outside the building where i work, the wind whips and wails
it raises holy hell in a way that you just wouldn’t believe, not unless you heard it for yourself
it moans and cries, bawls, screeches, and shrieks, as if this was the set of an old, black and white movie
i shit you not, it got even louder, louder than it’s been in hours, just as i typed those last few lines
it’s as if the bad director of this old, 1940s horror film (or maybe it’s film noir) was really hamming it up, failing to understand the intrinsic value of restraint and moderation; not realizing that less is often more
if you’re caught out in it, in all that wind, it slices straight through you, like a gangster’s switchblade
aside from the wind, it’s so oddly quiet, here, on the inside
that’s why the wind is so obvious, there’s nothing to compete with it
there’s only the sound of the heater, and occasional fragments of conversation
but, that wind is so strong and so ridiculously loud because it’s coming right in off the train tracks, up a smooth hill with nothing on it, and then, it smashes up against the corner of this building
and that’s where i sit, right near that corner
this wind, it produces the caterwauling music of lonely banshees, raging quietly o’er the moors, weeping for lost loves, ready to punish anyone for their unconquerable sadness
i sit here and read my book of dark, lonely poetry
i know the frustration of this poet, i understand why he settled for booze and prostitutes, why he gave up on the idea of love, altogether
i understand it, but i don’t drink, and the women i chased, they didn’t charge for their madness
they just scooped it out from five-gallon buckets, the way shark fishermen deal out chum
they served their love on platters made of quicksilver, adorned with rubies, emeralds, bits of gravel, and chunks of broken glass
the whole soupy mess just floated through their veins, and dripped out from between their legs, with that cosmic wine of ether and arsenic on their breath
it slapped you in the face, like that cold, december wind, coming in off the train tracks
i hear that mournful banshee wind and i know, that i too will always be alone
not because i wasn’t good enough
but, because everyone these days is just too broken to know how to love anyone
or to love themselves
instead, it’s an unending parade of impossible tasks
herculean shit-tests, and promethean tortures for imagined wrongdoings
it’s always, “if you really loved me…
then, you’d endure this bit of bullshit
and this one
and, a thousand more just like them.
and, you’d thank me for the privilege.”
it never stops, the goddamned shit-testing
it just never stops coming
it’s just like that goddamn wind outside
always wailing
only, more full of tragedy
more imbued with a primal rage
and, full of an over-the-top loneliness
the type of effluvial, melodramatic sadness that pumps straight out of old black and white movies, dripping bombastic sentimentality all over the celluloid
i would step outside, shake my fists at the sky, and yell, “stella!”
but, nobody’d hear it
and, they wouldn’t get the joke, even if they did
people these days, they don’t know shit about streetcars, or any kind of desire that isn’t a fleeting whim
their desires are all easily forgotten beneath the next, pointless distraction
they wouldn’t know a maltese falcon, if it fell on their heads
they can’t sit still for classic films they can’t sit still in a dark theater they can’t take the wailing cold of the cutting wind
and, they certainly can’t stand to be alone
the wind whips, stinging like a shapeless jellyfish, zapping you with a high voltage charge, like a downed power line
“See, their morals, their code… it’s a bad joke. Dropped at the first sign of trouble. They’re only as good as the world allows them to be. I’ll show you, when the chips are down, these… these civilized people? They’ll eat each other. See, I’m not a monster, I’m just ahead of the curve.”
—The Joker, from the film, The Dark Knight
The school went on lockdown today
A report came in about an armed student Roaming the campus
Students were immediately instructed To go to their dorms, and stay put
After some five or ten, agonizing minutes, The determination was made, It was only a hoax
This is an old gag Kids get bored, Call in a bomb threat Just for giggles Or, to get out of a test
Maybe, it’s to cover their tardiness, When, one more late-show Would have caused them to Fail a particular class
But, these days, On the national level, There are more mass shootings Than there are Days in the year
Who’s to know When to be truly concerned? Or, when to be Merely annoyed?
The young girl on the news said The thing that bothered her most Was how no one talked about it, After the all-clear signal was given; She said it went on like a normal day, As if nothing had happened
She said it was as if Everything was fine, When really, underneath, Everyone knew that Nothing about it was normal, Much less, fine
The teachers didn’t address the issue The students didn’t speak To each other about it, either
One has to wonder, How many false alarms can occur, Before the security guards begin Dropping their guard? How many, before they stop Taking the threats seriously?
What happens, when The real thing goes down, And they don’t stop it, because They got sloppy, Because of too many False alarms?
