Her Invisible Wings

Posted in poetry, sonnet with tags on August 9, 2020 by Jarrod Boyle

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Within the lock the key creates a flashpoint

And the lambent pressure of her absence

Rolls back in waves from the open door

And mounts walls in cylinders of silence

 

Where once we sheltered in the woven shadows

Drifting down from her invisible wings

And the electricity of orgasm

Glittered random and wild across her skin

 

I talk to her when I’m in the shower

At least, to the frequencies that linger

And after, standing before the mirror

Watching as my hunkered shadow glowers

Deep beneath the sheen of beaded silver

Draw her ciphered outline with a finger

My Dark Vanessa

Posted in Pretensions toward cultural theory, Reading with tags , , , , on August 7, 2020 by Jarrod Boyle

 

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4.

“I called Lolita a love story and the professor cut me off, saying, ‘Calling this novel a love story indicates an unconscionable misreading on your part.’

She wouldn’t even let me finish what I was trying to say. Ever since then, I haven’t dared bring it up in any of my classes.”

p.291,

My Dark Vanessa.

Continue reading

My Dark Vanessa

Posted in Pretensions toward cultural theory, Reading with tags , , , , , , on August 2, 2020 by Jarrod Boyle

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3.

Our relationship lasted until after I graduated. She left her husband and I’d left school, and she came over to my apartment one day and we talked about doing it properly. Continue reading

My Dark Vanessa

Posted in Pretensions toward cultural theory, Reading with tags , , on July 30, 2020 by Jarrod Boyle
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Kate Elizabeth Russell, author of ‘My Dark Vanessa.’

2.

I had an illicit relationship with a teacher that started when I was sixteen. I hadn’t thought much about it until recently, once I’d started reading Vanessa. Continue reading

My Dark Vanessa

Posted in Pretensions toward cultural theory, Reading with tags , , , , , , , , , , on July 26, 2020 by Jarrod Boyle

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‘Romance is rape by seduction’.

– Andrea Dworkin.

1.

I used to hate Andrea Dworkin. She was invoked like a saint by all those hateful, spotty little feminazis at Melbourne University, chanting and shouting and marching, projecting all kinds of resentment and hatred. They threw the word ‘men’ like it was a paper bag full of shit. Continue reading

Jocko Willink and David Goggins versus Leo Tolstoy, Ernest Hemingway and Hayden Carruth

Posted in Pretensions toward cultural theory, Real Men with tags , , , , , , , , on July 10, 2020 by Jarrod Boyle

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2.

There are some novels you read that make you think, ‘Why can’t all books be like this one?’ Continue reading

Jocko Willink and David Goggins versus Leo Tolstoy, Ernest Hemingway and Hayden Carruth

Posted in Pretensions toward cultural theory, Real Men with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on July 2, 2020 by Jarrod Boyle

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I just can’t come to a place of peace with either Jocko Willink or David Goggins. Continue reading

Shades of Lust and Hate, and Fear, and Love, and Grief

Posted in poetry, sonnet with tags on June 8, 2020 by Jarrod Boyle

 

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I woke beneath a wringing sheet last night

To phantom figures cast on midnight screens

They rose in opalescent sheets of light

Their trains were wet with rot from loathsome dreams

 

Morbid lights crept over the planes of flesh

That spun across those shifting, spectral screens

Sharp white incisors rhymed with stark white eyes

As invective rose like bile behind my teeth

 

Hopes and promises turned to screams and cries

Violence sticky with the shame beneath  

Powerless I lay to efface those shades

Of lust and hate, and fear, and love, and grief

 

Sunrise finds me bound with the shameful tie

That I can neither break nor can deny.

Casey Calvert: Pain Slut

Posted in Pornography, Pretensions toward cultural theory with tags , , , , , , on May 28, 2020 by Jarrod Boyle

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As you are by now painfully aware, there two kinds of people in quarantine: the single and the partnered. I fall into the former category and as a result, find myself spending no small volume of time in the company of the very gorgeous Asa Akira. Continue reading

(I think) She Might Be Crying

Posted in poetry, sonnet with tags , on April 28, 2020 by Jarrod Boyle

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The floor to ceiling hotel window is

A lidless, depthless, staring midnight eye

The bed’s reflection breaks along its gaze

Sheets rolling in a long, disordered line

 

Face down, the weave of hair conceals her face

As tattered heart’s words tumble to the carpet

I am complicit: dumb, and blunt and hard

Plumbing a womb of shit and barren darkness

 

Later: scrutinised by bathroom light

Sitting naked with my head in hands

Marooned in a field of arid, empty white

Revealed to be the object that I am

 

Next door: drooling, drunk and stoned and slurring

Maybe, words (I think) she might be crying

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