Friday, March 13, 2020

sweeping




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! 
sweeping

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 
eventually,
someone 
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 
nothing 
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
(Magus)

The new book is out now, on Amazon: 

Support the work at my Patreon page: https://www.patreon.com/magus72
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
Magus
(Kevin Trent Boswell)

The new book is out now, on Amazon: 

Support the work at my Patreon page: https://www.patreon.com/magus72
I cross-post the public works here. Patrons-only content is available, on my Patreon.

Tuesday, March 10, 2020


Announcing the release of the book,





Chaos Comes Apart, by Kevin Trent Boswell



Original poetry by Kevin Trent Boswell



A poet, guitarist, vocalist, songwriter, 

reader of tarot cards and astrological charts, hypnotist, 

personal coach and practitioner of ritual magick,

presents for your reading pleasure

a collection of original works,

the inspiration of which, was a gift from the Goddess, Venus.



An selection from the book

Chaos Comes Apart

to appease and pique your curiosity...



infectious 


a treble clef,
scribed in blood,
your dangerous song 
pierces the ears 
stabbed by the night, 
you spread your plight 
a teacher taught you 
to share with the dears

a book of pictures
shiny thing, you be
and shimmering wonderments 
to the everyone’s touch
and sooner, not the later
all roaring, hear the sea 
waiting in the battlements
for the distinct lack of much

creating the crater,
you dwell in those parts 
the littles, that are harder 
to cause, or to preach to 
and reaching the stains, 
the pains in the hearts 
struggle must, but failing 
to bleach you

it’s a thing we all know
a breeze, chosen to throw 
when falling,
we stand in the wrongness
we never belonged
but wanting, we thronged
your off-key, chorus of joining 
an excruciating song-ness


107 pages, all unique, original works, a wide variety of styles, rhyme schemes and free verse, dark and light material, alike, at times hopeful and joyous, at others bloody and bleak.

Chaos Comes Apart is a thousand yard stare into the heart of the essential powerlessness of the human condition, in both the horrid anxiety and the comical, serene celebration of the experience that it entails. 



Get your copy, HERE



Follow the author at:




Saturday, February 8, 2020

quiet



















an original poem floating in a soup of strange sounds. listen to the track, watch the video. but do it quietly. attached is a mp3 of the song, free to download. share liberally, it's better that way.



https://patreon.com/magus72/







Friday, January 3, 2020