Archive for December, 2020

Guard Dog in the Temple of the Goddess

Posted in sonnet with tags , , on December 25, 2020 by Jarrod Boyle

The Goddess stirs within the temple deep

Candles flicker on the sun-burnished gong

Waked by the rasping of her naked feet

I observe the enigma of the throne

With their robes and candles, their cymbals and bells

Priests conform to scripture, and its motions

Down through the dark universe of her smell

I track along instinct and devotion

Attendant and vigilant to her needs

Obedient to her hands and what they hold

Faithful to her heart and what she loves

My beating heart and her unsandalled feet

The separate, susurrant, resonant poles

That span these sun-warmed, midnight temple stones.

‘Art With Values’.

Posted in Pretensions toward cultural theory, Reading, Real Men, trauma with tags , , , , , , , , , , on December 22, 2020 by Jarrod Boyle

There’s a friend of mine, a very successful artist, who I admire very much. I met him twenty years ago when we were working together in a dirty nightclub in South Melbourne; he was collecting glasses and I was bouncing. We both aspired to art, and he hit critical pay-dirt much earlier than I (who am I fooling – I still haven’t got there).

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‘…Just Don’t Put It on the Internet.’

Posted in Pretensions toward cultural theory, Reading with tags , , , , , , , on December 15, 2020 by Jarrod Boyle


This has been written to disturb you.


Summon your personal incarnation of this figure into your mind’s eye and look through it like a lens while you’re reading this. 

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Ode to the XR6 Turbo

Posted in poetry, sonnet with tags , , on December 4, 2020 by Jarrod Boyle

The tyres shrieking their demand for traction

Where the road crests the brow of the mountain

Afternoon is a golden smelter in

The crucible of the speedometer

The ceramic squeal of heated rotors

As brakes negotiate with the motor

Stark black warnings screaming from yellow signs

Driven by rhythm of white centre line

A hare, erect and startled, stands roadside

Headlights fulminate in its amber eyes

One figure riveted as sentinel

To the flipside of the other’s vigil

Iron grey dusk rears up, pure reverie

As the turbo howls like a Valkyrie

…Because every bloke should write a poem about his car.

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