Times are tough #7

Tough times are tough, and they’ll just have to run their course. God-damnit, but if these stout and stalwart revolutionary victims of oppressive whatevers seek to dismantle everything, then they should be made to feel the consequences of dismantling everything. From where I sit, I can not help but see loads of headless chickens running around, eating seeds tossed on the grounds by their owners, like crumbs of information fed them – to eat and devour it and believe it, or to perish. Yes, yes – I am well aware that one should be one hell of a talented chicken if one is to eat seeds without any head, but, hey – a lot of people without brains sure do a lot of talking… so why the hell not?

See, I try to the best of my abilities to be a bit less divisive, a bit less mean and nasty in my ramblings, but it sure as hell ain’t easy. Particularly not when the world is such as the world is. (Not to mention insomnia and chronic pain rendering me a bit more grumpy than usual.) People refuse to think for themselves. Such as it is, was, always will be. The prevailing narrative is the prevailing narrative, and nuance as well as views to the contrary be damned. The prevailing narrative is that of the eternally victimized-by-every-damned-thing woman who is, despite being victimized by the slightest breeze, also supremely strong, capable and independent.

Now, it must be stated that no-one lives in a vacuum. Everyone and their mums are influenced by the world around them in one way or another. There is no doubt about that. We take in what we take in, are convinced or not convinced based on much the same. Yet – when the news are so obviously slanted, when the information presented by what is supposed to be neutral and objective journalistic sources are anything but neutral and objective, the ability to think for oneself becomes even more important, the ability to question authority even more of a pressing matter.

At the very least one should be able to question certain things – certain widely held beliefs – without being labelled a whatever-ist and so dismissed with accusations of abusing ones partner or not getting laid or being ever so much a racist scumfuck with allegiances to the third reich and nonsense like that.

Alas: questioning the dominant narrative is not as simple as questioning the dominant narrative. In a time and in a place in which a male politician in a political fucking debate with a female politician there to fucking debate political issues in a political fucking debate can get accused of mansplaining and summarily dismissed for simply debating a female politician supposedly there to debate, things are severely messed up.

Particularly so when the ones accusing him of mansplaining are god-damned motherfucking news outlets of a supposedly professional variety. The veneer of professionalism is slowly sliding away, to reveal the greasy film beneath. Any semblance of objectivity and good journalistic ethics burnt to the ground. Name-calling is quite alright, and it never ceases to amaze me how OK the feminist hordes are with certain derogatory gendered terms, when they constantly attempt to make terms gender-neutral for reasons of gendered language being non-inclusive and ever-so oppressive to women. And I’m sitting here thinking; if calling a fireman a fireman makes it so that women don’t dare apply to such a profession, would not “mansplaining” then make it so that men dare not explain something, following their own logic? But, ya know, that’s not how it works. Mansplaining, manspreading, manterrupting, manslamming, etcetera, are all quite alright. But don’t you dare name a manhole a manhole, you oppressive patriarch, you.

So it has come to this: women, even when they take part in a political debate, must not be debated. Particularly not by men. If a man debates a woman, he is mansplaining. No matter the reason for the debate. No matter that the point of it all is to have a damned debate. A man must always agree with a woman. Such is the way of it. Anything else is just plain old patriarchal oppression. Of course.

Women are apparently absolutely incapable of doing their jobs if that job just so happens to be a politician. Does not seem particularly strong and powerful and independent to me, but that don’t matter. Playing the victim-card is far better than debating and winning on merit. That, you see, would open the possibility for loss. And that can not under any circumstances be allowed to happen.

I swear upon all that I hold near and dear: I trust politicians even less than I trust actors. And actors are paid to lie and to play-pretend, for fuck sake.

Alas: women can not handle people disagreeing. Or so it appears.

How dare you, sir, debate a woman? Do you not know how frail and fragile she is? How dare you, how very dare you, you horrible mansplaining malicious monstrous manterrupter you!

It is absolutely astonishing that this is considered acceptable. That this is celebrated. That this sort of trite trash, this sort of underhanded tactic, this sort of absolutely gobsmacking nonsense is given the time of day.

My wife, some time back, read an article… a review of some book written by a ferocious feminist. The author of the article wrote, and I am quoting verbatim (though translated from Norwegian): “Sometimes, it just feels so good to have someone tell you what to think”.

Oh boy. Oh man. Oh wow.

That just says it all, does it not?

It is one thing to have ones opinions swayed by arguments. It is one thing to be convinced of something by someone. It is one thing to listen, nod ones head and understand the facts behind the arguments, to see the reason behind it. It is quite another to turn off completely, follow blindly and, well, celebrating having someone tell you what to think.

Add inevitable “wake up, sheeple”, for bonus comedic effect.

And now that that is happily out of the way, I can carry on rambling.

The main problem with these types of people… the biggest issue, besides an apparently celebrated inability to think for themselves, is that they never really consider that what they will force on other people will also be forced on them. Compelled speech, for one example… hate-speech as another. And on it goes. They consider themselves to be such morally superior human beings that they can not do wrong. Doing wrong is something other people do, not they themselves. And so these impossible rules and laws and regulations could not possibly, under any circumstances, turn around and bite them in their vicious attack-wombs or pre-emptively neutered, non-dropped testicles.

No matter what one may think of religion, a lot of the religions got one thing absolutely right: do onto others what you wish others do onto you. How you treat others will reflect how others treat you. What you put into the world comes back to you.

And so forth and so on.

If everyone around you is an arsehole, the problem most likely lies with you. If you meet one arsehole once in a while, the problem most likely lies with them. Seems perfectly reasonable and sensible to me, and yet this seems to be forgotten wisdom.

The fight for position of victim supreme in the oppression-olympics is constantly ongoing. Now, as times have moved ever forwards and the hordes have changed formation, we see white women – white feminism – being attacked by several forces within this progressive-chaotic movement of intersectional havoc and mayhem. All for them being privileged when compared to others. I must admit to a certain sense of schadenfreude. It seemed inevitable. It got to be too big, man.

Seems white feminism; white women and their interests intersected with something else on the intersection of feminism and all that other stuff which was co-opted by feminism in order to keep feminism relevant, and so collided with a mighty crash-boom-bang. Feminism co-opting all these other movements was an interesting and somewhat sudden take-over of which no-one complained. No wonder, since feminism is considered to be the true, proper, good and noble pursuit of equality… That it is a well established movement with might, power and influence everywhere probably helped as well.

Now, in the waning light of this horrid year of the lord, 2020, feminism means not only women’s rights, not merely equality between the sexes (which it never really did, despite the dictionary definition – but no matter); feminism now also include gay rights, queer rights, lesbian rights, the whole alphabet-soup rights, black rights, brown rights, green rights, Martian rights, tranny rights, gender bender rights, immigrant rights, and so forth and so on. Whichever of the poor, huddled masses you could possibly imagine. Feminism swoops in and takes it under its wing and devours it, takes it into itself, supreme moral guardian that it is.

To believe this would not eventually start eating itself would have been a ridiculous belief, like unironically believing in the flying spaghetti monster or that Epstein killed himself.

Keeping up with all the different groups at the intersection of feminism and the rest of the grievance-mongers would be impossible at the best of times. There’s just such a damned lot of grievances running around, each to be amplified more than the last… as long as it does not involve men, of course. Unless it’s minority men, which really don’t count that much… because the articles have told us, and I quote: “Straight black men are the white people of black people”. That this is actually given time and consideration is so ridiculous that it single-handedly caused my receding hairline.

Here we stand, our flaccid dicks flapping in the cold breeze of the looming nuclear winter, bloodshot eyes staring wide and wild and exhausted at the apocalyptic skies above and the ruined cities below during these tough and hard and trying times, thinking and whispering: “keeping up with it all bloody well can’t be done.”

There’s just too many god-damned rules, all of them too confusing to follow, too obnoxious and ever so self-contradictory. It’s all just so darned cuntishly cuntfusing. Not to mention that it is maybe just a wee bit frightening that a movement supposedly for women’s rights saw fit to devour all other civil rights movements or interest groups and take it into itself, just so that it remains up front and centre. Great way to implement ideological superiority as well; fantastic way to constantly keep people ideologically pure. Co-opt the movements of everything and everyone, and make it so that people who do not agree with feminism is shunned and cast out of the movement or the group there to supposedly make them feel better about themselves, to make them feel as though they belong somewhere in this strange and crooked world. Bend a knee to feminism, Mr. Faggòt, or perish.

To quote the good doctor Randomercam from his phenomenal song “Cringe is the word”: “MRA’s don’t care about gays, unlike us – we’re for women’s rights.”

That ought to sum it up.

Were I a bit cynically inclined, I would perhaps say that the whole shambles is designed to be as confusing and self-contradictory as possible. So that there is always something to either complain about, or explain it away with. It is not a monolith. None of it. Not feminism, not intersectionalism, not progressivism, nor any of the other things beneath the giant whore-hopping umbrella of intersectional feminism.

Except when it is, when is when it suits the non-monolithic hordes.

The whole progressive movement; the whole social justice thing; the whole intersectional feminist thing is an opportunistic parasite, leeching on the good will of good, honest, decent, ordinary people who just want to do good and who have neither the time nor the ability to delve deeply into the issues or the movements that create such hard-hitting schisms in our societies… movements upon movements that aim to divide and conquer, all running on the fumes of a philosophy; on the noxious fumes of a view of the world in which there does not exist any objective truth, any truly measurable reality. Unless, of course, it is their truth and their measured reality. Then truth exist, and reality is rigid, static and measurable.

