strange – Page 3 – Kevin Trent Boswell

thrust

make whatever you like of this,
but know that it may, likewise,
make whatever it likes of you.

thrust and struggle and burn
loudly feign, but ever so quietly,
an attempt, in the corner,
through muted silence, to enunciate

struggle with the reason
why is it that one does so yearn
to take the difficult lesson
one cannot be brought to hate

twist and then don’t,
because of the can’t
and moreover, he will not,
exactly as they were never told

a question, wide-eyed, receives
the penalty of the question’s answer
and it stings, being cold and hot,
enough to make one shriek and pant

a perjured testimony, it will recant
a tortured, and elated dancer
flailing there, on the dance floor,
it joyously thanks and aching, grieves

the hatches all battened down
and lashed to withstand the wind;
the wind begs contritely for more
claims not to know instruction

the end result, ruby red and sore
scoreboard racked and tucked away
nothing else to buck, or smartly say
all done for the night, playing the clown

make it into anything whatsoever,
anything that you want it to be,
for it won’t be made into something
that it isn’t supposed to be already

it has always known what it is, steady
to be whatever he chooses to shape
to make it speak and twist and sing
if only it is able and willing to see

not exactly dire

it’s pressing, I will admit, yes
and it was needed yesterday
however, it can wait,
if you’re short on time

a kiss and formal gesture to bless,
to take all the pain away,
to set everything straight,
and smooth out the rhyme

no one is used to getting
all that they want,
and most certainly not
in this economy

tea leaves, crystals, and bloodletting
a beg and a ruthless taunt
the emperor’s still got
his priests and astronomy

but you and I, the commoner type,
left only with crumbs and the crumble
of entropy and its effect on us
if we wait for it to sort itself out

or loudly, we may boldly gripe
with a roar, or at least a rumble
and let them feel our fuss
and threaten to do more than pout

and then, that which we release,
it falls from memory, and at last,
we clear the debris, and the way
and walk into the here and now

with a little squeeze and some grease,
we can break free and hold fast
and hear everything we have to say,
about the where, the when, and how

locus

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

The music and poetry of Kevin Trent Boswell.jpg

Quiet

“Quiet” by Trent Boswell

Quiet

From the upcoming album of electronic music

Crossing the Rubicon

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

Lyrics in print in my book Chaos Comes Apart, available on Amazon:

More material at:

https://KevinTrentBoswell.com

https://www.patreon.com/magus72

https://music.apple.com/us/artist/trent-boswell/4117063

a nice big mug of hot rococo

a little understated skywriting
announcing the death
of a loved one
brightens up any picnic

a small, unobtrusive
mountain of mayonnaise
or tapioca pudding
in their living room
makes for a wonderful
birthday surprise

a subtle moat of blood
around your mansion
is much classier than
any ol’ stupid
infinity pool

a modest bouquet of wildfire
in your neighbor’s garden
is a much more imaginative
housewarming gift
than a dull plate of
homemade cookies

one will never present
as rude or ostentatious,
if only you remember
not to scream obscenities
in the movie theater…
until after the opening credits

it’s not beyond the
boundaries of good taste
to have an assortment
of gangrenous appendages
on the bureau in the foyer
instead of the more traditional
candies and breath mints

the neighbors will appreciate
a conservative display
of heads on spikes;
it’s a nice way to
outline the borders
of one’s property line
without being too
uncivilized about it

it’s hardly meretricious or inelegant
to wear a fifty-foot royal purple robe,
with the ears and eyes
of one’s enemies
stitched into the edges

it is, after all, a formal affair;
one wouldn’t wear it
to go out dancing,
obviously

no one of good breeding
will think you garish,
just because you
proclaimed yourself
lord emperor of all unicorns

most will assume
that it was merely
the wine talking

if you bring your honey badger
to that karaoke bar
where all your coworkers
meet for happy hour,
you’ll have the envy of
everyone at the office

it’s not too glitzy or braggadocio
to wear lingerie and furs to church,
not for the easter service, anyway

no one can accuse you of
behaving bodaciously
when you drag a couple of
five-gallon containers of gasoline
into the library, then proceed to
dump them out, and
light up a cigarette

after all, some of us like to
enjoy a good book
with a smoke

never too splashy
to pass out sex toys
and clean needles
at the old folks’ home
and the orphanage;
it just wouldn’t be christmas
without the spirit of giving

yes, it is “commanding”
to slit one’s throat
over the punch bowl

but everyone at the party
knows you’re single,
and you really do
have to peacock
just a smidge,
if you’re ever
going to
attract that
special someone

anyone who
scolds you
for pissing on a
wedding cake
just doesn’t know
how to party

who cares if you didn’t hit
every single note perfectly
in that show tune?

before you started boldly
livening up the place with song,
it was so tense and somber
in that operating room;
those surgeons should be
thanking you

it’s anything but too splashy
to throw mardi gras beads
at a funeral

everyone appreciates it
when you spice things up
with some colorful fun,
and who doesn’t like
free costume jewelry?

people are just
too uptight
these days

don’t take it personally;
they simply
do not understand
your special brand
of panache

Support:

Magus72 on Patreon – the music, poetry, and madness of Kevin Trent Boswell

The music and poetry of Kevin Trent Boswell

AntiSocial Media

if only a touch

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

Magus72 on Patreon – the music, poetry, and madness of Kevin Trent Boswell