Home Live Sound Reinforcement Where and When? Hear it Here! About The Plastic Infinity Browse our lyrics Learn to Play Guitar, Son. More info on other sources of more info Poetry by Trent Boswell Sex Cymbals

untitled:

the centurions are belaboring
the point of chrysalis
many broad surgical incisions of boredom
whet the palate of invention
(steel pancakes + perpetual motion)

as the skin of the great, gray matter beast
is laid back and pinned
by the contractual obligation
of a decidedly inconvenient necessity,
radiant blue caravans of sufficiency
will traverse the untamed, barren tracts of tundra;
the walkways betwixt the hemispheres
of the carnal mind

enough now, of this tired sideshow;
of miserable, blackened attempts at cleverness

there are underdogs
somewhere
under all these
dogs

I will 
find two
if you'll find
one

there may
be one
hiding
under
you

caramel


caramel 
is your color

i keep 
your memory
in my mouth

a warm, 
candied piece 
of indescribably 
delicious
recollection

afterward



	…each piece settles snugly once more
         into what is acceptable boundaries
         of reality -

                      plush pools of familiar 
                                      carpentry

                      bar stools and friendly
                                      pageantry

                      door posts suffering 
                                      valiantly

                to suspend much needed roofs
                above our stormy weather

                               and gather us together

                      don't worry, we will…

          when the centuries are stuffed 
          into the frame of an hour
          resembling an accordion -
          for the purpose 
          of listening

asteroid


being in the presence
of a lady,
I tipped my ski mask
and bowed politely
to her cat,
whose name was %

orange clusters of galaxy
spun slowly
in my glass
as we slid bits of
innuendo
back and forth
across the snow-covered,
kitchen floor

a couple of
two foot tall tornadoes
gathered up all the questions
and nailed them
to the ceiling;
they dripped
a honey-like residue
on the hippos head
into which the monkey
dipped his gold doubloons,
before flinging them
out the window,
into outer space

the lady never so much as
batted her exquisitely
sexy eyes

our woman of wormholes
and broken windows
displayed her
potential pleasures
under thin plates of emerald,
microscopes facing out into the ether,
telescopes facing inward
to the singularity
and nine, single eyes
looking in no particular direction

the angels
caught in between
merely waved
a thoughtless,
casual hello

a sudden snapping of her fingers
and a quick,
temperamental glance
indicated a sudden change
in mood,
this signal
summarily summoning
a small army of tigers
who ripped the jukebox into
small
pieces
and devoured all the
bad magick
in its darkened soul

taking up a red pencil,
she drew a shaky line
down the middle
of the table
it promptly fell in half,
every plate and saucer upon it
bursting into flame
and dust
and applause

when her smile threw its wave
of dizzying heat over my wearied face,
I spoke slowly and clearly
through the haze,
cordially calling
this delightfully curvaceous
debutante by her
customary title of
Ambiguity

but she corrected me,
saying that she
no longer answered
to that name

and instead,
she now goes by
Authority,

which is short for
trouble,

like you’ve
never known

untitled


the Earth crawls just a bit closer 
to the Sun
every time I plop my butt down 
on the seat of this 
riding lawnmower 

the wind keels over dead, 
the moment it hears me fire up 
the string trimmer

the mosquitos fall into attack formation
at the first, hollow rumblings 
of my Ford Econoline van,
rolling up to the front lines
to kill Mother Nature’s little soldiers

a battalion of green infantry 
offers up its unimpressive
la resistance
burs and choking dust

still, my tank lumbers on,
chopping through enemy lines,
unimpeded by the multitudes

I will grow no richer for all the 
chlorophyl blood that I have shed 
upon this acrid lawn

nor for all the crickets 
that I have widowed and 
made motherless,
mincing them up, under my
rolling blender

I have taken the fathers from 
their children, the children
from their fathers,
a thousand, tiny screams
never heard under the roar
of the whirling blades

but such are a soldier’s woes

I tread on
there is more death to do

untitled


Adorning a cliff
Dancing in feathers
More than alive

His spirit spills
About the rocks
Red clay Earth 
A mountain length
Beneath him
The color of descent
Catching hinted shadows 
Of his winged colleagues
Conversing with sky

Yes, 
More than alive,
Transcendent  

My Life


My life: that of ecstasy and excellence, trial and tribulation
Not differing from yours, except in the 
Details of particular stimulus and response 