Most people are not bad people. Most people are good and decent people. And when a movement – it does not matter which – presents itself superficially as being of the good, then people will support it. Particularly so when everyone else seem to be protecting and defending and following it. The bad parts of the movement are merely the outliers; the extremes. This is how it is sold. Which is why, I believe, you see feminists so ardently and so fervently defending feminism, making out that men are the reason – men and the patriarchy are the cause for mothers winning sole custody so, so, so much more than fathers, for example. Anything unequal in society is the fault of men, after all. The fact that prominent feminists and feminism in it’s many incarnations have fought tooth and nail so that mothers shall be granted custody does not matter. After all, the movement said it was about equality and men are the oppressors and the ones making it unequal, and so anything that is not equal in society must be the fault of men. Even when feminist lobbying is the cause of much of it, and still fight for more of it.

This opportunistic nonsense is also the reason, I believe, why one woman’s oppression is another woman’s liberation. Female nude modelling, for example, is both a manifestation of patriarchal and horrible sexual objectification of women and a manifestation of fantastic feminist sexual liberation of women, all at the same time. It merely depends on what point is needed to be made. It is not grounded in something concrete, it is grounded in affect and in emotion.

No matter what a woman does, feminism made it so that she can do it. No matter what truth is, all the good in the world is feminism. If a woman says that it is a feminist act, then it is a feminist act. Even when stated otherwise everywhere else. There is no contradiction, say, for a woman to state that women are over-sexualized, only for her to then go and sell her nudes on onlyfans, obviously participating in this so-called over-sexualization of women which she is ever so much against herself.

I will have a ramble on that topic sometime in the future, I believe, as I have only recently discovered that women, yet again, are victims of their own choices. This time, women are victims of selling nudes and assorted lewds on onlyfans by their own choice. How very interesting. Women have no agency, and must always and ever be protected from themselves. I tend to believe women are more capable than all that, but apparently I am a horrible misogynist for believing this.

I was once told, as a rebuttal to my anti-feminist stance, that feminism is the reason why I am not forced to work in the coal mines for twelve or more hours a day. Because of course it is. Makes perfect sense. All the guys that went on strike and stood in picket-lines, risking life and limbs, beatings and death and – of course – loss of livelihood in order that workers should get a better deal are forgotten, neglected… rendered, one could even say to much shock and surprise, disposable. Makes one think that men are the disposable sex, now doesn’t it, when feminism swoops in and takes credit for what is, in no small way, men’s doing. Men’s contributions to society does not matter. Men are to be torn down for being mean and wicked, never contributing anything good. And when they did, it is only because they denied women the right and the opportunity to do it themselves. So, you see, even when men do good it is sprung from their desire to oppress and subjugate women. But it is not about hating men, you see.

It is all feminism, all of it. It is all women who done did the good deeds in the bad far-away past times. All of it. All of them. Only them. All praise onto feminism.

Even that which is evidently not feminism is feminism. Because feminism has told us that it is, and so that must be true.

All that is good in the world is feminism – in essence, women. All that is bad in the world is patriarchy – in essence, men.

The feminist in question followed this up with telling me that I ought to be more nuanced in my view of the world. Because life is all about nuance, she said. The irony seemed lost on her. Claiming feminism to be the cause of all the good in the world seems to me to not be particularly nuanced, but I suppose that self-awareness is a tool of the patriarchy and so is to be discarded and regarded with the utmost suspicion.

It sure as hell seems to be very much religious in thought: all good in the world is God, all bad in the world is the Devil. And should you question this, it is the Devil working through you. Which is very convenient. Poor sinner that you are, the Devil made you do it. This does not seem all that different from blaming the patriarchy when women do not conform to this nonsensical idea feminism have built about the angelic and harmless nature of women, in all honesty.

So Fuck it.

Let’s go grab a beer instead. Let’s play some video games. Let’s read a book. Let’s listen to some music, watch a movie, take it easy. Let the whole thing run its course and then see what happens. Such a magnificent beast as these strange and chaotic times are, it will eventually end up hurting itself. And we can all help it along by doing absolutely nothing.

Except, apparently, bitching and moaning impotently about it on the internet. Such as I do. Hell – it is a magnificent source of catharsis; a brilliant way to unleash my ID upon the world. Or at the very least upon this sad and lonely corner of the internet in which I reside, horrible white straight cis male oppressor that I am.

It is a strange thing, I must admit, to advocate checking out and doing nothing as well as advocating advocacy and action. Sometimes, I suppose, inaction is a course of action. And action may very well be inaction. Or both action and inaction can tag along, holding hands and tip-toe through the tulips together.

Without pointing any moralising fingers upon the personality of the man, Gandhi was onto something. Non-violent resistance is action. Not doing anything is action. Not trying to succeed may well lead one on the path towards success. Or have I perhaps been a bit too influenced by eastern thought lately? No matter.

If you will allow, I will attempt to hang my mean and naughty side upon a coat-hanger for the next and – I promise – final part of this rambling diatribe.

I know I said this would be the last one in this particular series of ramblings. I lied. Please forgive me this trespass upon honesty and decency, and join me next time for that grand finale.

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  • Moiret Allegiere, 21.10.2020

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Times are Tough #6

Times are tough, gentlemen, times are tough.

Every single day, it seems, there is some new nonsense from the ever-so-oppressed hordes, so lacking in clarity of thought and vision; so sheltered and so shamelessly swaddled, so hopelessly echo-chambered that they don’t see themselves. They see a funhouse-mirror reflecting themselves. A mirage. An illusion. I find this striking. And obvious. The solipsism on display; the navel-gazing and the narcissism growing, growling, expanding and exploding and becoming popular is disconcerting, to say the least.

Do you remember that Democratic Socialist convention, or whatever it was called, of some years ago? The one with the “quick point of personal privilege” absurdity? The one with the “don’t use gendered language to address anyone” nonsense? The one with the jazz-hands? The one with the “Don’t talk amongst yourself, I can’t take the noise”? The one with all the triggerings? The one that appeared to be a real-life remake of South Park? Life sure as hell seems to imitate art at the moment…

They seemed like a happy, well-adjusted and inclusive lot didn’t they? High-functioning, resilient, equal, inclusive and tolerant of other people’s everything as they were. This was made most evident by the remarkable rules of conduct which they forced on other people for reasons of they themselves as selfish individuals not wanting to be triggered by the horrifying use of the word “guys”, and similar horrible crimes against humanity. That is hurtful to everyone for being hurtful to that one person. The possibility that someone could be of a different opinion… a different state of mind… lesser levels, let’s say, of frailty than that one person does not come to mind. I am me and me must be all that is I in this group of me’s, they seemed to be saying. Also known as the wise old saying: “Me, me, me!”

If it is true for me, then it must be true for everyone like me. Because all exist in this world as a reflection of me, sprung from my line of thought and my way of seeing. If I feel as though this is hurtful, everyone must feel the same and must comply. Anything else is unthinkable.

This is what the debacle left me with; the impression these people left on me after watching the whole spectacular implosion. It is not without reason that I refer to this whole social justice warrior thing as narcissism veiled as altruism. To me it is so obvious, so transparent. Anyone who believed that this whole thing would burn out and die as quickly as it came were, I am afraid to say, mistaken. The beast graduated from grievance studies and moved into positions of power, carefully navigating their way in, infiltrating decision-makers and policy-makers and all, being oppressed all the way to the top. All for them being oppressed and denied a voice. Obviously. The beast became the norm. Far from fizzling out and dying, it became omnipresent, became total, became totalitarian.

The ideological take-over is damned near complete, and any who oppose will be cancelled.

The Norwegian government, in its infinitesimal wisdom and lack of understanding of what a certain term means – in this case “freedom of speech” – gathered a bunch of people and created a “commission on freedom of speech”, there to decide what one is or is not allowed to speak. This is a contradiction in terms if ever I heard one. But, no matter – it gets even better.

One of those chosen to take part in this most hallowed commission was of a certain, and for us delving into the insanity of the world at present, well known political bent. Her real colours were shown as she took over administrative duties on a Facebook group wherein certain tender topics, such as equality and immigration, was discussed from a perspective not necessarily feminist, not necessarily progressive. Long-ish story short; she ended up banning anyone with whom she did not agree, deleting comments she did not agree with and otherwise acted like a censorious cunt. Only the opinions which she agreed with was proper, all else was hate-speech. Granted, this was only on Facebook and Facebook is only Facebook, after all… It does not, however, give me good hopes for our freedom of speech when one who is so eager to censor and ban things which she does not agree with is one of those chosen to decide what is or is not allowed speech. Hate-speech is not free speech. Only a few are allowed to decide what is hate-speech, though. Considering what side it is that is frequently pushing for censorship, it does not bode well for our freedom of speech, gentlemen.

But, to get back to the democratic socialist convention of conceited socialist censors: one speaker from the democratic socialist convention of champagne-socialist censors mentioned in the introduction of this rambling diatribe against all that is good and noble and proper – you will know him when you see him – really stood out to me.

Remarkably so.

Now: why did he stand out, you might wonder and ponder. And I am glad you asked, kind and inclusive non-gender specific person of non-individualistic characteristic, I’m glad you asked indeed, comrade.

The man, you see, was wearing a costume.

The man was bloody well LARP-ing.

He was wearing a – most likely highly expensive – costume, designed to show himself as a revolutionary of a certain political bent. There is no doubt in my mind, no doubt whatsoever, that this was carefully planned and bought and put together in order to project this image. It was so bloomingly obvious, right down to his carefully designed and perfectly tended to scruffy-looking three day stubble.

Appearances matter more than all else; superficiality has become the guiding light of our societies. The ideas matter less than the appearance of the one presenting it. Which may very well be identity politics summed up in one short sentence.

