erased
from the blackboard of thought,
and cast out of
the picture

it was always
understood,
a given,
a known

or was it?

Not Yet a Yearling

I.

Stumbling as we tumble down
From the decks above

Let’s spill some fledgling blood
On this virgin ground

Consecrate this sacred land
With sweet, sugary death

Dried up vestige of arterial lineage,
Like blackstrap molasses

A batch of fattening confections
In entropy’s galley

The host will have their way

The menu is set;
No substitutions

II.

Everything has lost its flavor

All of the dialogue and costumes
Receding into the background,
Lost amid aimless clamoring
For the awareness of others

A thousand colors
And two sizes

Seduced by the sidewalk,
Let us earn our wings,
And fly

The problem is clear
So, clear the table
Table the discussion
Discuss a potential agreement
Agree to the terms
Terminate the problem

The surgeon calls out sick

The sickness calls out
For a bone saw, scalpel, retractor,
And suction

Triage is a red carpet buffet
Of wide-eyed inspiration

For a man with no appetite,
You certainly are hungry

This one isn’t going to make it;
That frame will collapse
As soon as boots hit the floor

You gonna eat that?
It’s just going to spoil if you don’t;
These things have no shelf life

There is no point to any of it, anyway

So much more prudent
Than all this senseless striving

Everyone knows
It is not the guest
Who decides
What’s for supper

The table is already set…

Sit down and eat

Your loss

III.

Spill some for yourself
While you have the chance

Freshen your gunpowder

Powder your nose

Sanctify this unholy,
Godless parcel of dirt
With a little spritz
Of sweet annihilation

Downstream

The merciful tyrant
Unwittingly enslaves himself
Head chained to a stone,
A fraction of an inch
Above the grinding wheel

Sweat pours off the brow,
Enough to fill an empty chalice,
The kind of cup that one might
Craft by hand, and set apart
Solely for use in special feasts,
Feasts that never took place
Except in the mind

A mind that now rots
Inside a bone cell,
Cuffed by steel bands
To a stone tablet,
Where it struggles to
Hold itself up,
Away from the wheel,
Less than a tired wink of sleep
Below

How it all occurred is
A promethean comedy of errors

An artificial notion became planning;
Plans inched stealthily forward,
Advancing toward schemes,
Where the schemes beget a clusterfuck,
And the clusterfuck exploded
Into a bucket of shit and
A bathtub of tears

I have wasted the infinite scream

That spectacular spectacle
Of standing above the relenting chasm,
In the assumption of a god form
And a triumphant rush of endorphins

Being full of such arrogance
As to declare oneself a great thing

It is but the backsplash
Of crashing waves,
The backdraft of a conflagration,
The hammer claw that slips carelessly
Off of the head of the nail, and
Slaps back hard into the face of
The one who holds the hammer,
The swirlies of high school bullies

Proverbial pissing
Into a primordial storm

Hubris, personified

The Devil laughs hardest
At we mortals
Who merely dabble
In part time blasphemy

He is quick to show us
Who invented the game,
And who we should call “El Jefe”

His pool cue is the stolen staff of Moses

He chalks it with dust
From the tombs of martyrs

He runs the table every time,
Right from the break

Casually leans back and smiles,
Lights a cigarette, and
Does his best Marlon Brando,

“Rack ‘em up, boys. Double or nothin’.”

Cut It Out

Cut it out of the sternum
And place it on the altar

I no longer want it,
This bitter heart
In my mouth

A locked chest full of feathers,
Little lockets and silvery trinkets,
Walking sticks and reeds of bamboo,
Straps of leather and heavy chains,
Strange wires and clockworks,
Flowers of unusual, grand, noble gestures,
The teeth of pirates, the entrails of kings,
And the bones of beached sharks,
Now too frail to feed

The carpet needed
A little splash
Of red, anyway

You know, just a little something extra
To accent the curtains

The dusk and the music box
Both wait in the corner
To spit fire and agony
Into the flesh of the evening

Surrender to the waves

The waves were always wiser

They always kept moving,
Never weighing themselves down

Fight off all of those
Ridiculous impulses,
Provocateur pushes
To the edge of another,
Another one of those nothings,
Exactly like all the ones
That come night after night

Resist the pulse,
The catalyst incentives
To do yet more stupid things,
Stupid things like breathing

Sew this dumb mouth shut
With a spool of black thread
Stolen from the undertaker’s
Trench coat pocket

Do it before all of those sounds
Escape

All those sweet, garbled mysteries
That fell into it while I was drunk
On her flesh

And still foolish enough
To believe I was alive

Capture them in stitches
With the Devil’s dried-up veins
And a needle of blackthorn

Line the casket with
Old newspapers

And line the birdcage
With red silk

Pour me a bowl of stone gravel
And a ladleful of sour milk

Plug my ears with wax,
While they are still full
Of her laughter

The ancient cathedral
Has more than enough novenas,
And indeed, the blind priest,
He will not miss just one

Pull out these bloody eyes
With spoons made for ice cream

And press them both tightly
Between the pages
Of an old book of secrets

Here, they’ll be safe,
And spared the pain
Of seeing

Stuff the eye sockets full
Of meaningless words

Wrap it all up, and
Place it all in a box
A box made of yew,
And cedar and cypress

Then, nail it shut with
Rail spikes of iron,
Hammer them in tightly
With the skull of a ram

Stretch it over completely
With the skin of my body
Pull it good and tight,
As taught as the head
Of a plaintive dirge drum

Place the whole lot of it
In the hole and cover it over
With a shovelful of mourning
And a fistful of yesterdays

They’re far superior to these
Rubrics of today’s fabrications and
Tomorrow’s rumors of
Trial-and-error pleasures

But sing to it softly,
As you cover it with fresh earth,
So it will feel less alone
As it communes in silence
With all the roots and rocks beneath

The gris-gris is not sealed
Until you etch the proper glyphs
Into the tablet of lead, and you
Speak the words over it, and then
Place it in the ground

But miss nothing about this,
It is not buried treasure
Make no maps, no monuments,
No markings on the calendar

It is only a sarcophagus,
The coffin of a scorpion
Who dreamed itself once
A bright pharaoh of the valley
But awoke screaming in the night
To the songs of its madness
And it crawled into itself
And there, ever, it remained

Listen now to the kettle,
How it raves and howls,
How it steals hot kisses
From the streetlights below,
And thumbs its raised nose
At wandering ghouls

There will be no snow this winter,
Only weeping glaciers

And the sea will be taking
Its out-of-time cues
From the heartless sun
Who is thankful for itself

The ferryman waits for me,
On the bank of the morning

His oar is readied
And impatiently thumping

It is time to go