i tug at
a thin, colorful strand
of recollection
struggling to pull
the memory of your image
back into my eye
all the while,
the taste of your mouth
lingers easily
in my own
Copyright 2020
Magus
(Kevin Trent Boswell)
Tag: verse
oh to weep
oh to weep
to feel the tears, gliding
the joy that is a chasm
of painful knowledge,
the dark heart of
recognition
to gaze into the
eyes of suffering
and see its immense love for you
to peer into ecstasy,
become… fully…
cognizant…
of its ambivalence
to gasp and choke
on crumbs of empty space
to burn with hunger
at the brimful table of eternity;
the hall is so large,
the table so long, that
the head chair sits far,
outside the kingdom…
the queen is, by definition,
in permanent exile
her hound sounds
a trumpet of returning,
to the entrance,
where all exits
meet in a hollow nexus
its howling pierces stars
and summons perception
a doleful remembering
of cheer, unborn
a triumphant, vigorous celebration
on stages of victory,
a victory that needed
to do nothing but roll out of bed
and put on pants…
the rest was a seamless
unfolding of breath and
muscle memory
thick troubles,
shaped from
thin dust
and triumph,
collected in buckets;
it falls nightly…
no requisite asking,
pleading with fate,
to set aside its sickle
but for an hour
no prayers ascend
all prayers ascend
trouble no more for joys,
imagined leprosies that they are
sing no more praises of defeats
leaden, decrepit bullion
all these… fancies
dancing echoes
there are but few
frail glimpses
and each,
its own
meaningless
useless
miracle
Copyright 2020
Magus
(Kevin Trent Boswell)
Depths
Depths
Wrangle up a monster
From the down below
Summon up a beast
That one can keep and know
A tiny, personal demon
One to call your own
In the furnace flames,
An angel image shewn
Burn the picture well
Into your flesh and mind
Hook it into every pore,
Be sure to be unkind
For the creatures that do dwell here,
In these dark and lonely parts
Sing songs of woe and cowardice
Emanating from empty hearts
Little, naughty things
That upon the pain will feast
Siphoned off a tank of dreams
Of which you know the least
I can retell an ancient tale,
Bound by honor, I will never
To have a shallow type of glory
A broken attempt at being clever
My own private monster
Would certainly not be pleased
It takes the choice and refuses to
Be taunted, mocked or teased
All the lovely portions and parts
Hungers it has now sated
Replaced in time by stupid rhyme
And nonsense, well-debated
This is the thing that demons do
And it’s what fascinates us so
All the places and all the things
They can make us do and go
© 2019 Magus, Kevin Trent Boswell
For Want Of Her
May the eye of her needle
Be passed through by the camel
My beast is ready
And eager to ride⠀
May the comfort of her robes
Cover my animal
The temple of her refuge
Is warm inside⠀
May I sail my vessel
Into her power
And not be tossed
By her storm⠀
May I know the nectar
Of her flower
And be one with the flower
I will be the thorn
⠀
©2025 Kevin Trent Boswell
Razor, Bramble, Thorn Child
Razor, Bramble, Thorn Child
You shall not slow me
to your 2/4 beat of destruction
I shall hurdle high over you,
Your highness, queen of disappointment
I shall prevail, in the
New dawn form of a creature,
who changes & morphs
into the red stream of power,
flowing through the mountains of
never-ness & nought
The river that flows upstream and
winds through the land of the impossible,
to where the globe of knowledge
floats in a glass of contentment
I shall prevail,
I will sail through the hate and
see the blessed sunrise
that you have sought to suppress
Copyright 2019
Magus
(Kevin Trent Boswell)
Beat
Nameless, black
Void and choice-less
Surrendered to night,
Full of dark
Wanting nothing,
Now all is empty
Free to take up any chain
Any desire that one might wish for
No desire, no restriction
No thirst for servitude
There is only the vexing slumber,
Hunger for the fat of a new kill
Is somehow become as a stranger
Wandering, wanton hex
A nubile delving into psionic prisms
Load the chamber
With hollow shells of the dead
Projected visions of delirium
Angelic chasms
Frightful clamoring in the cranium
Call back the dogs
And let them sleep,
For the dawn will soon enough
Overtake their prey
That tender light, shredding matter
Rending garment and flesh
Quite succinctly
No need of drummers
To time the pulse of this tune
The rhythm of it,
A vacillating pendulum,
Lo, it is even without the ability
To stray from its precision
The striker upon the cylinder
Is the pointing, bony finger of
The hand of death herself
The hammer that clangs the bell
Is the Mother of Night, incarnate
The femurs of a thousand heros
Beating against the tanned hides
Of the children of the same
Her crooked digit,
A culminating of perpetual cycle…
Stick meets skin, head warps and
Sound emanates through eternity,
Stick meets skin, head warps and
Sound emanates through eternity,
Stick meets skin, head warps and
Sound emanates through eternity,
A beat all too well pounded into the
Collective memory,
Burned into a hive mind,
Fallen into cerebral pits of
“Never before”,
We have at last, found the true past
It is even more horrid and shameful
Than we feared
It is full of monsters,
It is full of us
© 2019 Kevin Trent Boswell, Magus
https://kevintrentboswell.wordpress.com
https://www.patreon.com/magus72
Kevin Trent Boswell 