Appearance, not ideas. Superficiality, not depth.

When one can be dismissed for reasons of being a white male, no matter the quality of ones argument, I fail to see it as anything but superficiality feigning depth. It is not particularly rare to encounter sentiments such as “Well, you are a white male, so you should just shut up about this”. I fail to see anything in such dismissals but a confession that the one being so dismissive has no argument, no rebuttal, no nothing. And so dismissal on basis of sex and skin it is, which sounds an awful lot like sexism and racism, but that don’t matter for one can not be sexist towards men, nor can one be racist towards white people. The ones who decided that one can be dismissed on the basis of being a white male decided that one can not be sexist towards men, nor racist towards whites, and so be it.

How very convenient.

These people are not strong and capable people. They are weakness personified, weakness and frailty weaponized.

Let it be stated that, whether you believe me or not, I do not intend this to be an insult. Far from it, in fact. I am aware that it sounds as though I am just crafting an insult, but truth be told: it worries me and I kinda feel sorry for these people – the celebration of weakness, the fetishization, the deification of perpetual victimhood. To view oneself as a victim all the time… to make ones whole identity that of a victim, and then to create a hierarchy of victimhood and of oppression… to live within this constantly, all ones life gnawed by doubt and by weakness and by a certain fear that one will, once the hierarchy shuffles a bit, be considered more privileged than one was and as such deserving of less… It is frightfully worrisome.

Being a perpetual victim; basking in whatever beauty one perceives ones weakness to grant one… it does not make for strong and competent people. It does not make for a generation capable of standing up to anything, when they are ripped up by their roots with every slight breeze or gust of wind. If one has been a victim of something at one point – and let’s face it, most all of us have in varying degrees – the best one can do is rise above said victimhood. The best one can do is heal from it. This creates strength, it creates self-respect and it creates an ability to withstand hard times, to thrive even when seemingly impossible.

A society can not function properly when weakness and helplessness is the guiding light, when mother government must step in everywhere to maintain order… to such an extent that it decides what is or is not allowed speech; to such an extent that it decides that certain groups are more deserving than others of protection from having their feelings hurt. For that is all this strange hate-speech thing is: someone being protected from having their feelings hurt at the expense of someone else’s freedom to speak their mind. Words, it transpires, have become violence. And actual acts of violence – particularly when enacted upon the out-group by the in-group – is not violence. Hate-speech is violence, violence is not violence… Particularly not when enacted upon the hate-speechers, for they are violent through their speech and as such deserve to be met with violence. Political violence is quite alright. Until it goes the other way, of course.

The so-called mostly peaceful protests would be a good example of this.

When society has decided – with the blessings of the government – that some groups are deserving of less protection than other groups, society sure as hell has got problems that need to be dealt with. A good starting point… a good way to deal with these problems would probably be to extend the same protection to all groups. That is – to make everyone equal under the law. Such a radical notion, that, terrifying as the notion that this is a radical notion is.

Alas: hate-speech laws do not grant us equal protection.

Far from it. For some, it is decided, are of a stronger constitution than others. I’m not entirely sure how this is not insulting to those supposedly being protected, but then again – I am a white and straight male, so I have no say in anything. This is quite alright to state, see. For my part, I think black lesbian women, be that trans-women or not, should not have a say in anything, but that would be horribly bigoted and hateful. So I’ll just keep my privileged hate-filled mouth shut.

You see my point?

In order to keep ones head above the water, one has to become strong, one has to have the fortitude to soldier on, no matter the circumstances. One has to become like water, capable of flowing with, flowing through, flowing below, flowing over, rushing, standing still, moving, and – if need be – break down whatever halts free movement.

Actual strength, whether physical or psychological, is slowly becoming more and more of a no-no thing; a naughty thing. Seemingly for it being tied to masculinity, which is also a naughty no-no thing in this era of the mighty freak-out. This says a lot – probably more than intended – about the view of the hive-mind regarding femininity, but no matter.

Stoicism is not a celebrated virtue. It has become a damaging and terrible thing, a dangerous thing, linked to toxic masculinity and other such horrible manly gender-norms which are absolutely terrible and frightening and icky for some reason, mainly to do with the fee-fees of the feminist and social justice crowd.

There are no differences between men and women, except when there is, when is when women can be made out to be better than men in some way.

I find this remarkably interesting, given how our societies now attempt to condition boys and men into being “in touch with their emotions”, in essence conditioning boys and men into a feminine model because that has to be the norm, even for those who are masculine.

This of course means that men need to emote and feel like women do. That men must be forced – for lack of a better word – into coping with their emotions like women do. Differences don’t exist, and if they do they are a negative not a positive.

I really don’t understand why we have become allergic to the mere whiff of difference, but we have. I assume it is because the people who consider differences to be a negative see differences as meaning that one is better than the other, instead of it merely being differences.

Given how differences are held in a glowing light and presented as a good and noble real-fact whenever women can be made to be better than men, it seems likely that their view of differences is such; that it necessarily must come from, or result in, some manner of competition.

From where I sit, differences – particularly between men and women – mean that we complement one another, that we fulfil one another. Interdependence is not a bad thing. Differences are a virtue and a strength in my book, not a vice nor a weakness. But, as stated – I am a straight white male, and so it does not matter what my opinions on things are. Unless I agree with the zeitgeist. Then it matters.

Stoicism has come to mean that one denies oneself ones emotions; has come to mean that emotions are suppressed and then, eventually, boils over and explodes. This sounds absolutely nonsensical to my understanding of stoicism, which has to do with controlling ones emotions. That is: to not be guided, ruled and dominated by them.

In order to control ones emotions, one can not help but be in touch with them. One has to be able to identify them, as well as their cause, be that cause external or internal, if one is to control them and not be governed by them. I would dare propose that one who is able to control his emotions and so make rational, logical decisions despite what his emotions tell him is way more in touch with his feelings than someone who shouts, breaks stuff, screams and otherwise throws temper tantrums. Someone who makes their decisions based on emotion rather than reason tend to not be a reasonable person. Someone who is guided by their emotions instead of being able to control their emotions are less in touch with their emotions. Gabbing about ones emotions does not mean being in touch with them. It simply means that one gabs about ones emotions.

To make the claim that “traditional masculinity” means being emotionless is missing the point completely. It means controlling ones emotions, no matter their cause and no matter their impact. It means truly and really being in touch with ones emotions.

Alas, as we have come to see in this day and age, self-control is not considered to be a good thing. Except when it is, when is when men are supposed to control themselves because women find men scary whatever men do. So men must be in touch with their emotions, but they must also control their emotions such as women demand it. Sounds like traditional masculinity to me, but that can not be for it is painted in the flashing flaccid light of feminist fancy.

And the men who openly speak about their feelings and their experiences are dubbed as whiny man-babies, amongst a whole slew of similar insults. But we don’t need to think about that right at this moment.

Self-control is a good thing, you see, but it must be self-control such as women desire it, not such as men do it. Men don’t matter and don’t get a say, as per usual. Men’s emotional lives are the domain of women. Didn’t you know? Particularly of feminist women, because none but feminist women can speak to how men are doing and what men should do. Who else should speak on that? Men? You’ve got to be fucking kidding.

Just a damned shame that women find men who are open and expressive about their feelings to be such a turn-off then. Made evident by the male tears mugs, perhaps, the “I bathe in male tears” shirts, maybe; made evident by the “whiny man-baby” thing being so popular amongst those who claim to believe that men need to open up about their feelings, perchance.

You know what kind of man is open about his experiences, his issues and his problems? The ones the feminist hordes see fit to shame and label misogynist and other such horrible things. The ones from our neck of the woods.

A pox on us in the horrifying men’s rights thing – we may be open about our issues, but it is not done such as feminism believes that it ought to be, and so it is wrong. Besides, we are just so blunt and mean in our speech; so overwhelmingly masculine in the way we chose to speak about our masculine issues that comes from being men in a society that does not exactly treat men decently, that does not exactly view men in a favourable light.

How does feminism believe this exploration of men’s emotions and feelings and so and such ought to transpire, how it ought to be and what shape it ought to take?

It should be supportive of women and of feminism, not of men nor of masculinity. It must be done in the way feminism dictates and in the way feminism demands, which translates into “shut up and listen, men”.

In a way, this men’s rights thing is the most progressive damned “movement” in the world. For heaven knows there has been precious little aid, help, concern, compassion, empathy and such thrown the way of boys and men. I mean, the claim is that men have always had it all, but that falters and fails the moment one dares look away from the top tiers of society and gaze but a little in the gutters and the graves.

For being a society that supposedly benefits men over women, there sure as fuck are a lot of broken, beaten and bleeding men. Oh, my, but patriarchy hurts men too. Seems as though it hurts men more than it hurts women then, if numbers, statistics and facts are anything to go by. But that is not what one should go by – one must go by feelings. Women feel more unsafe, and so that matters more than men actually being more unsafe. Solipsism ho, and add one more solipsist ho.

Almost makes one believe that the whole thing is a lie, a sham, a fraud and a power-grab by authoritarian tyrants seeking little else but money, power and complete and utter control. Seeking complete and utter revolution, in fact. Makes me want to use these words: “Female Supremacy Movement”.

Oh boy, how naughty. I’ve been a bad boy now, mother government. Please don’t disappear me, please don’t cancel me, I’ve got a growing family to take care of. Very sorry for burdening you with my troubles and my issues; very sorry for you having to deal with all that emotional labour.

Sigh and harumph, and other grumpy noises of a very manly variety.

There has always been precious little empathy sent the way of men; precious little societal concern. Just a whole hell of a lot of obligations, responsibilities and duties.