This was one of several such incidents That took place on multiple campuses, All on this one, particular day
But, at the heart of it all, This was not one incident, Nor was it two, or even five
This, is the new normal The regular, daily pattern of Life in the United States, The common thread In the tapestry of America
This is the age of the Joker
Every card is wild
It’s not always an active shooter It’s not always a bomb threat It’s not even always about An event at a school
It’s sometimes a threat of Imminent war against other countries
It’s the news weather forecast It’s the stories of tornado victims, The death tolls of flash floods, Hurricanes, landslides, heatstroke
It’s the rumors, dog whistles, and Outright cries for civil war in America
It’s the empty shelves at the grocery store
It’s the ongoing, never-ending Supply chain problems
It’s requisite new vocabulary, Terms like “doomerism,” And the dusting off of classic, 70s hits, like “Collapse,” and, The Limits to Growth
It’s the shortages of needed medications
It’s learning the heart-wrenching truth about The children of Somalia,⠀ And many other nations like it
It’s the mounting lies that Erode faith in the system It’s the creeping groan of fascism, Sinking its fangs into The Statue of Liberty’s jugular, Insisting that she report her periods To the school nurse
That she burn all those lurid copies of And Tango Makes Three, The Bluest Eye, and Out of Darkness
Slapping the “woke” beer out of her hand, Making her spit out that “woke” chocolate candy
Making her subject to laws that Relegate her to the status of cattle, Demanding that she inform on her friends, Should they seek to cross state lines For any health care that involves Their naughty parts
Insisting that she never speak the Dreaded crimson words, Words telling of the flowing of blood, From the sacred place that Spawned each of us, Even those who, now, Refuse to speak of the cycle of life That is responsible for their Entire existence
She is soon to be muzzled, Disallowed from speaking anything Beyond, a pained statement of duress… “Yes, I am happy to bear your seed.”
She will wear a red burka, Shaped like a baseball cap, Peppersprayed with meaningless words, About a mythical nation that ever existed, One built on the backs of slaves, Slaves who she must never mention To her children
Ruby is only a gem, and a color, Bridges are but things we drive over, In our carbon-spitting SUVs
Parks is not a name, It is a noun, describing a place where People go to enjoy nature; Good, upstanding white folk, Standing on the skulls of Nameless hordes of ghosts
These ghosts whisper foul incantations, “We are here, too! We have names!”
They seek to possess good, caucasian children, Swaying them into the unacceptable madness Of admitting various lunacies, such as, “Yes, these are human beings. They have proud names, rich heritages, and incredible stories of Overcoming adversity.”
Insisting that the children Not be allowed to become The fodder of the Devil’s history, Declaring, as if it were true, “These were the Sioux, the Wichita, the Apache, The Chinese, Pakistani, the Mexican, The African, the transgender, and The women, who monthly bleed, As God saw fit for them to bleed.”
Surely, all will fall into ruin and chaos, Were the children to speak about Such horrors as boys, kissing other boys, Or, girls, kissing other girls
These are not things good folks discuss At the dinner table, or in places of learning No, these are things that must never See the light of day
After all, the clergy, and the Congressmen, They had the common decency To perform their fellatios on each other, And on the young children, Under the cover of darkness
“Why can’t these godless teachers Shut their fucking mouths?! Sorry, I cursed… forgive me, Jesus I just become so incredibly angry, When people have the unmitigated gall To tell our children that A huge, astonishing, astounding percentage Of the world’s population Thinks and behaves Differently than us”
Oh, the unruly, unkempt insanity Of spilling the beans about our actual, True history, soaked as it is, In the blood of slaves, migrants, And silently suffering “others,” Who we would not abide Who we would not allow To follow their natures, However discreetly they sought to do so
“Isn’t it clear? Don’t they see it? Don’t they see how immigrants Are coming to invade us? How these foreigners want to Take over this proud land that was Inhabited only by pure, white blood, For thousands of years?”
This is the golden age of the false narrative, Wiggling in “lies” about Murika being built By “people” from Ireland, Scotland, France, Africa, Spain, and even many other Godless lands
“They want our children to believe that We enslaved an entire race of coloreds I mean, obviously, we did, but… What the hell else were we going to do? That cotton and tobacco wasn’t going to Pick itself
“They want to murder The memory of our heroes, Our General Custer’s, and Our great General John Wayne Replace them, with lies about us Slaughtering innocents, and taking their lands I mean, obviously, we did do that, but… What kind of monsters want The children to know The truth of it?!”
