Friday, January 29, 2021

Straw That Broke the Monkey’s Back

Straw That Broke the Monkey’s Back

 “Straw That Broke the Monkey’s Back” from the electronic music album, Crossing the Rubicon, by Kevin Trent Boswell. 

Copyright 2021 Kevin Trent Boswell 

The song is available as an .mp3 audio file download on Patreon at Magus72. Patrons get plenty of insider benefits. Receive exclusive perks, extra content and the satisfaction of knowing that you’re supporting the arts. 

The original rock album is Flagship, a surreal blend of influences such as Hendrix, The Beatles, Led Zeppelin, Jane’s Addiction and Jethro Tull but with the stamp of a quite different voice and guitar sound. 

Album tracks for streaming or purchase on iTunes or get a signed copy of the CD (or purchase the album or get individual tracks) from Conjure Work.

Poetry books, available on Amazon:

on the page

Liber Ex Liberi

Chaos Comes Apart

in the current


Amazon Author’s Page

and at ConjureWork.

Don’t Forget

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the music album, Flagship

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Tuesday, January 19, 2021

Strange Leaf

 You might have heard the audio track for this but trust me, the video is an entirely different kind of experience.

This world has been encoded for your protection. The original poem, “Strange Leaf” is published in the book title, remission, available on Amazon 

and at Conjure Work.

The audio track for “Strange Leaf” is available as a free download at the Patreon page, Magus72.

While you’re there, look over the benefits and perks that patrons get, exclusive content and lots of other bonuses.

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© 2021 Kevin Trent Boswell

Saturday, May 2, 2020


Furyu by Kevin Trent Boswell

In the land of Furyu, we don’t have us no states
No countries or borders, not a single, county line
Everybody lives just up the road, from everyone else
And the way we see it, that works out, mighty fine

Words like security and safety just ain’t never used
Since crime is a thing that ain’t nobody invented
Birds sing and people do their own, chosen tasks
For the pure satisfaction of a job, well-dented

Wanting for nothing and always happy
Folks here tend to spend a lot of time outside
We talk and dance, because the music is always playing
And we laugh when the children go down the slide

There’s a church in town, where we pray to Love
And in turn, Love takes care of every little thing
Suffering is something that we don’t quite understand
But goodness is guaranteed, each day, to bring

Rains fall from the sky and folks around here
Call it Heaven, nursing all the crops
It makes the food grow and that food feeds the people
Who eat well and often and gratitude never stops

Folks share craftsmanship, art and new skills
And all manner of things, each a labor of love
You see, in the land of Furyu, everything is easy
And if it ain’t now, it will be, soon enough, push come to shove

In this place, each person’s got a special use
And there just ain’t no reason for nobody to be left out
You belong and that’s because you’re family
And shucks, we figure that’s what it’s all about

Everybody knows because, ain’t none of us simple
That a neighbor is just a brother, a step or two away
Or a sister or cousin or something along those lines
But kin is kin, is what we’re trying to say

It’s a confounded shame, but folks over yonder
Done gone and forgot how to get back over here
It’s a strange thing to all of us, since well…
We ain’t exactly gone nowhere

But we’re all up at the house, and like I mentioned
It’s right up the road, just about a mile or two
We’ll set out an extra plate and we’ll wait up a spell
And you’re always welcome, in the land of Furyu

Copyright 2020
Kevin Trent Boswell

Now available, on Amazon:
Liber ex Liberi, The Book of Children by Kevin Trent Boswell

Support the work at my Patreon page:
I cross-post the public works here. Patrons-only content is available, there.

Friday, March 13, 2020


Author’s Note: this piece is NOT a forecast of doom, not in any way. 
That is incredibly important to note. Instead, it’s two things.
First, it’s a snapshot of things which have already happened, as well as my disappointment and anger about how the situation has been handled, thus far. It is one artist, responding to real world situations, through the medium of art. That should be easy enough to grasp.
Second, it is a warning NOT to behave as if nothing is wrong or different and NOT to behave as if the world is ending. Neither extreme view is correct. Something real and dangerous is here but need not be catastrophic
I write poetry for a variety of reasons, one of which is what I refer to as a personal “exorcism“. It’s one of the ways that I personally get my thoughts together, for what needs to be done. 
In writing out worst case scenarios, I get poisonous thoughts out of my head and onto paper, where they might be properly dealt with, in an adult manner.
That being said, the following is not at all a pretty picture. Fear is a constructive tool, when properly guided toward preparedness and prudence. 
So, I encourage you to allow yourself just a few moments to wallow in the fear, as well. Then get busily back to the business of a productive life.
Happy Friday the 13th! 