Fuck it, I’m calling it – men’s rights activism is doubtlessly progressive. In fact, it is the most progressive thing in the world at the moment.

Don’t “at” me, brah.

Oh boy, that one is sure to gift me enemies from all over the spectrum, particularly from the hopelessly regressive and reactionary feminist hordes, who wish for nothing more than to keep, maintain and grow the incredible amount of power it has, the incredible claw-like, vice-like grip it has on the balls and ovaries of society.

Behold the water. Water is cool. Water don’t give a fuck. Water just flows and beats against the thing until the thing gives way and the water moves ever onwards. Water don’t care. Be like water.

And that concludes part six. Join me next time for what I believe will be the last part, at least at the moment of writing. But, that don’t necessarily mean much. Inspiration is a hell of a thing, and the flow even more a hell of a thing.

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  • Moiret Allegiere, 17.10.2020

My Generation Killed Rock «n» Roll:
Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B089DHKBQB
Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B089M59JXF

Lonely Trainstation Blues – Poetry for the Lost Boys, Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07ZB6K2JX
Lonely Trainstation Blues – Poetry for the Lost Boys, Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1692495518

Howling at a Slutwalk Moon, a collection of previous blog posts:
Vol 1 Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/107571074X
Vol 1 Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07TZTPDPR
Vol 2 Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075714184
Vol 2 Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07TZR25NL
Vol 1 Illustrated Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075717094
Vol 2 Illustrated Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075723078

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Times are tough #5

Times could have been better, gentlemen – I ain’t gonna lie. With the slight fear of sounding as though I have just emerged from the bi-annual meeting of the tin-foil hat enthusiasts: I believe we are witnessing the end results of an ideological take-over. Propaganda is everywhere, to those with eyes willing to see. That is: eyes that are no longer blinded to what is, quite obviously, ideological propaganda, so common-place that it is barely noticed. So engrained in society that it is taken for granted. This constant stream of misandric nonsense; the constant male-bashing going on is normalized to such a degree that it is not only accepted, but it is celebrated. Substitute male with any other identity-group, and it would be called out for being bigoted and hateful. Because it, quite rightly, is.

When the eyes open, the eyes are opened. The eyes have it. For pointing it out, the labels come flying; a mad torrential downpour of piss and shit. The labels and various sordid accusations. And the ridicule. Oh, goodness, the ridicule and the shaming and the ostracising, the banning, the sacred cancelling.

In my pre-rambling-about-this-stuff days, I was wholeheartedly unaware that I was abusing my wife. Post-rambling-about-this-stuff, I learned that I was an abuser of my wife. I mean, I was well aware that I was oppressing her with the full fury of my male privilege and singular malignant masculine capacity for oppression. This I had been told on several occasions. Especially in art-school. By the teachers there. As stated thousands of times. Repetition becomes a necessity when people simply refuse to listen. I will repeat this until the world ends, if need be. Besides, I can’t quite get it out of my head for reasons of this behaviour being severely fucked up; so fucked in the head, in fact, that the skulls of these teachers must look like a well-worn fleshlight. This behaviour from the teachers of the school was deemed, by one of those so-called “real” feminists, to not be the product of feminist thought, but a product of them being artists.

So there you have it, gentlemen: accusatory feminist rhetoric of male oppression of women is not the result of accusatory feminist rhetoric of male oppression of women, but of an occupation as an artist.

It was the artist speaking, not the feminist. Obviously and obliviously. One assumes that this fact – that the teachers of a school decided to try and break up a romantic relationship for reasons of feminism (I’m not joking – this actually happened) – became too harsh a trespass on the private lives of someone to those who decided to follow an ideology which has made it their purpose to make it so that the personal must be political, and so it could not possibly be the fault of hallowed and flawless feminism that feminism was used as an excuse to implement feminist thought and dogma in the private lives of someone. One could almost believe that people just have this knee-jerk reaction wherein feminism must be defended, no matter how ridiculous the defence, no matter the mental gymnastics one must employ in order to defend it. When reaching so far as to blame an occupation as an artist rather than feminism for spewing feminist stuff, one has been wholly and succinctly brainwashed. There can not possibly be anything wrong with feminism. Everything – anything – other than feminism must be blamed. No matter how ridiculous.

Ya know, when studying art one must be aware that ones personal romantic relationship is under constant scrutiny from the teachers therein. The art plays second fiddle to ones romantic – or platonic – relationships. This is to be expected, apparently. And not only that: it is to be accepted and it is to be celebrated. For these feminists were only trying to save my poor huddled wife… tried helping her to escape my gruesome clutching clutches, mean patriarchal tyrant I so obviously am, so obviously was. Their reasoning was that she was not social enough. She is just about as introverted as myself. Maybe even more. No matter; her introversion – that is her not being social enough for the likes of these teachers – was considered to be my fault, for forcing her to not be social and expand her circle of friends to include the entirety of the school. Women, to the eyes of feminism, have neither free will nor agency. All their actions – or lack thereof – must be caused by some man in their lives, not they themselves. Unless they do as feminism dictates. Then it is the actions – or lack thereof – of the woman, not some external force. Honk honk.

Anyhow: that I was abusing my wife was, indeed, news to me.

Oh, well – that is just the way of things. I am an oppressor and an abuser, according to dimwitted troglodytes who wouldn’t know a grain of sand from a pile of shit. It is clear and it is obvious that these types of people know both me and my wife better than we know ourselves… or each other.

It appears to me that the line between simply oppressing ones partner on account of being born male and abusing her on account of the same depends on whether or not one is critical of feminism. It follows from feminist dogma that one is either an oppressor or an abuser, if male and engaged in a heterosexual relationship. The most important part, no matter merely oppressor or horrid abuser, is to check ones privilege.

That is the first step on the path towards redemption and eventual enlightenment. Do that, and the oppression one bestows upon ones partner is not as bad as if one did not acknowledge ones privilege and move forwards on the path towards limited redemption and partial absolution.

The second step is to do whatever the hell ones female partner demands. If not bending the knee and bending over backwards to fulfil her every wish, one is engaged in oppression of the fairer sex. And the world will see no qualms in reminding one about this, time and again. Aye, it is the tried and true tactic of the propagandists and the shame-peddlers.

The third step is for the female in the relationship to bend the knee to feminism and so leaving her will, her individuality and her own wishes in life behind for the great glory of the hallowed serpent cult that is feminism.

Horrid misogynist though I am, vile and depraved abuser of one woman in particular as well as of women in general though I be, I have – as of yet – not been referred to as an incel. This surprises me quite a bit, though I suppose it is just a matter of time before this married man with a baby on the way is labelled in just such a way. An incel is no longer someone who is involuntarily celibate. Rather, it has become anyone who dares oppose the forces of feminism, as well as referring to anyone who attempts to shine a light on the issues predominantly affecting men.

I have witnessed married men with multiple children be referred to as an incel by the hive of the perpetually scorned for daring to oppose the hive-mind. On Twitter, of course and as expected. That is where the madness truly lives and lies, to fester and to spread.

This, then, is proof to my eyes that those who throw these labels, these insults and this attempted shame and ridicule around know nothing about what they actually mean.

They just heard it somewhere and picked it up because these labels and that word and this particular term is in vogue at the moment; one of those trendy buzzwords they heard somewhere and so apply to any situation, whether fitting or not.

Back in my art-school days, the word of the hour was “Emo”, as that particular thing was trendy at that particular time and place. And so any work of art which the teachers disliked, for any reason, was dubbed “Emo”, no matter if it really was “Emo” or not.

Such is the way of things and the swing of the buzzwords. When no longer trendy, or when no longer functioning as the intended insult, it will change and something new will take its place. That is just how she goes; the vile and wicked mistress of trends and passing fancies. The most fitting insult is the most popular buzzword at the moment. When a certain insult no longer functions as intended, when it is broken down and rendered useless due to its overuse, something new will take its place. For the lack of argumentative ability; the lack of reasoned arguments demands insults, demands ad hominem attacks made so that the person being insulted no longer defends his position, but rather is forced to defend his character from vicious attacks and smears. The only thing that does not change is the accusations of hating women. Nothing is worse in this culture of ours, wherein this hatred of women is so omni-present, than hating women; nothing is more frowned upon.

Waking up to this, one comes to realize that those who hold the strongest opinions; who see no qualms in screaming and roaring and raging and carrying on about their superior moral stance have no leg to stand on when challenged… that they have, in fact, not delved particularly deeply into that which they profess to care oh so much about. It just feels right, and so it must be right. Besides, everyone else is doing it and so it must be doubly right and proper, true and correct.

If challenged, feelings get hurt and so character assassinations fly and leap and bounce like horny pornstars at the peak of a cocaine binge, sweat, spit and various other bodily fluids dripping and secreting from greasy skin and parted lips. As do the insults and the labels and assorted accusations about this and about that. When this happens, the insult-wielders and shame-peddlers lose all ability to listen and to read. My favourite of the ones I have received was the claim that my opposition to feminism could not possibly mean anything but me wanting to chain my wife to the kitchen, for her to cook dinner and birth babies and do nothing but that. This I also mention, time and again. The reason for me repeating this all the bloody time is of course that it is so damned outlandish, so far removed from my behaviour and my beliefs that it becomes absolutely god-damned motherfucking ridiculous. I also find it quite telling that, in order to shame men when men ain’t supporting feminism, the feminist hordes see no problems with accusing him of mistreating his spouse. Almost makes one believe that the feminist hive-mind are full aware of men’s desire to protect women, so that they know claiming him being abusive towards his partner will make him feel ashamed and angry.

