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I just can’t come to a place of peace with either Jocko Willink or David Goggins. 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 About Face, Anthony Swofford, Apocalypse Now, Can't Hurt Me, David Goggins, David Hackworth, Extreme Ownership, Jarhead, Jocko Willink, Ken Burns, Platoon, SEAL, The Electric Kool Aid Acid Test, The Joe Rogan Podcast, The Vietnam War Documentary, Tom Wolfe, Willem Dafoe on July 2, 2020 by Jarrod Boyle
Shades of Lust and Hate, and Fear, and Love, and Grief
Posted in poetry, sonnet with tags sonnet on June 8, 2020 by Jarrod Boyle
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.
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Casey Calvert: Pain Slut
Posted in Pornography, Pretensions toward cultural theory with tags Asa Akira, Casey Calvert, Nietzsche, Pornhub, Pornhub Podcast, The Fast and the Furious, William Blake on May 28, 2020 by Jarrod Boyle
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
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(I think) She Might Be Crying
Posted in poetry, sonnet with tags poetry, sonnet on April 28, 2020 by Jarrod Boyle
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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Tool and the Descanting of Galileo’s Mathematical Language of God
Posted in Music, Pretensions toward cultural theory with tags 46&2, Adam Jones, Aenima, Fear Inoculum, Fine Arts, Hooker with a Penis, Prison Sex, Stinkfist, Tool, University of Melbourne on March 15, 2020 by Jarrod Boyle
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Galileo said that mathematics is the true language of God. Editions of the Koran, decorated with fields of geometric lines that can be seen in museums all over the Middle East – and the way those designs find their way into the ceilings of Mosques throughout that region – bear Galileo’s dictum out. Continue reading
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Tool and the Descanting of Galileo’s Mathematical Language of God
Posted in Music, Pretensions toward cultural theory with tags 10000 Days, Aenima, Alex Grey, Behemoth, Fear Inoculum, Festival Hall, Lateralus, Rod Laver Arena, Rorschach Blot, Sidney Myer Music Bowl, Tool on March 10, 2020 by Jarrod Boyle
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Nothing locks a reader out of an article like hyperbolae, but it’s a struggle to find any terms other to describe what was experienced at Tool’s most recent Australian shows. Continue reading
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Girl in the Rain at the Airport, at Night
Posted in poetry, sonnet with tags airport, girl, Night, rain on February 27, 2020 by Jarrod Boyle
Headlights blossom across the rainswept screen
As the rain hammers on the roof of the cab
When the rabble parts she’s suddenly seen
Dragging her little suitcase through the pack
Her lips, her brows and soundless bell of hair
Are as memory drew them, just the same; but
Her eyes are mercurial ghosts that skim the glare
And glide beneath the dappled shadows of the rain
My apprehensive kiss flows into a crude embrace
And the sharp breath through her nose is frustration
As she turns, looks out the window to hide her face
And disappointment corrodes my elation
Whether it’s love or courage, I hardly know
But this can only be perfect if I let her go.
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Hitler, By Joachim Fest
Posted in Biography, Observation with tags Adolf Hitler, Anna Karenina, Anthony Roberts, Ian Kershaw, Joachim C. Fest, National Socialist Party, Nazi, Scott Morrison, The Brothers Karamazov, War and Peace, Winston Churchill, Winston Churchill: A Walk With Destiny on February 18, 2020 by Jarrod Boyle
Choke (2)
Posted in poetry, sonnet, violence against women with tags choke, poetry, sex, sonnet on February 2, 2020 by Jarrod Boyle
The sting in my hand from where I’ve struck her
The welt that’s swiftly rising on her thigh
The mark glaring through its suntanned lustre
The bolt of pain that taints her almond eye
The sweat that gathers in her dusky creases
The body that’s knotted like a rope
The sigh that’s strangled and abruptly ceases
The chin slick with saliva as she chokes
Blinking eyes that swim with sweat that’s searing
Relentless, I drive past lips, teeth and tongue
Her eyes bulge, mascara-smeared and teary
I feel the edge of teeth before I come
Gagging, she spits and tears a breath of air
Spent, sated and slaked, I can hardly care.
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Choke (1)
Posted in poetry, sonnet, violence against women with tags choke, poetry, sex, sonnet on January 23, 2020 by Jarrod Boyle
The sting in my hand from where I’ve struck her
The welt that’s swiftly rising on her thigh
The mark that’s glaring through its suntanned lustre
The bolt of pain that taints her almond eye
The sweat that gathers in dusky creases of
The body that’s knotted like a rope
The sigh that’s strangled and abruptly ceases
The chin slick with saliva as she chokes
Supine, the curtains of her belly part
And she’s inhaling sharply through her nose
Relentless, I drive up towards her heart
While turning like a dragon’s embryo
She gasps, and groans, ‘I feel you everywhere’
So I take hold and pull her silky hair.
Theme Park at its Darkest 