I wrote a post, over at ConjureWork.com that I feel is important. It pertains to art, poetry, music and accurate thinking and how we all need it more than we may realize.
Rather than recreate it here, I’m just linking it: Art Matters.
Tag: Poem
somewhere in wilmington
somewhere in wilmington
waiting and wilting
baiting and quilting
an intricate weave
an alluring network of delicacies
through hell bent phosphorescent mind
of elder kinsmen magician sort
what to say
of lovers and wise men,
scoundrels and boys in the sticks
and creative stories:
hey, is that true?
no. it’s made up and so
we believe it
because it’s a wonderful rose
that grows
incandescent strobe light wonderful
god, i love that word:
wonderful
it’s not quite said enough
yet, says enough
and yet, not
and therefore…
much more, you see?
it’s simple
and silly, yes.
after all,
isn’t everything?
it is in wilmington
things often stated
rather matter-of-fact-ly
like ideas that
hit you in the lung,
real wonderful like;
something like joy
like knowing it will all be o.k.
even though you
really don’t know that
it will all be o.k.;
like finding out that
your brain will
chase its own tail, if you let it
and not making that mistake again
and not hiring woe
to spend all your money
woe?
oh, no.
i apologize.
the subject was joy.
or was it wonderfulness? (;)
or was it wilmington? (;)
or was it silliness? (;)
i believe it may have been
willingness;
willingness to accept certain things;
to accept the fact that
you is you
and you
is the only you
you get, you.
they do forget you.
one way or another, brother,
they forget you
wake up
and you realize
that this is the
karmic scheme of things
and many dreams it brings,
in the wee small hours,
that seem like days
because you’ve been dreaming
for years
that you were
really here
but you were really
just asleep
and dreaming
that you were
awake
and
baked
somewhere
in
wilmington
last day
in the days of short pencils
and long papers
an earned renunciation of earlier
struggles
supernatural glimpse of a
well cooked tomorrow,
lying on the plate
beside the knife of
decision
bringing in the trot lines;
wrestling with those large, fat fish,
ready for the pan
and the flame
no more kung-fu
arduous battle with
quadratic equations
instead, glancing at a
moldy clock,
I see that the
little hand is on armistice
and the big hand is on
congratulations
Copyright 2020
Magus
(Kevin Trent Boswell)
I am getting back on to my Patreon page at https://www.patreon.com/magus72
I’ll be cross-posting here, what I publicly post, over there. But other, patrons-only content will be available to patrons, there.
quiet
an original poem
floating in a soup
of strange sounds.
listen to the track,
watch the video.
but do it quietly.
Here is an mp3 of the song,
free to download.
quiet_magus72_the_plastic_infinity.mp3
share liberally,
it’s better that way.
Copyright 2020, Kevin Trent Boswell (Magus)
a glass of yesterdays
at nineteen
I was smitten with a girl
who loved gin and tonic
she was a preacher’s daughter
in South Carolina
I discovered that
all of what people say
about preacher’s daughters
is blissfully true
I introduced her to
the bubbly summer fizz
and she introduced me to…
well, let’s just say…
I learned to mix
a mean
gin and tonic
as she lay beside me,
naked and asleep
on that motel bed,
I took tequila shots
and reveled in the majesty of
Austin City Limits
the television and I,
both sloppy drunk
with the sounds
of John Hammond
slurring curses through
a mouth harp,
the tube on his finger
causing that steel guitar
to scream bloody murder
and holler for its momma
I sat stupefied
on the edge
of a cheap mattress,
covered in awe
and still coated
with her
Delta Blues cut
jagged holes
into my memory,
with its muddy banks
flesh, sights, screams,
wailing demons
and wobbling fingers
only a cheap television screen
and a cigarette ash,
backlighting
the carnal event
she, now quiet on the bed
Hammond on the screen,
now brutally howling
as if in some type of
infernal pain
a blistering welt
from the bite of a hell hound,
now sulking somewhere
in the mosquito-infested
darkness
“Oh!!! Say,
my momma don’t allow me…
to stay out
aaaaall night long!”
I, now
consumed completely
by cactus juices
and cascades
of flaming guitar notes,
flying out of the
Devil’s fingertips
I straighten my back
and draw in closer
to breathe in her hair
then, toward the television screen
and I fall sleepily beneath
the heavy spell
of it all
now,
standing in a friend’s kitchen,
I think back
on all of it
I spy a bottle of gin
with a little less than
a shot left in it
I open the fridge
lo and behold,
a fresh bottle of
tonic water
I mix the two
and raise
a toast
to the various potions
of summer’s forgetfulness…
to the southern gene pool,
with its extraordinary ability
to produce the most
exquisite specimens
of the female form…
to the Delta blues
its vinyl static,
scratched into my soul…
to John Hammond,
masterful and
merciless…
to the claw marks
on my back…
to the fear
of Jesus
Copyright 2020
Magus
(Kevin Trent Boswell)
I am getting back on to my Patreon page at https://www.patreon.com/magus72
I’ll be cross-posting here, what I publicly post, over there. But other, patrons-only content will be available to patrons, there.
filter
when I was a child, my aunt told me
that if rain fell while the sun was shining,
it meant the Devil was beating his wife
I never had the slightest clue
what it meant
but today,
it may just be true…
for the sky drips purple wax
on slippery horizon
flickers bright with
wick dipped in fire,
angels of sun,
showering out plumes
of fractal light
something vast, immense
holds space between sparse clouds
a light spray of water
cascades over my vehicle
and busy spirits of air
float and move about,
vying for better positions
I move intentionally,
purposefully through the scene,
hurried to escape a day
that will not be missed
hurdling over a variety of nonsense
machine churns over road…
not as fast as I imagine it should
not enough ground
falls between myself and
all that I seek
to leave behind
I am allowed to briefly glimpse
a pristine, white mare
eating peacefully in the pasture
by the side of the highway
she is without blemish
and without any earthly substance
she is something etheric,
angelic and full of joy
(or so I imagine her to be)
she never sees me
she has no idea
who I am
and so… I am
utterly and completely
jealous of her
I have not been filtered
through the windows of her eyes
I have not polluted the peaceful
realm of her mind
with all of my chaos
there is, for her,
only eating and walking
and other things
of equal pleasure
she has no idea who I am…
and neither do I
still, I drive by
and for something
not exactly a second
and not quite a lifetime,
I live vicariously through her
perhaps the breadth of a heartbeat
in looking on her,
tasting the carefree grass of her world,
I am for one, solitary moment,
free from Samsara
I have no hurt, no rage,
only a sky full of purple wax
and preoccupied angels,
angels who watch
over the quiet beasts
that are the mare
and myself
angels who possess
wider eyes
eyes
that screen out the dross,
placing a clearer lens over it all
I breathe in my quick look
at what serenity is dancing
just beneath the veneer
and for a frozen moment,
the mare and I
are both
full
Copyright 2020
Magus
(Kevin Trent Boswell)
I am getting back on to my Patreon page at https://www.patreon.com/magus72
I’ll be cross-posting here, what I publicly post, over there. But other, patrons-only content will be available to patrons, there.
Kevin Trent Boswell 