In a society in which women are hated ever so much… for men who mistreat their partners based on this horrid misogyny so omnipresent as to be invisible, one should believe that accusations of mistreatment of their partners would not function as a point of attempted shame and browbeating. How very strange, then, that it functions as intended more often than not.

These people hear what they want to hear, read what they want to read. It does not matter that something is neither spoken nor written: the bumbling, raging fool sat or stood in front of one will claim the ability to read ones mind and so pretend that what one said is not what one meant but that one meant that which the offended believes that one meant; that one said what the offended imagined that one said. The offended is, after all, the offended and the word of the offended is truth. That nothing of what the offended is offended about is said or meant matters little – the offended believe that this is what the offender meant, and so this is what the offender meant. Otherwise, the offended would have proven themselves a fool. And we can’t have that. The offended is never wrong.

One must never apologize to these people.

The morally righteous have no problems with acting immorally, see no qualms in doing exactly that which they demand others do not. The tolerant sure as hell do not tolerate much but themselves and their own views. For they are elevated above the rules of conduct which they apply to others. The others, you see, are labelled such as this and are therefore effectively “othered”, meaning that they deserve neither protection nor proper treatment. How very tolerant of other people and their opinions. “We can’t tolerate hatred and hate-speech”, they shriek, whilst plunging themselves head-first into the deep and cold waters of searing hatred, spreading hatred and mockery where ever they go, arguing with personal attacks and character assassinations all the while.

All is fair in love and war, and these vicious beasts are engaged in war. It is a very one-sided war, all things considered, but that does not matter. What matters is that these people are so blinded by their hubris and their swollen sense of moral superiority that anyone not subscribing to their way of thinking or to their view of the world are immoral barbarians; barely human, deserving neither basic respect nor proper treatment. In fact, they view the others as human scum. As such, the others deserve whatever comes their way of shame and ridicule, harassment and doxxing and – at worst – violence and murder. The others are not people, to the eyes and mind of the hive. Death and illness amongst the out-group is celebrated amongst the in-group. It sickens me, but that is how it is, how it has come to be.

The others have been effectively dehumanized by a click that has been effective in dehumanizing their opponents, painting them as anything but human; all that is opposed to themselves.

Dehumanizing anyone is a terrifying thing. There are no limits to what one can do to someone when that someone is effectively dehumanized. History is riddled with examples of this, of dehumanizing of one individual for the purpose of torture and murder, or of entire groups of people for the purpose of the same. Nothing ever changes, gentlemen. Only the circumstances. The in-group and the out-group, the accepted enemy and the accepted heroes, the accepted theories and that which is to be believed on nothing but blind faith.

This brings the empathy-gap into play once more. It shows it for all the world to see. Yet the world refuses to see it, have been forced to not see it, have been tricked into not seeing it.

Most likely due to the very limited reach of my blog and channels as well as my refusal to take part in online discussion with the hive-mind, I receive little in way of shame and ridicule. Rather surprising, given the acrid tone and acidic honesty in my rants, rambles, ravings and writings.

There has been some, as one would expect. Though mostly, I have received very pleasant emails and comments from people who – to my surprise – enjoy this thing that I do. Those I have received, as well as those who have sent them my way, are very much appreciated. If nothing else, this gives me an opportunity to extend a heart-felt “thank you”. And that can’t be all bad, for sure. It does, in truth and in fact, make it worth it.

For those who comment on YouTube, by the way and now that I’m on the topic: I try to the best of my abilities to reply, but the comments seem to be deleted with neither warning nor sense. On the rare occasion that I am actually notified about a comment (this is not often), they tend to be removed by the magic of the algorithm the moment I am on my way to reply. This is a sad state of affairs, but that is how it is. Go follow the blog or head on over to the BitChute channel instead, would be my solution to this. YouTube decided to try for assisted suicide. I am not one to deny someone who has been suffering for a long time the right to die in peace, with what little dignity they have left. Euthanasia is the humane option. It has suffered enough, poor beast.

In regards to the attempted shaming and the ridicule, the best attempt must have been that one person who referred to me as a MGTOW. This is also one of those fancy new labels that are easily and hastily thrown about by people who do not know what it entails.

Now, I do understand why I would be referred to as a MGTOW, despite never declaring myself one. I mean – I do ramble quite a bit about the importance of solitude, about checking out of society, about – in essence – going ones own way and doing ones own thing. There is no denying that I am influenced in no small way by the MGTOW philosophy – if I may be so bold as to simplify it by referring to it as a philosophy – yet, I would rather not wear that label just as I would rather not be burdened with an overabundance of labels at all. The labels put upon me are, for the most part, placed there by other people, all for the express purpose of shame and of ridicule. To be fair, I may very well be considered a MGTOW in a way. In other ways, I could not. I am married, for example, and that seems to throw a spanner in the works according to some – if not most – of those who subscribe to MGTOW ideals.

Whether this label of MGTOW fits me or not is not the point. The point is that labels are thrown around so hastily, so angrily and so nonsensically that the words eventually lose whatever impact and meaning they could have had. The point is that labels and accusations of this or of that is thrown around hastily and willy-nilly as an attack on the person making an argument, not the argument itself. The point is that public debate is driven by emotions, not by facts; by irrationality not rationality; by attacking the person rather than the argument.

It is terrifying to see supposed adults throw temper tantrums like spoiled toddlers because someone merely voices a different opinion. It is not a mark of tolerance to label someone an abuser and an oppressor of their partner such as I have been labelled merely for opposition to an ideology. Quite the contrary, I’d dare say. It is the mark of intolerance; of a mind shut down, locked down instead of being open – despite claims to the opposite.

Those who propose to be extraordinarily open-minded are the most judgemental and closed-minded bastards out there. Being tolerant means tolerating that other people hold other views. It does not mean shutting down people with differing views. It does not mean censorship. It does not mean cancelling someone for their opinions. This is quite contrary to tolerance.

Try opposing mass-migration over here in Europe without being labelled a racist, to name but one example. It is impossible. The arguments proposed does not matter. They are not listened to. One is dubbed a racist, a xenophobe, an islamophobe or a nazi, depending on the whim of the label-wielder. These labels are thrown about with careless abandon, alongside all those other fine and dandy labels that simply have no meaning any more.

Seldom, if ever, is the case discussed, the arguments responded to. The immediate knee-jerk reaction is to scream “racist” and be done with it. A racist is sub-human, and so deserves nothing but scorn. It does not matter that one is not a racist, merely that one is labelled as one. Replace racist with any other -ist currently disliked by society at large, replace mass immigration with any other fairly popular issue of the day; with any other cause célèbre. It still functions the same way. As is the case with feminism. Opposing feminism can not possibly mean anything but that one is a hater of, an oppressor of and an abuser of women. Which is, as stated previously, highly frowned upon in this society of ours where women are hated ever so much.

The fact that these accusations function as intended; that they function as the mark of shame that they are supposed to function as, making it so that people shun the person accused; mock and ridicule and otherwise engage in personal attacks of the person accused; that these accusations may very well be enough to make a person lose their job and their income ought to be proof proper that society – in particular western society – is not inherently hateful of women, nor inherently racist. Particularly not when following the new-speak definition of racism, in which it is decided that white people can not experience racism due to the colour of their skin rendering them immune. Which sounds rather racist to me, but I am not allowed to speak on the topic for reasons of my sex and skin-colour.

To me, it seems to be quite the contrary where seximatisms and racimatatism is concerned. That these accusations alone are enough to damage a persons career and personal life ought to function as proof to the opposite of what these supposed moral superiors claim. The ones who claim to fight the establishment are the establishment. The ideological take-over is damn near complete. What little opposition remains is dealt with swiftly and effectively through public trials on social media; through laughing stocks and virtual lynch-mobs, now seemingly pouring out onto the streets, moving from the internet to real life… Ones character is assassinated by smears and made to crawl on down the path of shame, scorned and shunned and mocked and ridiculed and shamed by a society supposedly functioning the other way around. It is a strange and confusing time to be alive. When it is not rage-inducing, that is.

It is not particularly tempting to take part in a society in which one has become the enemy by popular demand and popular vote, by virtue of nothing but ones sex and gender.

Feminism started a gender war. Intersectionality tossed race and ethnicity and sexuality and disabilities and whatever else into the mix like so many sprinkles of shit on the ice-cream.

A war must necessarily contain at least two groups, as well as contain at least one enemy. Men, it was decided, is the enemy. Veiling it behind the nebulous and omnipresent “patriarchy” matters little, when that which is behind the veil is so obviously men.

Trickling all the way from the declaration of sentiments back in the good old days of terrible oppression of the poor wahmens; flowing like a river of shit through all the incarnations of feminism, the red line that sparkles and shines all ruby red and gooey: men are the enemy of women; the oppressors and abusers and so and such of women.

The goodness, the kindness, the decency of men… all the good qualities of men forgotten and neglected, or presented as belonging to a few men, not to the majority of men… the shadow side of men and of masculinity being amplified and presented to be the normal and not the abnormal…

Why should one wish to take part in this society; why should one – as a man with self-respect – feed into this machine; why should one wish to grease the wheels of the thundering, steaming, pounding machine with ones own blood, when all that one is met with is contempt, when all that one is told is that it is never good enough, no matter what?

What’s in it for men in the long run, when society shows quite clearly that it is not only willing to turn its collectivized and jiggling, fleshy, bulbous backside on us, but to throw us under the bus whilst expecting us to be grateful for the possibility to be run over by the bus? There’s not much there, if one is to hang on to ones self-respect and ones values as a man.

The empathy-gap is omnipresent; the lack of compassion for boys and for men omnipotent. Made remarkably evident by one thing alone, if not a whole host of other things: the mass-triggering of just about all of society when one is wicked and mean enough to go against the holy tenets of feminism, to go against the accepted narrative and the grain, and so declare that men and boys have their own issues that need to be addressed on men’s own terms.

