verse – Page 12 – Kevin Trent Boswell

the fishy word salad of the day is soup

discount buggers,
sitting too short in the saddle
to catch any light

but, far too tall
to be dead things,
since dead things
don’t sit tall in saddles

not quite full-fledged maniacs,
lacking in the forthright candor
of more honest lunatics

mockeries of invisible garbage

pieces you can’t quite sort
from all the other forgeries

ii.

the easiest lie to tell
is always the one
that was undisputed,
when you told it
to yourself

iii.

broken pieces
of education,
peppered liberally
over a plate of
wishful thinking

half-truths,
fractions of wisdom

chicken scratch cheat sheets
in secret breast pockets

decency spent
far too many wasted evenings
trying to shape a pile of vomit
into a snow angel

but, the toothpaste is already out of
the inner tube

besides, the inner tubes
are all useless now;

the tires were all stolen months ago

there is no sculpting
dour secular emptiness
into glorious, golden cathedrals

one does not simply turn
recidivistic destroyers
into genius inventor candy makers,
acrobatic violinist movie stars,
or unicorn blacksmith ballerinas

thespians of the eternal grift,
they have no thirst or pallet
for love stories,
only tragedy
and horror

it is exceedingly difficult
to shape small piles of
deformed turd nuggets
into the colossus

the thing is…
if you put a hat
over a turd…
no one sees a turd;
they just see a hat

and, god help
the poor bastard who
tries to put it on

sprinkle a big pile of rose petals
right over top of the whole thing,
and you won’t even smell it

but it’s still there

iv.

it’s really not important,
what I’m going on about

probably better if you just
take a nap
through the rest of this

if the impressive would stop
trying to elevate the unimpressive
then, they’d be more impressive

if they’d stop trying to
raise the dead,
it would be very impressed, indeed

if the unimpressive
would stop trying to
decimate the impressive,
they’d already be half the way
towards making a
positive impression

but, none of this
is due to change

vi.

seven in the side pocket?
my ass

there are four in this room
who can make that shot,
and you ain’t one of ’em

like I said, it really doesn’t matter
what I am babbling about

go back to sleep

or better yet…

there’s a small slip of paper,
rolled up around a dull pencil;
it’s not a number two pencil,
but rather, one of those
no-name brands

it’s in the top right drawer
of that bureau over there

it’s held in place on the pencil
by a rubber band

it’s underneath a pile of
old letters and yellowing catalogs

go open the desk drawer,
remove the stacks of papers, and
pick up the pencil

remove the rubber band,
unroll the little slip of paper
from off of the pencil, and unfold it

what’s it say?

that’s right,
it says,

“Fuck you.”

no, that’s okay,
you can keep it;
it’s yours

take it with you,
and share it with
the rest of your kin,

all the other
black holes

the liars, fakers, pretenders,
predators, thieves, naggers,
reality-twisters, dream-stealers,
complainers and haters,
would-be conquerers
of insignificant kingdoms

fighting razor tooth fang nail claw
over the right to wear a crown
made out of rusty wire coat hangers

or, a tiara crafted from zip ties,
and tinsel from
last year’s Christmas tree

two-legged, toothless dogs,
gumming each other to death
over rotten meat

the unintelligent,
masquerading as geniuses

half-geniuses and quarter-geniuses,
unintelligently masquerading as…
well, who really cares?

the impolite, leaning
on the good manners
of those who are too kind
to tell you the hot, vibrant,
fundamental truth

which is,
that you are
fundamentally
without truth,
or heat, or vibrance

I, on the other hand,
have misplaced all of my politesse,
and have no qualms about
sharing these things with you

I don’t recall which drawer
I left my good manners in,
or what I wrapped around them

but, I can tell you,
with great certainty,
that I’ve had
more than my fill
of the full measure
of you

I can
tell you
what you
can go get
wrapped around

vii.

