creak of old hinges, original, hardwood flooring clanging of ancient, iron pipes
scraping, scratching from behind the walls, below the floors and from the attic, above
things too small to see things that can’t be seen, at all things that receive no mail, no visitors things that aren’t supposed to be here or anywhere else
quick, bright flashes memory’s dim lenses flecked with dust and specters
once, a place of mirth and much company echoes of laughter, music and children, floating through every hallway
scents of pot roast, potatoes and carrots, cigars, perfumes, liquors, fruit tree logs crackling in the fireplace, roses, thyme, basil, rosemary and lavender from the garden, drifting in through the open windows, freshly baked pies and cookies all washing over the senses of friends and neighbors
finely crafted furniture of oak and leather, where once they sat, sipping teas and sewing, nursing babies, reading the newspapers, scratching the chins of kittens and puppies, holding hands, kissing in the happy hours, consoling each other, after some loss
all of it now covered over by tarps draped with sheets and drop cloths consumed by the dry rot of time or dampness, the mildew and stale, trapped air which slowly made their way in
these too, desired to stay here, forever to find a home, within these walls
anymore, only whispers float through these rooms
no one has lived here for many years
the kitchen, bedrooms, parlor all bare and sullen the pantries stocked only with cobwebs of memory
this house was the home of more than a few hearts a place of comfort and rest for a great many souls
No matter how brutal each one was Each Winter must eventually bend Give way to the heat of warmer times Ultimate truth, all Winters must end
Yet, Summer is a cruel despot, too Who, by violence, iron fist, ascends Crushing the good comforts of Spring Mocking, with scorn, its means and ends
The subtle politics of seasonal power A judge who was, ‘til now, always present By checks and balances, ensuring fairness So each would eventually lead to the pleasant
The judge grows old and is losing sense Slipping always further into dementia Leaving them all to sort it out, themselves Declaring what’s just, for the judge, in absentia
By increments, referee dives into madness By tiny degrees, each step, does descend Yearly, heat grows, cold loses more power Leading soon enough to all Winters’ end
From the black book of awful, horrible, despicable things, Out On The Killing Floor.
Warning: Take only as prescribed. Keep out of reach from children, pets, pregnant women and anyone who still has any hope for the future. May cause sleeplessness, fatigue, depression, anxiety, suicidal thoughts or visions of impending doom. Some readers may experience weight… not weight gain, just a heavy weight of existential dread. User assumes all risk and releases the author from any and all legal recourse. This book is not approved by the FDA or anyone else who enjoys being happy. May be illegal in your area.
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Magus72 on Patreon music, poetry and other, assorted types of madness
Built the Machine with your own, bloody hands Said you programmed it for our plenitude Carefully, you tightened all its bolts and bands You saw to it that everything was screwed
Saddled your Machine when it was still small Rode it everywhere, all over the place Weened your Machine on blood, sweat and all Devouring everything, leaving not a trace
First you drove it to every faraway nation Consumed every animal and crop in the land Millions of slaves, chained to your creation Ground up beneath the wheels of its demand
You’re so proud of your Mean Machine Cranked controls all the way up to MORE So hard that you snapped off the knobs Doesn’t know any limits, only knows war
You fed Machine what they built by hand It grew meaner by the day, on all they could grow It ate their homes and even ate their land It even ate their memories, all that they know
When Machine had gobbled up every last thing Picked clean all bones, in every foreign field You rode back home, a messiah, a king Fearing your hungry Machine, we all kneeled
You’re so proud of your Mean Machine Cranked controls all the way up to MORE So hard that you snapped off the knobs Every day, it breaks its own high score
I guess you never heard of Dr. Frankenstein Guess you knew Dr. Faust wasn’t real So, you sold your soul and that was fine But you threw all of ours into the deal
Machine just grows, never stops to ask why You said we’d be saved by your shiny, little toy Now, no one can stop it, no matter how we try It’s programmed to eat, enslave and destroy
You saw Machine’s lust, heard its awful moan You finally figured out that it would never stop Beneath its wheels, you began throwing your own Anything to save yourself and stay on top
Nothing left to eat, Machine looks all around And sets its ravenous eyes upon you Alone, it eats the Earth, with a grinding sound Finally eating itself… only thing left to chew
You’re so proud of your Mean Machine Cranked controls all the way up to MORE Turning so hard, you snapped off the dials Mean Machine breaks free to settle the score
You can be part of the ongoing madness from Kevin Trent Boswell on Patreon. Take a look at the benefit tiers and find the one that drives you sufficiently insane. They start as low as $3.
You won’t find madness at a better price, anywhere. If you do, we’ll match their price and/or cut them up into tiny pieces and bury them in the garden.
Kevin Trent Boswell 