That this completely innocent and reasonable stance is enough to get people pissed off in no small way should be decent enough proof that there is an empathy-gap. Yet, it is as it always is – society is blind to this, just as it is blind to all the other struggles and sufferings of boys and of men.

And so, boys and men need to become tough, need to become hard and become strong. In order to become tough and become hard and become strong, I propose that boys and men become soft. Soft like water is soft. And water is sure as heckled hell not as soft as all that.

And that was this part done. Join me later on for the next instalment in this rambling diatribe, filled with soggy knees and other such naughty things.

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  • Moiret Allegiere, 14.10.2020

My Generation Killed Rock «n» Roll:
Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B089DHKBQB
Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B089M59JXF

Lonely Trainstation Blues – Poetry for the Lost Boys, Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07ZB6K2JX
Lonely Trainstation Blues – Poetry for the Lost Boys, Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1692495518

Howling at a Slutwalk Moon, a collection of previous blog posts:
Vol 1 Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/107571074X
Vol 1 Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07TZTPDPR
Vol 2 Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075714184
Vol 2 Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07TZR25NL
Vol 1 Illustrated Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075717094
Vol 2 Illustrated Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075723078

Other links:
Parler.com: @MoiretAllegiere
Blog: https://moiretallegiere.wordpress.com/
YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC3IaCxAXE3pQd7PCdvHoaaA
Bitchute: https://www.bitchute.com/channel/EvbGZyTZSraY/
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Times are tough #4

Times are tough, gentlemen. A lot of us are angry. Pissed off. Tired of the whole thing, the whole scene, the whole sham. It seems that, no matter how we write, how we speak, how we conduct ourselves when trying to shine a light on male-specific issues, it just don’t work. No-one is listening because no-one cares to listen. No-one cares to listen because everyone has been listening to voices stating that men have no issues that need fixing, whereas women do. (And if they do, it is something deeply rooted within men themselves, and so men need to fix themselves. Society plays no part in the treatment of men by society. After all – only men are able to act within society.)

This is probably the reason why the Norwegian government has begun their third deep-dive, exploration and so-and-such into women’s health. All fine and dandy, of course, until one comes to the stark realization that they have yet to do one on men’s health. Two enquiries into women’s health already, a third one on the way and none on men’s health. It could just be plain old sexism, obviously. Alas – that does not happen towards men, apparently. This is decided by those who decided that women are the only ones who can experience gendered discrimination. It is very fitting, given that these are the same people perpetrating this sexism towards men. If the word “sexism” annoys you, substitute for “neglecting men’s well-being”. Almost makes one believe that men aren’t considered to be as important as women in this society of ours that just hates women ever so much.

Our department of equality consist of approximately ninety percent women, ten percent men. Anyone not believing this to result in a department that is remarkably gender-biased, are blind, deaf, dumb and clinically shot through the head with a twelve gauge shotgun.

It really is a strange thing, considering how important the department of equality has made the whole gender-representation thing; how hard and heavy they have pushed for affirmative hiring of women where men are overrepresented. Unless it is the dangerous, dirty, low-status jobs, of course. It comes to light that equal representation of the sexes are not important in the department that focuses on equality between the sexes, or any other place where men are a minority. It would be easy to believe that this is one of those places where an equal distribution of the genders would be advantageous, but I guess not. Education is another example. There are plenty of these professions where it doubtlessly would be positive with a more gender-balanced workforce. 80 percent of teachers, 90 percent of kindergarten teachers. Yet – women are the majority, and so sprinkling that ever so beautiful gender-representation thing in these woman-dominated fields are not important to the department of equality. More women is a sign of gender equality, more men are a sign of gender discrimination. Feels as though I am repeating myself. Allow me to repeat myself once more.



As it stands, more and more kids are growing up with little-to-no male role-models, be that in their homes or in their schools. This is not a good thing, to anyone but those who have decided that men are not a good thing. Masculinity is a terrible thing to these people, and so the less of it children have to deal with, the better. Apparently. It is important to remember that, to these types of people, masculinity is an ideology. As perverse as that sounds, that is the way they see it. Cultural determinism in the works, baby, cultural determinism. What a wonderful phrase; what a fantastic way to tell us that we are not animals, that we are not biological creatures.

The ones who decide what is or is not proper representation of gender see no problems with there being a majority of women in the department for equality (despite this arguably going against their own laws, rules and regulations), effectively rendering it a department not for gender-equality, but a department for women’s equality… or just for women, full stop. Heavily bathed in the waning light of feminist ideology, as are all good things in this dawn of the mighty hysteria.

The same, to the surprise of absolutely no-one, applies to the field of gender-studies. Ninety percent women, ten percent men. Approximately. No wonder, since most of the time spent in such a hell-hole is spent shitting on men and masculinity and showcasing the terrible tremors of neurotic women everywhere, who are taught and told to fear and mistrust the mean masculine men. This, in turn, makes it so that those who dabble in researching things to do with gender are mainly women with an obvious feminist bent, thus giving more resources and more time to researching things that only affect women and things that only interest women. Studying gender then effectively means studying women. All, of course, conducted under the piss-yellow light from the sun of feminist fancy. It becomes nothing but yet another arm of the feminist indoctrination machine; a tool to find the answers they already decided are there. Women good, men bad. Women suffer, men’s fault, men suffer (less than women, obviously), men’s fault. That’s the conclusion from the get-go. Now to find the reasons for it.

Sound scientific research right there, gentlemen. The reasons for this suffering they already have found, decades prior. Men, masculinity, patriarchy. The “Ideology of Masculinity (Trademarked))” is toxic and dangerous and the patriarchy made it so. This is known to be truth, because the APA told me that it is truth. The field of gender studies is, if I may be so bold, a feminist echo-chamber. As, it appears, are all the social sciences. If not feminist, it ain’t social sciences. It’s a damned shame when ideology trumps the pursuit of facts. Ideology will always skew findings to its fancy. Ideology is not objective when the objective is ideology.

Given the in-group preference of women, I struggle to see how it could not be biased. Women will care more for other women than they will care for men. And so too do men; men tend to care more for women than they do other men. Or themselves, for that matter. Must be that misogyny; that unfaltering hatred of women so engrained in the bones and skin and muscular tissue of men and of society that made it so. No wonder, then, that the department of equality focuses solely on women and the issues (read: neurosis) of women. There’s only women there, for Pete’s sake. These are the people who decide what is and is not discriminatory, what is or is not equal. This is the place from where the narrative flows in regards to the whole gender-war nonsense. Women have no power, feminism wields no influence. Despite making up 90 percent of the department there to decide whether or not anything is discriminatory. Despite owning academia. Here one sees what tiny influence women hold on society; how little power they wield. Here, one comes to notice, how small and insignificant feminism is, how powerless and oppressed women are.

Cue sardonic laughter.

It is rage-inducing. Fuel for anger. This anger, rage and resentment then furthers their narrative about the violent, the horrible, the woman-hating-and-oppressive male… getting all pissed off and riled up because someone dares look at how women are doing. The fact that the anger and the rage stems from the obvious truth that no-one fucking cares to look at how men are doing – and with that I mean in truth and in fact, not in ideological gobble-de-gook – matters little. Their minds are made up: there is something wrong with men by men being men, not by how society treats and views their men; not by how society offers little in way of resources where the problems of men are concerned. A deep-dive into men’s health would be a nice gesture; a good starting point. Maybe do that before starting the fourth deep-dive into women’s health and well-being.

Alas, no – the ones that decide what is and is not discriminatory have decided that the fault lies not in the constant focus on women and the issues of women, whether real or imagined, whether blown out of proportion or made to perfectly fit the frame of first-world-problems. Nope. It lies with men supposedly not wanting to share the limelight, or whatever, with women. As one comes to learn, all that is feminism is projection. These people do not want any focus on the issues of men, and so project this onto men, assuming that men feel the same way about the issues of women. Seemingly, they also project their own in-group preference, believing that this also apply to men. Solipsism, thy name is feminism.

Yet, the truth remains. The problem is a simple one: the focus is only ever on women, and should one dare to state that one needs to look at the problems of men (through something not tainted by feminism), the harpies come screeching and roaring, effectively shutting it down for reasons that the problems of women are more important and ever so neglected, despite the opposite being true.

So goes the wheel of remarkable repentance.

Round and round and round.

And it never fucking stops.

It is a perpetual motion machine, designed mainly to further feminism and the feminist narrative; designed to focus on women by neglecting men, or straight up, flat out, hating men.

The claim that it is not about hating men dies and waxes and wanes the moment one comes to realize that subscribing to the idea that men have spent all their time, since time immemorial, oppressing women and thus abusing women, whether directly or by proxy, must necessarily mean that one also subscribe to the idea that men are morally inferior. That men are, at their hearts, wicked. If not held in check by the frail forces of feminism, men would do nothing but abuse and oppress. This is not a good view of men, and it is the heart of feminist thought and dogma.

For believing that men as a group have gone out of their way to oppress women is to believe that men as a group are not good people. Believing that only men have the capacity for abuse or the ability to rape is believing that men are morally inferior to women.

Furthermore – getting this trash implemented into law (Duluth-model, Mary P. Koss on rape, to name but two examples), effectively neglecting and shunning male victims of domestic violence and of rape by women under the pretence that only men abuse and only men rape is not exactly what one would label a loving, empathetic and inclusive view on men, now is it? Nor is it a realistic view of women to believe them incapable of evil.