the steely, red-hot poker of murder
in your eyes
is only a compliment to me

I would be perturbed, ashamed,
if you approved of me

I have no love for your kind

the secret whisperers, rumor starters,
terminally restless luddites
who shun such newfangled,
diabolical technologies as
empathy and dedication
to things other than self

nonconsensual emotional sadists,
pullers of wings from houseflies,
slayers of fierce dragons, or rather
harmless dragonflies

you are all that is ugly
in a world that was already
teeming with ugliness

busybody breakers of
other people’s toys,
ensnarers of time,
ambuscaders,
ambushers of vitality

there isn’t a pencil
on the whole planet
that’s dull enough
to write your little
shit story

there aren’t enough
rubber bands, twist ties, handcuffs,
thumb cuffs, shoestrings, or nets
on Earth to bind you

there aren’t enough
iron chains, piano strings,
or Mardi Gras beads made out of
concertina razor wire
to wrap around your neck
and throttle you with

nor is there a steamer trunk
heavy enough and sturdy enough
to fit you into, weight it down
with all the barbells in the gym,
wrap the whole thing in chains, and
toss it off the backside of the ferry,
just like Houdini, except,
hopefully less skilled
at the art of escape

you, who have such a knack for
finding beautiful things,
and shattering them
or, at least, doing your damndest to try

you will find
no welcome here

as if you
thought any more
of yourself,
honestly

which of course,
you would
never be

viii.

news anchor
spin games

rewriting history
playing both
the victim
and the hero

convince us,
once again,
explain to us,
what a paragon of virtue
you are

I’ll wait.

you are the weeds,
choking out beautiful flowers,
because you envy them

but, you wouldn’t be happy
being a rose

not even if all the work
of being a rose
was done for you

the moment you actually
became a rose,
you would instantly
become jealous of the orchids

you’d swear that you were
being cheated
by all those selfish petunias

you’d be
stabbing marigolds in the back,
shanking them with
a bundle of thorns
you made in your
unlocked prison cell

stealing their soil and their sunlight,
telling all the dandelions,
honeysuckles, and carnations
what terrible, awful creatures
the petunias and orchids are

and, all the joy
of being a rose
would perish

somewhere in the dark,
shaded corner
of a dry bed of dust
where nothing
ever grows

go on,
be as angry
as you like

I tried to
warn you

I told you
to go take
a nap

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The music and poetry of Kevin Trent Boswell — The poetry and music of Kevin Trent Boswell

roads

once, the roads all lay
wide open before us,
turning in hundreds of
different directions,
taking people on magical journeys
to numberless destinations,
along magnificent trails
of gorgeous scenery

yes, there were always
a few dead ends, here and there, but
one could always
turn around

you could backtrack,
without experiencing
too much anxiety
over lost time

you’d happen upon
interesting choices,
unmarked intersections,
where there was
no signage
to help you navigate
your way

it was all
up to you

choose your own adventure,
twist-a-plot, flip a coin,
“eeny, meanie, miney, moe;
my mother told me this way…
and you… are… not… it”

and so, you’d set down a path,
with guesses, hopes, and fears,
but no real way of knowing
what was up ahead

it was all an exciting gamble

you might meet your death
but, you might find treasure,
fame, or perhaps,
unravel a mystery

“once there was a way
to get back homeward.”

see? Paul knew the deal.

but now,
the roads have all
narrowed

many of them,
if not most,
are blocked off |||||
completely impassible

storms have knocked down trees,
barring the way

some roads are blocked by protesters

many streets are just
too full of potholes

you can’t drive down them without
wrecking your vehicle

all the roads,
even the dirt ones,
are littered with toll booths,
every half a mile

insane fees extracted like teeth

the “protection money”
extortions of gangsters
looks like chump change
in comparison;
third-graders,
threatening to beat you up
for your milk money

half the available highways
have fallen too far into disrepair;
you can’t walk down them,
for fear of stepping in a hole,
breaking your ankle

of the remaining roads,
those still open and drivable,
the traffic is maddening

each thoroughfare
congested with vehicles,
all belching exhaust, and
piloted by madmen,
caught up in the throes of
full blown road rage

too many cars,
even though the travelers
on all of these roads
already know…

there’s nothing
at the end
of any of these highways;
nothing they’d actually want,
anyway

the obsession is no longer
“where are we going?”

it’s now
“how long can we keep driving,
before we run out of gas?”

we no longer worry about
how long it will take us
to get there, because
we know…

there’s nowhere to go

now, we just try to lose ourselves
in the experience of the drive,
desperately trying to forget
why we ever got into the vehicle
in the first place

we no longer
ask ourselves why we
even have a vehicle

such questions would only
cause us to think about
what is at the end of these
endless roundabouts, and
dirt paths, running through
fruitless orchards,
as far as the eye can see

asphalt and concrete
conveyor belts,
mindlessly herding us
through the turnstiles
and metal guide-rails
of urban slaughterhouses

what was so important?
that we had to build these
heartless machines?

pay all these tolls?

deal with all these
crazy people,
rudely plowing ahead
in all these ugly boxes?

and, more importantly,
if whatever it was…

isn’t even there,
anymore…

then,
why the hell
are we still
out here?