Hills to climb and beasts to slaughter
(Food and trophy, prove you were alive)
Blue carpets stained with indecision 
Soon replaced by green short grasses and 
Hard, heel toe, heel toe concrete warfare 
Nothing to do but kill and fight and fuck
Build, create and nurture 
Above all, pray
Collect your coin where it may fall and 
Be gracious in all that happens to you and 
To others

Rip down the venetian wonderment,
Raise the sun up a notch or two in the sky,
That it may shine more brightly upon your work 
That you may see your brief signature in the sand 
          and call it good
Scrap rust eaten disgrace 
Building instead, fortune and honor
Do your best to know where you stand at all times, 
Remaining humble in the awareness that this is 
          utterly impossible

Anywhere during your travels, 
If you should happen to bump into cliché or average,
Kill them both, in short order
(A small blade to the throat 
          or an ice pick to the temple will do just fine)
I should consider this a personal favor, 
As they have both made costly attempts on my life
More than once

Tarry not with fairies and gnomes, they will hogtie and rob you
Pay your taxes and obey the law, lest you lose your freedom
Brush your teeth and stay away from activists,
With their twisted notions of untwisting the world 
Heeding these warnings, you should fare well

Let The Devil In The Door


Do me a favor, doll and 
Let the devil in the door

In trying to keep him out,
My arms have grown quite sore

Seems the harder I work to bar his way,
The more he manages to ruin my day

A persuasive little bugger,
Always changing his face

Slips in, like a trusted friend
And absolutely wrecks the place

I figure I should just accept him,
He’s so far ahead, I have completely lost score

So, be a darling on your way out and
Let the devil in the door

stain


he was speaking vodka,
a language that I all-too-well 
understood

as I sat on the edge of his bed,
I handed him the joint 
that I had just finished, 
carefully rolling

he lit it and taking a small toke,
he became suddenly 
and uncharacteristically 
serious

You do know that I’m not life, right?

it must have been obvious that I had no clue
how to answer that
and so he continued

When I was just a little boy, 
your grandpa and mine told me, he said…

“Son, you’ll pull time
before you hit twenty”

At nineteen, I did six months

before he could say another word,
several drunk people filed into the room
and the party took over,
just as if the writer had carefully placed it 
into the script, for dramatic effect

about fifteen years later,
I stood in the yard 
with my father,
one morning

we burned a mattress
in the yard

a mattress with a peculiar red stain
on the top end of it,
right about where a man 
would lay his head down
to sleep

smoke climbed through the 
bare tree branches, 
coating the limbs,
blackening the sun,
giving twisted, 
new meaning 
to the wind

with each searing crackle,
each hot, little iron that launched out
from the flame,
the notion was solidified
that you would not 
be with us again

that red stain has been 
forever removed,
taken off and away from 
the bad blend of cotton 
and synthetic fiber,
its ugly, lack of aesthetic, 
removed from the eye

we have instead, 
embroidered you, 
into the heart 
in gold-letter, 
on satin

a little redirection,
a simple trick of the firelight
and of the mind

a touch of pre-approved 
manipulation,
vocabulary and memory,
now twisted to suit ourselves
with semblances of sanity 

and yourself, in a new suit
one to bring you 
over the threshold of the 
next beginning,
in a dapper style

we have gathered many flowers

you were one,
and we gather more

still, we do so wish 
that you were not so still

we seem to be so much 
more careful now,
with our words

we never had to 
monitor our tongues, before
we counted on you,
to always say something deliciously profane,
hysterical, sublime
something far more terrible
than we would ever manage (or dare) 
to bring forth from our fearful mouths

you said it all for us,
being our favorite devil, 
you spared no words, 
knowing full well, that your time 
was short

now, it has fallen serious and sullen
and ash settles on us,
stealing the still-warm seat
of smiles

we do our best
to preserve the integrity
of your memory

with all your words, 
so clumsily wrong,
so horribly right

your faults fill volumes, 
all of these now consumed by fire 
and forgetfulness

we will not miss them

we are in fact, 
glad to be free of these,
free from the weight of your awful acuity

your condemnation of this world, 
was felt always, hot upon our necks, 
virtually indecipherable 
from the indiscriminate joy 
that your voice poured out
over our wanting brains

we will not miss the anarchy of your actions,
nor your allegiance to an autocratic indifference

but beneath the 
intolerable heavy,
knowing of nothing else to do

we dutifully lift up our eyes
to the coming days
where you 
are not



Dedicated to the happy memories of my cousin, Jevon Ward

untitled


I chased a martyr
through all hell’s heat
w/ intention to 
ask him why

he’d run so long 
he was tired and beat
in fact, he could
all but cry

I’d yearned for the moment
when at last we’d meet
and an answer from him
I would pry