Mary P. Koss made it so that the rape of men by women is not labelled rape in the US. It is labelled “made to penetrate”, thusly not making it into the statistics on rape. Effectively making it so that only men rape, according to the statistics. The made to penetrate statistics and the rape statistics in the US… well, now: the numbers are just about equal. In her view, you see, it is not proper nor suitable to dub a woman raping a man as rape. That is unwanted sexual contact. To her eyes, men are not traumatized by rape such as women are, and are as such not deserving of empathy in the same way women are. Her reasoning for this? Well – that is lack-luster, as she does not appear to be capable of explaining her reasoning in any way, except muh feminism and muh patriarchy and muh poor women. I wonder why no raped or abused men were asked about men’s experiences with trauma; why their experience is discounted out of hand? The USA is not the only nation where this is the norm. Far from it, in fact.

It is odd how few of these self-declared feminists; these coffee-shop feminists are aware of this, as all of them feign ignorance when this topic is brought up. Or are ignorant about it, for that matter. They blame men for the rape of men by women not being taken seriously, because men made all the laws and men don’t step forward about being raped and/or abused because of muh toxic and fragile masculinity. This despite a woman – or several women – being behind this view and these laws. One would not be amiss in thinking that the ideology of feminism has been forced into the minds, hearts and thoughts of people as the only movement for equality and the only path to equality so that people subscribe to it without knowing shit about it. This, in turn, goes a long way to explain the incredible defence this -ism receives whenever challenged. No-one knows anything about it, but the superficial level of it: that whole “only about equality” nonsense. If you disagree, you hate women. Pure and simple. Because of course one does. What else could one do?

When an entire culture holds the belief that men can not be abused by women, and that women can not rape men, the culture has been struck blind by the orthodoxy, has been struck dumb by the dogma and has become accustomed to the sodomy enacted upon it by the zeitgeist that have decided that men don’t matter, and when men have problems it is the fault of men because men made all the laws. Even when much of the laws are made by feminist women. Even when the ideology of feminism and the remarkable glittering, sparkling and greasy foil of gynocentrism is made evident for all the world to see, all the world refuses to see it.

In a culture such as this, what is there really for men? What is there for young boys to strive for, when all they ever hear is that we must build girls up, we must help women, men don’t have any problems – even when mutilating baby boys are legal where mutilating baby girls is illegal – women face all this discrimination, see, and men are at the heart of it all.

What the hell is there to do; how should a young man, how should a boy ever feel included in a society which have shown him, time and again, that it cares little for his well-being and even less for him as a human being? When he is not rewarded equal protection under the law; when the mighty screech of feminism protests shelters for abused men and their children (Earl Silverman is a great example of this, Erin Pizzey another) by making it so that these shall not receive government funding – that is to go to shelters for female victims, because they are all that matters… what in the devil is he supposed to do? Where is he supposed to go? What avenues are open to him in this society, split and divided, black and white and irrational, spiteful, hateful and ridiculous as it has become? Few. If any.

He learns, often from the first day of his life, that his safety, his well-being, his life matters little when compared to that of a woman. He is taught to never hit a girl under any circumstances, even in self-defence. He is taught to step down so that she shall be pushed up. He is taught to protect girls and women with his life, if need be. He is taught that his safety is of less importance than her safety. Add to this the biological urge to protect; the engrained capacity for self-sacrifice, and things ain’t easy.

In addition to this, he is taught that he – by virtue of his sex – is violent, oppressive and all-around terrible. He is not needed. Except when he is, because where have all the good men gone, and so and such. Then he is told that all of this is the fault of the nasty, naughty patriarchy and that the only force that can help him is the only force for equality that matters: feminism. Which is the same bloody force that have spoon-fed him all this negativity to begin with. Yet – those are not the real feminist warriors for good, honest, decent equality. The real ones don’t write the books nor the laws; they tumble about in confusion, ready to attack, harangue and shame anyone who does not support feminism. If he only joins their tribe, he shall be saved. And so the cycle repeats and the browbeating continues.

Walking away and dropping out becomes the only viable option after a while. His life has been spent being told and/or shown that he is not wanted, needed or cared for; that he is dangerous and so-and-such.

What is the saddest part about this is that the dropping out, the walking away, is often marked not by him building himself up, but by him being beat down and beating himself down. It is considered a failure on his part. By internalising the messages of his wickedness, his meanness, his failure… he becomes a shadow; a phantom, never doing anything but wasting away and fading away. Working menial jobs, or not doing anything at all, never reaching his full potential.

If dropping out was to be coupled with realising his potential, however; if dropping out would lead him to discover his worth instead of considering himself unworthy… now that – that would be a remarkable thing indeed! That would give rise to something incredible. And that is where love comes into play; that is where empathy and compassion and all those other nice and nifty things come into play.

Now, I would be the first to state that the term “self-love” is corny, cheesy and somewhat nauseating. I would much prefer to use the term “self-respect”. However: it seems to me that one can not respect oneself if one does not also love oneself. Just as one can not love another person if one does not respect that person. Love is a matter of respect, a matter of honour. That would be the path of love, I believe: a pathway built by respect for oneself first and foremost. An understanding that one can not build oneself up; one can not truly and wholly respect oneself if one looks to other people for validation all the time; if one looks to other people for assurance that one is a good person, a decent person, a proper person, an all-around great guy.

To me, it appears as though this was far easier prior to social media. And so here come the inevitable grumpy “social media ruined social life” part of the thing. Social media is fuel for the fire, where other peoples validation of oneself is concerned.

Now, one has the potential to have everything and anything one says and proposes judged not by a few friends, not by family, but by the entire god-damned world. If ones view of oneself lies strictly in the validation and the reassurances of other people, and the entire god-damned world have the ability to validate or invalidate one… well, simply put: one can not please everybody. It is impossible to please everybody in a small circle of friends; impossible to please everybody in ones own family.

If (potentially) the entire bloody world is to be pleased, pleasing anybody becomes as impossible as pleasing everybody. For those who build themselves – the image of themselves – on the validation of other people, this constant stream of attention – whether negative or positive – can not possibly build anything but an empty shell, a hollow husk; something that changes constantly according to the whims of the great magnet.

The validation of other people is really not the best way to build self-respect. That has got to come from within. Being self-assured and brimming with self-respect; having the ability to clearly and succinctly state “no” when something goes against ones values… that is the mark of self-love, the mark of maturity, the mark of strength and of masculinity.

Not going with the flow, but going against the flow.

Finding strength in ones own validation of oneself, not in other peoples validation of oneself is not an easy task. Particularly not when the world is as the world is at the moment, where empty virtue-signalling and pointless and symbolic acts of kindness, decency and morality becomes more important than actually understanding the cause one is supposedly championing.

Look at me!” They say; “I put this frame on my profile-picture – I am a good person because I support this case which I only recently heard about, but everyone else is doing it so it must be good and I must be good. Validate me, please!

Morality has become black and white. The world is split into good and evil, with no understanding of, or ability to see, the shades of grey. It is only ever this or that, and if you do not wholeheartedly support this, you must wholeheartedly support that. It has all devolved into extremes. Either it is that extreme, or it is this extreme. Disagreeing with one makes you an extremist of the other. In this zeitgeist one is supposed to be a fully functional human being. When ones sense of self becomes so intimately linked to the validation of other people – often strangers – that one does not really know who one is, I fail to see how anything but confusion and fear and anxiety can be the result.

And for men; for young men; for boys who are told and shown over and over, time and again, that they are not validated, they are not worthy, they are neither loved nor respected, despair comes creeping in with isolation being the end result. He must always and ever prove himself to be a good guy, not a bad guy, not like other guys, and all that other stuff. And, one comes to learn, it is never good enough. He must open up about his emotions, and then hear that women suffer with the emotional labour of having to listen to the feelings of men. One can not win. It is made so that one can not win.

For isolation to be beat, for the feeling of isolation to become conquered, one has to learn to enjoy solitude, to enjoy ones own company. From this, I believe, flows the river of self-respect and self-assurance.

In a society that is tribalising, that has collectivized all its virtues and all its vices… in a society in which division has become the normal rather than the abnormal, going against the flow and embracing the non-conforming idea of individuality – amongst other things – renders one a heretic. It is not easy to build self-respect when experiencing no particular sense of belonging in a climate where everything is about belonging to this group or to that group; where ones worth and value as a human being seems more tied to the labels one are either given or puts on oneself rather than ones worth and value as a human being.

When once one have become accustomed to a label, be that label forced or self-chosen, one will experience difficulties with breaking away from that label and all the baggage that comes with that label. And so one will defend that label or one will object to having that label, but the label will still remain: a mark of group-identity wherein the human being – the individual – is forgotten and neglected. Suddenly, what one defends is not oneself, but the label – or one defends oneself from accusations of bearing that label, such as “incel” or “misogynist”. The human being is forgotten, the group-identity becomes all. Be that group-identity real or imagined, self-chosen or forced upon one. And so, along with that group-identity comes the vices or the virtues of that group-identity for which one must either atone or be celebrated. All according to the whimsical wish of the great vulva.

And that was that for this part. Please join me next time, for more of the same.

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  • Moiret Allegiere, 10.10.2020

My Generation Killed Rock «n» Roll:
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Times are tough #3

Times ain’t so bad, gentlemen. I mean: they sure as hell are rough and tough and mean and wicked, spiteful, chaotic and violent. But they ain’t so bad. It’s just a few fires, just some rioting, looting, pillaging, burning and a few murders. But times ain’t so bad. It’s mostly peaceful. Sure; freedom of speech is slowly being eroded and removed on account of muh hate-speech and other such naughty things, effectively revoking democracy by denying people a right to speak their mind thus forcing conformity of speech and thought, but, hey, all’s well that Orwells, one supposes and imagines. Who gets to decide the intent behind a sentence written or spoken but the one who wrote or spoke it? The powers-that-be and anyone who is slightly offended. This has been decided. These are the truth-holders: the only ones capable of deciding the intent behind a sentence. Not the sentence-wielder, but the sentencer.