why are we
still on
these

tacky footpaths,
made of gauche steppingstones,
leading only to the madhouses

these dry, dead riverbeds
where five out of every ten tankers
are beached, or rudderless

three more of them are sinking

and one more has been pulled over,
by the police

only one out of every ten vessels
on our peculiar, asphalt rivers
is in good working condition,
and sailing on nicely

and, even that one
still lacks any sense of
where it’s headed

what fever is this,
that overtakes us,
compelling us to pursue these

godforsaken
freeways
of the damned

infinite trails of
tamed wilderness
that lead to
absolutely
nowhere

remission, poetry by Kevin Trent Boswell

The music and poetry of Kevin Trent Boswell

it’s everywhere

the highways are littered with
broken bottles and empty people

or, was it broken people
and empty bottles?
I forget

there’s no room in here,
for all your wanting

paper airplanes
hang like gliders in the paused breezes

the earthworms break the surface
and bloom into roses

parting rain clouds
leave panels of stained glass behind,
just floating there,
for all to marvel
at their prismatic splendor

the parks, bus stops, trains,
the stores, and everywhere else,
they’re all overflowing with
discarded hypodermics
and an educated proletariat

or, was it hypodermic education
and a discarded proletariat?

clearly, it doesn’t matter,
which end of the pipe
you try to put the stopper on

there’s shit pumping
out of both ends,
nonstop

honestly…

honestly,
the sun is full of razors

and, even if it’s embarrassing,
it’s still the gospel truth…
I used to collect amnesias,
but now, I’ve given all that up;
gave the whole set back
to her majesty, the queen

and now, there’s so much knowledge,
it won’t even fit on the milk cartons

but, the juice
is much more slippery,
on the other side of town

if we’re really telling all,
there are only sharks
in the sea

each bite,
delicious sadness,
if you must know

let’s be totally clear
about all of this,

we’ve grown far too close
to one another
to stop lying to ourselves, now

the party favor wasn’t punished
for passing itself around,
but for passing itself off
as a thing all nailed down

let your hairless cats hang loose, and
slip into something nauseating

it ruins the texture of the pudding,
if you don’t bleed it out just right

so, dish out the starchy,
fat parts of the story,
so you can
pick up a new one,
down at your favorite food truck

give it all away
before midnight,
and the fifth
is free

not to burst any bubbles,
but the snowman
isn’t actually
made of lunar cheese

and, all that rain is fake;
it’s really nothing more
than water

the consigliere is only guessing,
it’s all wild speculations;
hopes that no one will notice,
that they’ll all just play along

but, the wandering minstrel
has lost his will to lie down

and, the troubadour
is sharpening his boots
for the dance

on the level, I will tell you
that motor isn’t running,
only because it’s
all out of rocks and gum balls

if it’s time to get real,
then we must
suck it up
and finally admit,
all the Kewpie dolls
are dying in the streets

the cobbler is high again;
treatment didn’t take

the shoes are made of peaches,
the boats all made of pearls
and, the pears are getting fresh
with the sailors in the saloon

apricot dandies dancing
with apple cider cinder blocks
in the twilight of everything
that never happened
thrice

rehearsing old headlines
for all the latest,
breaking news

the oysters
are all full of
shotgun pellets

all the nails are soggy,
and the slugs are too tall

every day is
carte blanche
ice cream, caviar, and
internal hemorrhaging

all the wild ponies
are stuffed with loose rainbows,
loose rainbows made of oil spills,
and sprinkles of leprosy

the attraction is purely chemical,
pure forever chemicals

today…

today was
full of
not dying

and a tentative
lucidity

the significance of this is
yet to be determined

it’s either a huge win,
or it is entirely meaningless,
or it’s the greatest loss
of the entire war,

or it’s wholly imaginary,
or it’s simply
yet to be
determined

all the bubbles
are busy blowing
away in the breezes

all the busy
are stuck,
spinning endlessly,
on the quick wash
unicycle

none of the etiquette
equates to
actual manners

no one’s manner equates

at least,
not to anything short of
mannerisms

the etiquette of mannequins

the ethics of plush toys;
plush toys on holiday,
plush toys that
can’t be bothered
with all your
insistence
on being
treated
as anything
more than
a plush toy

the horizon is full of paper cuts,
and old bandaids

all the drums squeak
when you hit them

each sip is dry,
and demands
yet another

if you’re walking into the furnace,
be sure to take a jacket with you,
so you don’t catch cold

