daddy magnet fire bomb
chaser, a Molotov cocktail
excellent man angler fish
knows how to ride the rail
a suspicious looking package
electronically delivered
a string of neural signals
warning one, it shivered
doesn’t matter it’s nonsensical
for sense, it does not matter
the sound of marbles rolling around
a set of teeth that chatter
a spike of dopamine in the brain
nothing else exists at all
adrenaline rush of pure chaos
and total lack of protocol
©2025 Kevin Trent Boswell
weighted dice spilling from broken jaws
tainted allegories and
flawless renderings of the invisible
dry beans pour out of sacks
onto tables of diamond and ivory
an abacus of emeralds,
strung on strands of horsehair
a tiny pewter coin sits
atop a scale of solid silver
resting on a column of solid gold
pristine smudges of chocolate
on acrylic peanut butter tapestries
buckets full of comets kicked over
and showers of sparks
falling on the floor
it’s enough to fill
the silos of the universe
top to bottom
but is it enough?
each individual grain of sand
grates against another;
all are dutifully counted
the hourglass is emptied
of all its inexorable empires
excuses are forged from breath,
and hammered into the sacred elixir
of nothingness
there is no motion
in this river’s torrent
the asphalt streets stole it all,
sold it to capricious eels
who swim in desperate candlelight
germinating helixes
bristling thorn vines
funneling promising poisons
into the infant mouths
of ageless behemoths
who rule small places
culmination is the beginning
of the termination of endings
and the siphoning off
of all the intermittent middle bits,
the ones that,
as an afterthought,
we tacked onto the ends
in carefully coordinated haste
the endeavor,
doomed from the outset
thank goodness
we never embarked upon the journey
and that we saw it through
all the way to the end
we can scarcely contain ourselves
from raving about
what raucous ecstatic bliss
it was, from the pistol start
to the razored end
steal the serpent’s fangs
replace its venom
with politesse
and useless smalltalk
watch giddily
as it pathetically
gnaws and gums
unproductively at its prey
we dare not speak
of our elusive mysteries,
not to the droll, sour, uninitiated brood,
lest they discover our secret formula
of beginning in the middle
and ending at the front part
of the second third half
of each hind quarter,
but only on Thursdays,
except on leap years of an august May
the excitement would surely
be too much for their frail constitutions,
and over dead, they would drop down,
into new incarnations
of ceaseless wonder
and when, if so,
would any of it
ever cease?
take care,
that none of this ever occurs,
except for those precious few times
that it unavoidably does not
dial back
the wilting clock
and try not to
try again
©2024 Kevin Trent Boswell
“Quiet” by Trent Boswell
From the upcoming album of electronic music
Lyrics:
ruthless angel,
bent on blood
ever-sought
endorphin flood
feast on heartbeat
of tender young
wily, sticky,
praise-dripping tongue
break accidental
steppingstone
precision, falling,
clockwork drone
caring for nothing
but small throne
calculations crunch
numbers, bone
no rancor, mess
rumor, hush
listen now,
quiet, shush
make a devil
but never tell
eat your silence,
control it well
bring your secrets
to curled, black lip
her favorite sound,
your blood, go drip
drink of the night
drink more than your fill
drink in the victory
drink to the kill
trophies invisible
trophies of flesh
all temples, divisible
empires mesh
quiet now, children,
and listen…
a story,
a clue
of course, you
didn’t hear it,
you were never
meant to
©2024 Kevin Trent Boswell
Lyrics in print in my book Chaos Comes Apart, available on Amazon:
More material at:
it would’ve, or it might’ve,
it is difficult to say
the new facts, in light of,
how—twisting, each way—
they seem not to concur,
nor wholly to dismiss;
but, shrug a goodnight slur,
a bemused hello kiss
extraction of sentiment
necessarily attune
a backhanded compliment
strange blessings, a rune
angles, each direction
never settles, the dust
on overdrive, protection
on the pause button, rust
clasp delicate choker
diver’s helmet attire
never skilled at poker
far too good a liar
went all the way down,
where there isn’t very much,
but invisible frown,
and meaningless touch
©2024 Kevin Trent Boswell
Magus72 on Patreon – the music, poetry, and madness of Kevin Trent Boswell
a crisp vertigo
has bitch-slapped me
right out of my seat,
and taken my place
at the table
how is it that one can be
gun-shy and trigger-happy,
at the same time?
these lesser mysteries
fall pale and sickly,
into the dim, sour heat
of winter’s chamberpot
fasten a few severed limbs
to your Christmas wreath,
and sing that classic
advertising jingle once more;
it does so warm the hearts of the masses
put a few coppers
into the wooden collection box
to help the neighborhood children
raise enough funds to
burn down the old cathedral, and
replace it with a house of mirrors
it’s a good cause
or, at least, it’s one that they’ll
never write songs about,
and hence, we’ll never have to
listen to them singing
you scrunch up your brow
and wonder, with a new brand of vexation,
what is this peculiar dip
you’ve been invited to
plunge your nacho poker chips into?
it is gray with fear,
it cringes and recoils
when you move towards it
and, what’s more,
it reeks of both vinegar
and victory
a blind man sidles up next to you
and tugs at your coat sleeve, saying
“I’ve seen this movie. Trust me,
you won’t like it, either.”
the cat has dragged home, and
ceremonially draped, a hippopotamus
across your threshold
it is more than a little incensed
that you show no appreciation
for its generosity
fickle creatures,
all of us
more inscrutable nightmares,
injected straight into the jugular
night wipes the sweat from its brow,
takes another shot of whiskey,
and motions disapprovingly
toward the calendar on the wall
the constable slurs an order
to the lieutenant on duty,
who promptly douses the wall with gasoline,
and sets the calendar ablaze
before exiting, he salutes, and
cheerfully says, “No worries, sir.
We’ll have a new one nailed up
in time for the New Year’s festivities.”
all the stops have been ripped out
from the church organ
now, it will do little more than blow bubbles,
and coo sinister, atonal choruses
of “Hail to the Chief,”
“Ring Around the Rosie,”
and “Tiptoe Through the Tulips”
“Ashes, ashes…”
we are always
falling down
it has been said that
there are worse things
than you
still, it is truly
impossible to know,
and difficult to imagine,
where such monsters
could possibly
exist
©️2023 Kevin Trent Boswell
powder dogs,
inching rhythmically toward
the frenzied maelstrom
ill-advised foam trousers,
impudent stompers,
gnashing after the vortex
pink-toothed sweater demons,
toasting indolence
by the infernal mantelpiece,
roasting chestnuts
in the red hot mantle
of infamy and infancy
all about those clawless,
flat, green pry-bars
window un-zippers;
instant view makers,
just add saliva
chocolate-melters,
fondue honey pots
in the deserted catacombs
of the future
it’s looking more and more
like it’s going to be
a very good year, boys
then again,
maybe
not so much
©️2023 Kevin Trent Boswell
Chaos Comes Apart:
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Out On The Killing Floor:
Time for Nothing:
Kevin Trent Boswell 