uninformed leaves rustle a bit
and roll over the usual yard
nothing yet, appears to sit 
in a space entirely too soft, nor hard
while standing in the cues 
of what sounds already are, 
in the distance, hear the clues
of misery, sweeping wide and far
an invisible, mushroom leverage
lays its breaking boot of 
concrete and leaden sole
atop the teeter totter
leans down, shifting its tonnage
with devastation under its 
unforgiving weight
bar graphs fly off their easels 
ticker tapes spin out and fizzle
time cards shred themselves with panic
and punch clocks fall off walls 
to dive bomb the rows of empty desks,
which explode into kindling 
all around 
file cabinets are set ablaze and 
the rodents are overworked,
spinning all those little, 
interlocking wheels 
of the intercom system 
it’s entirely too loud 
in the staff room 
and the commandant
can get no sleep 
despite his bedtime story 
being piped through 
the loudspeaker
outside is the warm normal, 
a blue sky, serene balm of certainty 
a textbook spring, 
assurance nestled 
in the obvious dream 
but some strange worm
has crept into the ear of the dreamer
and wiggles its way 
down to the lungs
where it cripples 
the casual breath
combat is hand to hand,
through negotiations 
sterilization weaponization 
settling old scores,
between complete strangers
the best assassin is always
one the target 
already knows well
taking dinosaurs 
right out, at the knees
pyramids and castles 
close their doors
refusing to check the coats
of the newly and arriving guests,
the overloaded sled of dead,
pulled by black, wheezing horses
turned away at the door,
on account of their 
inconsiderate lack 
of a reservation 
or at least the common decency 
to drag along a chest of gold 
with which to bribe the bellhop,
he who rings that iron bell
that sullen, tolls, 
reverberating and shaking 
the whole of the kingdom
wide and through 
a brown bag sandwich lunch
sits near the front door and goes stale
there are no baby cubs to suckle
at the teet of intelligence 
since, all the babies‘ eyes 
have been pulled out 
and stapled to screens,
screen doors and screened mouths 
and boxes of screens of varying sizes
each drawing buckets 
of unhealthy surprises 
from the freshly dug, 
poisoned well
trees, a currency, vital commodity 
their crushed skins all disappeared,
the traders find none of their 
hides in the markets 
now more prized than gold, 
is a simple mop 
to wipe away the mess
circles form and fall apart
sticks fly at one or the other 
or both at once 
funny how the numbers
play their cruel tricks
allocating the meals of the masses
to boards of a few dozen 
or six
as digits of ones become thousands,
billions divide into segregated pockets 
of six, five, four or less 
or something 
must come along
and mop up 
the mess
kings decry and verily decree
a restless tribe 
casts lots, 
to question the gods
whether to dig in or to flee
but the answers are yes,
to each and every question,
so sayeth the oracles,
in throwing up their hands,
choosing instead,
to call in for a sick day
no parades pound the streets
one must turn the earth to gather eats
wall off the oceans, sink all the fleets
dim the lights, freeze the meats
a foul wind wails over the dizzy heads
and through the nervous heart
scout upon the watchtower and wait
as machine belches and cranks to start
a breeze blows in 
unhappy news from the east 
a mad king crumples up the paper, 
stoning the raven messenger, dead
as if it mattered, not in the least
soon ancestors say their prayers
closing their eyes, just for practice 
all the ice rafts are full
and shoving off, with final waves
their lanterns go dark 
over a feverish horizon 
quell, if you, will the wild rumor beasts
it stops not the hunger,
nor the need for the priests,
for divine protection and 
rites of passage 
into the never
of night and time
emptied halls and banquets broken
plays where nary a word is spoken 
cold feet frozen, 
chapel coughs up people 
stockpiles of goods and caskets
confusion, gratis, in gift baskets 
and praying hands, pried from steeple
minds blinking, frozen, in their tracks
the wood chipper roars 
for more easy snacks
like lining up dominoes 
or graham crackers
the wounded’s IV unit,
given to campaign backers
since some lonesome despot, 
wrapped in mist
must sit the wake with what remains,
rule with the iron fist, 
over the land of the dead but free
the endless hordes of weeping 
hungry, Dickensian urchins are we
hand me down frowns
and mouth to mouth, creeping 
beat and fan the furnace flames
ideas, flailing and failing
burn all those treasured sames
arson greedily replaces sailing
as the new sport of official Rome
gather wood and gather tinders
slaughter the calf 
and smoke over cinders 
and nail down the doors,
seal off the hearth of home
leap now, two whole seasons far
and spy with that digital, electric glass
what evil now, cometh nigh
and just how twisted 
is that monstrous thing?
the Heavens hold an angry star
Titans conduct a foul, black mass
Distracted by pointing fingers at why
a wretched agenda for the blacklisted 
who bear worst, the brunt of the sting
when mansions, missions, 
shacks and shelters 
close all their fearful shutters tight
to ward off invaders 
riding on gargantuan wings, 
hydra heads 
hunting through the choking day
consuming through the ravenous night
the monument must,
by necessity, be 
simple and we imagine that it might say
there once was, here, 
long ago, that is, ‘til today
a clueless band of marauders
who conspired to steal the fires
of eternal life
now they vanish
more each day,
leaving a legacy 
of fledgling understanding
and a salty, palpable, 
useless strife 
is ever anyone’s 
to steal
or to 
own the right
at most, 
all things
we briefly borrow,
to quickly stroke 
and hold 
what hubris, it is
placing strings 
on a temporal,
flickering light
one so easily 
blown out 
by a simple, new
draught of cold

Copyright 2020
Kevin Trent Boswell

The new book is out now, on Amazon: 

Support the work at my Patreon page:
I cross-post the public works here. Patrons-only content is available, on my Patreon.

Wednesday, March 11, 2020

mirror black

mirror black

your self-hatred runs 
the whole way through, 
with its shark tooth hunger 
and desert thirst
since you only speak of how, 
all but you,
everyone else 
is the downright worst
yes, they robbed your ego, 
of its growth 
I’m well aware, 
the scars run deep 
I‘d have loved you enough, 
for us both
but your jaws are locked, 
and so both, we weep
Copyright 2020
(Kevin Trent Boswell)

The new book is out now, on Amazon: 

Support the work at my Patreon page:
I cross-post the public works here. Patrons-only content is available, on my Patreon.