every bottle you find
is full of three wishes,
someone else’s

none of the colors run;
they all stand their ground,
ready to fight you to the death

any of these knives
are sharp enough
to do the job,
just as long as
you don’t need to
cut anything

all these silk handkerchiefs
are perfectly safe;
not a single one of them
will have been harmed in the slightest,
after they’re done
strangling you

the factories are all
at maximum production,
cranking out empty picture frames
and invitations to dinner

the lists of new lists
seem to sit flush with eternity;
none of them complain,
and it takes a hot minute
to become accustomed
to the silence

every pile of shit
that you see here, on the ground,
they all taste like
chocolate and peanut butter;
trust me

this machine gun
is so much more
convenient
than air conditioning

if we’re speaking candidly,
then, you always
preferred hanging
your laundry
out to dry

there are no more puppies
but, we’re all stocked up on
ska music, instant polyps, and
disposable consciences

all the mountains shatter
when you step on them…
if we’re being totally honest

the days, all ripped up,
for tourniquet rags

the hours, shattering into dust,
if you so much as
glance at them sideways

each of these
marvelous things,
all made possible
by your presence

now, the hounds
will go without their supper,
and the king’s innards
will spill out at his feet,
there, on the palace floor

and all the poor children will cry,
because none of the salads
will ever be scrambled again

and the tumbleweeds
will all starve,
for want of the suffocation
you so graciously
bestowed upon them,
in the days gone by

none of the little assassins
will get Christmas cards this year,
despite having been such
good girls and boys

the coffee is full of conspiracy,
and the fish all taste like marshmallows

the sleet sings sweet lullabies,
in which there are no names

just between you and me,
and this scarecrow, here…

as long as we’re
shooting straight…

it’s terribly worrying
to think that
none of the boils will be
allowed to fester
and ripen in time
for the harvest

because you
will not be here
to feed them

it is tragic,
how much you will
be missed

the traffic
moves right along,
screaming its miseries
into the night

powder dogs

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

Chaos Comes Apart:

Out On The Killing Floor:

Time for Nothing:

Mutable

Shimmering glitter
Eye-catching flash
Mimicry appears
Exactly as you want

Finishing bitter,
Post-performance rash
Freshly stirred fears
A new belfry to haunt

There’s no cypher to garble
No secret code to crack
In fact, if you must know,
There’s nothing there at all

A bagful of one marble
One card in the stack
No place to go
Everywhere to fall

Sparkling illusion
Soap bubble pop
Wander the hallways
Thrown off directions

Sorry for the intrusion
It was never planned to stop
Meant all of it, always
Especially the corrections

The catbird seat is hot
Royal straightjacket robe
To privileged places, ascend;
Climbing through the gutters

For a thing which is not
Search the whole globe
The mind and spirit bend
The secret only stutters

What can be spoken?
What truth for no ears?
A face that’s for rent
The dark moon is obscured

The chamber is shattered
Chamber pot full of tears
A black swan event
Necessarily absurd

Blistered lips kissing
Chaffed ass on the concrete
From here, to eternity
To wonder, and to fail

Try guessing what’s missing
End up on the street
Erroneous paternity
The sting of single-tail

Better clowns have been here,
Mimes with greater skills
The right hand rarely
Keeps track of the left

Now, it’s painfully clear
A dispenser of thrills
A void missed, just barely
The ball landed bereft

Soft linen bedding
A daily stipend for expenses
The galloping, not a horse,
But, a zebra, after all

Where it’s all heading,
The land of pretenses
Defenseless, of course,
Still accepted the call

Perhaps you were expecting
Someone else to be here?
Just because the invitation
Said to arrive at six

Host, busy protecting
A cruel, smiling sneer
Mocking imitation
And, suddenly, it clicks

An ambush, assault
A bear trap in the woods
Skinned for the flesh
And, laid out to dry

But, it’s nobody’s fault
No one got the goods
The gears didn’t mesh
Then again, didn’t try

The taunting is worse
On the self, than the others
Hardly an excuse,
A license to slay

A versatile curse
It drowns and it smothers
Says, “It’s no use”
But, tomorrow, a new day

No one to complain to
The box office, closed
A theater, empty, every last seat
Only pale ghosts, up on the screen

Consoling errand, nothing to do
Fresh catch, decomposed
Folding the hand, walks away beat
Folly, asking, “What does it mean?”

The wander, without end
A broken wheel, turning
Each rotation leaves everything
A little more off-track

The mechanic won’t mend
The fire will keep burning
The eyes left to sing
A dull melody of black

Tag: verse