and though he was worn,
we raced and he beat
and so I collapsed
with a sigh

sugar


she was like the china teacup…

that i kept in the sugar…

that i kept in the jar…

that i kept in the fridge…


she was there,

all covered in sweetness

chipped… jagged…  cold…

and poised…

to cut the lip 

untitled

For a bit of sanity, a brief respite
I cordially thank you both for last night
When wit, due to circumstance, is at its ends
Immensely helpful is a night spent with friends
Something small, a brownie, a glass of milk and a smile
From a welcoming face, lasts more than a mile
It's a gift, to be thought of and indeed it's a treasure
To escape the insanity and enjoy a night's leisure 
Encouraged by a small gift, well planned in intent
I'm moved forward in my art by what it has meant
A simple book of parchment placed in my hands 
Now beckons me back to the musical lands
The place where sirens and angels would sing 
Of the subtle pleasures that friendships can bring 

untitled

You know the words
Many times have you spoken them
You know the rites
Many times have you performed them
You know the people
Many memories do you have of them
You know all the outcomes
After all, you have chosen them

Bengal

On the riverbanks of India
The men wade among crocodiles
For fish

In the jungles of Indonesia
The men walk among tigers 
For wood

In the backs of our western minds 
Among the terror files
We wish

These monsters 
Would disappear 
For good

	
	Oh, to be alive and in Indonesia

untitled

dark spectators 
file in from the corridor,
to witness death

scepter of violence
shines a smile

electric murder pictures 
steal their breath

Promise: Deliverance Through Sound

words seep through
the imagined walls of dimension
vibratory beacons
illuminating new territories,
the permeable substance of nirvana 

a handful of transitory specters
cast political commentary
at the foundation of tomorrow,
hoping to rouse the beast of
creative genius
from whom they hope to acquire
a titanium likeness of themselves

I am sore afraid 
they will
wax tired
of waiting
and nurturing 
patient humility

I have personally 
found it difficult
to sculpt idols
out of water

A Gift

Here in, should you be needing it,
I should hope you shall find
A bit of relief and comfort,
A brief peace of mind
       Within this modest sample of verse
       Should you know where to look,
       Lies a taste of freedom
       Inhibition’s crook
Accept this humble gift
The least that I can give
That it might prove useful
And help you to live
       Allow yourself a moment of peace 
       To clear your worried head
       To banish troublesome ghosts 
       To bury your dead
Take, for you have earned it,
Harmony and serenity instead
Extinguish the furious flames
Your most painful memories have fed
        Life,  pure and plentiful,
        Awaits you around the bend
        While worry, unrestrained
        Will destroy you in the end
So free your mind and without hesitation
Extend the shortness of your sight
I have seen tomorrow’s promise
Nothing shines as bright

empty rooms

          those rooms
          they’re empty
          filled
          w/ plenty of no one
          lots of nobody
          yearning for someone
                in those rooms

          sad and lifeless
          like fruitless gardens
          frustrated angels
          who cannot share eden
          w/ another 
                 in those rooms

untitled

- peel back the eyes
w/ some dark, holiday blend coffee 
and place a bit of Christmas chocolate
in the mouth

the frost is yours,
I left it for you
on December’s back step

your egg nog
now frozen
on the back of
your brain

a black and white drama
in a candy dish
stuffed w/ stupid desire:
desire to be pious,
desire to be pornographic,
desire to hide
somewhere in between;
hide in between the gleam
of your teeth
and your eyes

tinsel and mistletoe 
make lousy camouflage 

since when
is the calendar date
a reasonable excuse for
a sudden, overwhelming
shift in personality?

have you been visited
by the spirits of the season?
resolutions are reserved
for after January 1rst

that red and green dress
doesn’t even cover up your 
hidden agendas…
you’ll catch cold
in that thing

Ah, Creation!!