They have enough to worry about, Trying to sort out who is the real President, Whether or not our elections are rigged; The same election process that put The other guy in the big chair, last time
Trying to decide if the man Walking toward them will offer help, Or rape, or murder
We can’t protect our children from Being shot at school, or from Getting high-powered weapons, And irreparably harming others,
Instead, we focus on preventing them from Getting a hold of far more dangerous items, Like condoms, and birth control pills
We rabidly foam on about the Tyranny of ideas, and events That are common knowledge
Mandatory background checks, For anyone who is trying to buy A semiautomatic weapon? Unacceptable
Clearly, anyone sensible enough to know That they need the protection of an AR-15 Is sensible enough to keep their names Off government lists!
It’s really quite simple… Childhood pregnancy? good Females bleeding? not good
Books, scary Bibles, awesomeness
Ar-15s, yes Disney, a total mess
Migrants (or women) crossing borders? No Barbara’s Bleeding Logbook? God bless
The collapsing climate? Must suppress.
Tax cuts for billionaires, they do impress
Lose an election? Just don’t confess More than two genders? We must redress.
The economy, must never recess Historical facts… “His story,” nonetheless
See? I told you it was simple. Try to keep up, stupid.
Below, you’ll find links to get your copy, music videos from Area 25, plus the super-interesting, totally true, absolutely not made up backstory behind the album.
The excellent cover art was generously provided by Dorian Strange.
It really helps me out a lot when you give the videos a thumbs up 👍 leave a comment 💭 and share your favorites on your social media pages ♥️
Videos from Area 25
Unchanged
Into the Fold
Three Day Beard
Hopium Blues
Scorpio
Tact
War on Venus
I Wasn’t Using It
All Around
Upbeat Dance Number
We’re All Gonna Fade Away
At the Bottom
Mandala of Sand, Pt. 1
Trent Boswell Bio
Kevin Trent Boswell is a thing that once blinked briefly in and out of existence. It made noises and gestures while it lasted. The exact nature of its demise is unclear. Some sources say it collapsed beneath the weight of entropy and time. Other tertiary facts suggest the possibility that it was destroyed by a predator, an accident, or perhaps even by itself. The truth of the matter is unknown. Luckily, no one cares.
The Story Behind Area 25
Area 25 is a traveler’s atlas for navigating endless, winding caves, wormholes, cracks in reality, tears in the space-time continuum, black holes, abysmal hellscapes, and all of the most common types of bottomless pits that comprise the modern world.
The somber, dystopian audio guidebook is delivered over an eclectic musical soundtrack of rock, psychedelia, pop, funk, and dire expressions of poetic mental illness.
Area 25 is an exorcist’s manual for the perils of life on Earth for Homo sapiens. It catalogues the sundry catastrophes that plague the upright ape, namely those of poverty, depression, rejection of the tribe, and failed attempts at relationships, friendships, and spiritual endeavors.
Not for the faint of heart (nor the “feint” of heart), Area 25 is a dark, gritty, and gloomy telling of the myriad ways in which hominids undo themselves, rend each other asunder, and even casually rip apart their sole means of survival, the ecosystem in which they habitat. Odd beings, at best; horrible monsters, at worst.
Genesis
An ancient evil spirit was once trapped for centuries inside a dybbuk. Through the foolish mistake of some human, the demon escaped.
The ghoul found amusement in tormenting one particular human critter, who’s name was Trent Boswell. The tortures took shape by possessing the human with an inescapable obsession to create something called “Area 25.”
The demon wanted the brainless exploits of humans captured on record, so it would have something to laugh about, later; much like you might watch an episode of Seinfeld, even though you’ve already seen it several times.
The dark cruelty of this promethean ordeal rested in the fact that the human was entirely lacking the necessary resources for the production of a proper, commercially viable product. It was working only with a ten-year-old Macintosh computer, an old version of GarageBand, an inexpensive condenser mic, a FocusRite preamp, a cheap bass guitar, a pair of 3 1/2” monitors, and a nice Fender Stratocaster.
What the demon didn’t expect, is that the human would actually persist through said tribulations of substandard working conditions, and complete the project. Much to the demon’s surprise, the human finished the project, despite the lack of access to a professional recording studio, or the backing of a major record label.
The end result, a tabulation of human follies and foibles, will now provide the escaped beastie with comedic entertainment for the coming aeons, long after humans have disappeared from the planet; which should be anytime within the next couple of decades.
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
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.
Published Works
The poetry and music of Kevin Trent Boswell
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Magus72 on Patreon – the music, poetry, and madness of Kevin Trent Boswell