let the tea steep
let the ideas stir
let the head wind up
let the typer hum
let the tubes warm
let the music walk and breathe
let the women be beautiful
let the investments mature
let the children grow
let the people be free
let the dancers dance
let the fighters fight
let the games be kept friendly
let the affairs of others go unnoticed

	let the demons who are hunting you
	  	be damned

	let the strength and innate kindness in your
	  	heart flourish

let the fish sparkle in the waters
let the gators have the swamps
let the joke be on all of us
let everyone have it as easy as you can give it to them
let the intricacies of your mind amaze you
let the humility of the wise deter you from
	  speaking that amazement
let the volcanos die and go numb
let the tractors grow weeds underneath
let the parliament have power; funkadelic, that is
let the pope eat his hat on friday
let the cows stay out late
let the spaghetti westerns speak to you
	  as transcendent illumination

brush stroke

brush stroke 
swallow 
incontrovertible
apostasy 
push back the cuticle of spring
something is on the other side 
of the door.......
it is quietly waiting to pounce
w/ its ambush
or surprise party,
it is not known, which it is
leaves fall like paratroopers,
honing in on their targets
another brush stroke
circumspect weather
new viabilities 
woodpecker filling out his 
morning reports 
errand runners scurry about
patents are being filed 
for new shades of sky
a third stroke of the brush 
agoraphobic dust swept out 
for not paying its rent
it is a mindless and selfless act
cut the yard in half 
assign tasks to the flowers 
they have lazed long enough
now, they must be mobilized 
four is the number of strength
four walls stand sturdier than three
four seasons, winds, elements, directions
a fourth brush stroke 
strengthens the picture
smack the mat w/ the broom
the room is changed, now
paint a new picture
make new decisions

Break The Dust

infuse sediment w/ light
scattering tendencies of
cacophony;
send them fluttering, mad
into the never
stir this molten steel brew
in my veins
the broth has thickened and
formed a skin
through which ideas
may not pass
this king must be dethroned and
sent crying,
as he paddles up the waterfall
on a popsicle stick
a quiet coup of the spirit
if you will,
pleasant,
is all that comes to mind
seek desire,
like a spear,
hurled in the dark
so hard,
to be a thing
which has never before existed
no model
nothing to follow
the conundrum
of creation

untitled:

the breath of 24 regiments
is hot inside my curled fists
wine drips from the speakers
and deathly, minted gels
congeal in my skull

you can never be far from home
but links can be severed

it will all be done, soon

razors and taxis will carry you places;
to the highlands, the valleys,
or the jungles

to become possessed,
to be driven in fervor
to draw talismans w/ feathers
is both mad
and divine

the music spills over
the edge of the cup
and no one
notices

untitled:

the centurions are belaboring
the point of chrysalis
many broad surgical incisions of boredom
whet the palate of invention
(steel pancakes + perpetual motion)

as the skin of the great, gray matter beast
is laid back and pinned
by the contractual obligation
of a decidedly inconvenient necessity,
radiant blue caravans of sufficiency
will traverse the untamed, barren tracts of tundra;
the walkways betwixt the hemispheres
of the carnal mind

enough now, of this tired sideshow;
of miserable, blackened attempts at cleverness

there are underdogs
somewhere
under all these
dogs

I will 
find two
if you'll find
one

there may
be one
hiding
under
you

Hand Of Fire/ Hand Of Water


I.

hand of death
abacus of unlearning
each thin bone,
each pale, ivory finger
slides
a bead of sweat
across the face of time

and you, fair seamstress,
every stitch undoes the last

ornaments hang prettily
from the turnstiles,
distracting pedestrians
away from
important negotiations

II.

hand of the strong
rings and signets of distinction
crests of valor, copious decorations
from cabinet members and kings
high officers, ambassadors of
salient authorities

night grinds no pathways in your forehead

sunrise lays no price upon your crown

your mouth greets each meal with hope,
expects it to charge you
w/ command of your faculties

the crone does not dazzle you,
nor hold your children for ransom

III.

hand of the child
you hold all knowledge of the Tao
in your small curled palm
your eyes roll like Saturn and
Sundays mean nothing from Thursdays

You alone know that our pebble throne
shoots itself around the sun
at thirty miles a minute

you, and no other,
can comprehend the spectacle of the
bumblebee

you grow backwards,
strange little sage,
choosing to count your toes
in your mouth
a setting of ornate jewels
scroll of learning
you erase one thing each day
throw away one dream
each night

hagfish demonbirds peck at your eyes
you are impervious to their attacks
since you tell yourself that
you do not see them and
you are still able to believe
what you say
to yourself

questions fall from the trees
and you crawl over them
unconcerned
until tomorrow
Home Live Sound Reinforcement Where and When? Hear it Here! About The Plastic Infinity Browse our lyrics Learn to Play Guitar, Son. More info on other sources of more info Poetry by Trent Boswell Sex Cymbals