The UK is considering making horrid misogyny illegal, effectively making women their own specially protected class of citizen. Even more so than usual. The same, one observes, does not apply to misandry. (Of course, one is forced to admit that the hearing included a question that sounded something like this, even when I admit to paraphrasing: “should we include hatred of men in this silly little hate-speech law of ours, or is hating women the only thing that we can consider bad?” That the question even needed to be asked is a bit worrisome, but at least men are mentioned in something to do with gender. Mentioned and, I predict, ignored, neglected and forgotten as per usual.)

As it stands, hating men for men being men is still quite alright. Hey; it’s basically your duty as a citizen by this point in time to hate and fear men, in particular white men, for we killed the heavens and raped mother Gaia with our fantastic wits and our two-toned whistling.

All of us, by virtue of sex and skin and next of kin.

Come now, sisters and brothers of the shevolution: do your duty for the mother-land and write me up some hate-filled screed about how it is quite alright to hate men and that it is not about hating men, why don’t ya?

Allow me to inform you that despite movement being restricted and free association being removed or severely limited on account of the commie-cough and other such pesky problems, let me assure you that times ain’t so bad and that we are still free to exist and to live our lives as we see fit. As long as we bend the knee and don’t say or think anything out of line, that is. Especially not online. Online is the worst place to step out of line. Online, one must always stay on the line when encountering anyone who is not male. The internet is a den of rapists, murderers and other woman-hating evils. And you have to point it all out. You get extra brownie-points, applicable to the social credit system if you inform your nearest and dearest big sister certified neighbourhood watch. Become an informant. Save the motherland. Get ready for your daily twenty minutes of hate. Times ain’t so bad, you see. We’ve got it all under control.

No-one is asking that you stand for this.

All that is asked of you is that you kneel for this, kowtow and accept, and all will be well. So spake the glorious furies of the great big red fury.

You know what the worst part of this pre-ramble is? It’s not hyperbolic enough. Which worries me to no end. Seems mother government brought down the ban-hammer hard, seeking to remove undesirables from the public forum. Dissent is not allowed. Order must be maintained. Stability kept. Even when stability at the moment is chaos in the guise of order. The status quo must be upheld; this misguided altruism of ours that demands that no-one shall hear or read anything that may be offensive to their delicate ears and emotionally underdeveloped minds. No-one, that is, except those who are not protected.

Suddenly, I have this strange sensation of deja vu, as though I have written and rambled this exact thing before. How very strange. Things never change. Only the circumstances of the thing.

Everyone is free to speak their mind. We do have freedom of speech, you know, but… those who don’t deserve to be free to speak their mind shall not have freedom of speech. You can tell who those dastardly undesirables are by looking to who we decided are the wholesale merchants of hate speech in this time and in this space and in this place. Of course; one would be wise to also look to those whom deserves protection from that nebulous “hate-speech”. The undesirable elements are usually those who are not afforded special protection under the law; a law that is apparently made so that everyone is to be equal under the law. Equality, it is decided, does not mean treating people equally. So said the ones proposing unequal equality as a virtue. This ain’t even joking.

This of course begs the question: why should anyone be afforded special protection under the law, if the law is supposed to treat everyone equally?

Well, buddy, treating people equally means that some must be treated preferentially to others. It’s pure caterwauling ramshackle logic, see. For some to be treated equally, others must be treated unequally. This makes perfect sense when one cries and snivels in a corner because someone else got first dibs on ones favourite toy. “Oh, my poor child, of course I shall reclaim the toy from him – you deserve it more.”

In other words: all animals are equal, but some animals are more equal than others.

God-fucking-damn, but I had to invoke Orwell again. I swear: I never intend to. It just happens all the bloody time. The man was a blooming prophet and a ruddy visionary. It’s not my fault.

Though, admittedly, anything read during early teenaged years – such as I read Orwell, Thompson and similar voices – tend to stick in the memory and shape ones perception of the world more than anything else. I also read a lot of Kafka, Poe, Dostojevskij and old poetry. Make of that what you will.

That leap towards independence during those early teen years of development is sure as hell a powerful leap. Seems few, if any, take that leap any more. Even though I certainly admit to a not-so-well curtailed cynicism as well as more than a few dark and brooding thoughts about where our societies are going at the moment, things might not end as bad as I, in my darkest moments, fear that they will. The pendulum may yet swing back and offer up a crumb of hope. Though I fear I will be long dead before that happens.

I don’t particularly want to play the dirty game of hate-speech laws, but if that is how the rules are to be, I propose that we play by these rules – should one still wish to play this silly social game – and flood the bloody system with complaints about what could be construed as hate-speech targetting men in particular. There is quite a lot to pick from. Seems that muh hate-speech is taken very seriously when muh hate-speech affect women and other so-called minorities who, apparently, are incapable of handling anything that us tough and thick-skinned guys are capable of handling. As it stands at the moment, any criticism of any feminist woman is labelled as misogynist in nature, and as such falls under the strange and peculiar umbrella of hate-speech. Non-feminist women are, as they always are, free game for any hate-speech. But this goes without saying. The same lackluster logic also applies to any minority, as long as they toe the party line.

And so, if these frail and fragile few start being punished by law for their speech, one assumes we would see changes. It happened with Facebook some years back, when the feminist hordes were offended that their hatred of men was censored after the feminist brigades had pestered Facebook enough that they made hate-speech targetting gender verboten. Proving, of course and once again, that gender does not mean gender – it means women. Making gender a protected class means nothing but making women a protected class.

Though, what is more likely to happen is that we would just see more protection towards the protected class. Still – if the rules are as the rules are, the best one can do is to play by those rules. The weapon, rules and tactics of the “enemy” can effectively be used against the “enemy”.

Now, I am not particularly comfortable with this. I would much prefer that those who I am in disagreement with should be able to say whatever the hell they want to say, since I expect that I should be allowed to say whatever the hell I want. This would be treating people equally, ya dig?

No matter how hateful and horrible, the venomous harpies and other troglodytes should be allowed their right to speak their mind.

If these are the rules as they are supposed to be, however, then that is how the game is to be played. Considering the one-sidedness of the law, we are steadily moving towards a society in which one side can say what they wish, and the other side can not respond. The other side then just have to stand there and take the hits, kicks and shit-flinging.

This is not equal treatment. I don’t understand why I have to state this, but there you have it: not treating people the same is not treating people the same. Nor does it open up for debate. When one side is silenced under law, and the other is not, the scales ain’t balanced. This ought to be obvious, but, hey – no matter. Equal treatment is what the harpies say that it is, not what common sense says that it is. If one chooses to play this silly game, these donkey-defilers must be forced to play by their own rules. Or forced to admit the unequal nature of the rules. Which they do, by labelling it positive discrimination. And so come the new-speak.

For my part, I elected to withdraw from broader society. Which sounds worse and more defeated than it in actuality is. I don’t much care for the path we chose to walk down. And so I withdrew. At least as much as is possible. Becoming as self-sufficient as possible is part of the plan. Next year, I will be growing my own food. Would have done it this year, of course, were it not for the move being postponed due to the commie-cough so that we arrived far too late in the season to grow stuff. Gosh-darnit, consarnit and bugger all.

However strange it may sound, given the nastiness and mean-spirited tone in much of my ramblings… however corny and silly it may sound… the path I have elected to walk through life is a path of love. A path of empathy, care and compassion. Believe it or not, but I am a very compassionate man. It just so happens that I am empathetic and compassionate towards those whom the powers-that-be; those whom the opinion-deciders decided are not to receive empathy, care and compassion. Aye, ‘tis true: my compassion, care and empathy extends to the ones who are supposedly privileged enough to kill themselves in disturbing numbers. The ones who are so privileged that their deaths by despair, their grief and their loneliness, their sorrow and their quiet desperation becomes nothing but a statistic and a sordid punchline by those who don’t hate men even when they state quite clearly that they do, you see.

For those who claim they don’t hate men; those who claim that there is no empathy-gap, those who claim that men are privileged seem to lack the empathy, the care and the compassion to understand that telling men – particularly boys and young men – that they are inherently defective; that they are undeservedly privileged; that they are vile, wicked, violent oppressors of women (and of everyone else, for that matter), proves the point of the empathy-gap more than anything else.

The proof lies in the pudding, so to speak. But the pudding is devoured by those who have demanded control of the discourse. And so we can not dig into the pudding to find the proof proper.

It makes little sense to me that those who are oppressed can dictate laws to protect themselves, handed them on a silver-platter by their oppressors, but, hey, reason has no place here – objectivity is, after all, a tool of the patriarchy; a white supremacist and misogynistic invention meant to make white men and their naughty reasoning-skills, nasty capacity for logic and horrible leaning towards objectivity the dominating class.

I wish I were joking, but this – and similar sentiments – are apparently spoken in all seriousness at high levels of the gloriously sheltered academic institutes of higher indoctrination. If one is to follow this incredibly silly and – quite honestly – insulting line of thought, one can only deduce that anyone who is not a white male are born defective; incapable of logic, reason and objectivity.

Were I a woman, or anything but me, for that matter, I would be severely insulted by the suggestion that I am incapable of clear, rational and objective thought. I assume this is nothing but my personal bias at work, of course – I might just be projecting my heteronormative cis-gendered white male capacity for reason and logic out into the world… basking in the affluent glow of my unearned privilege. Or something nonsensical like that.

This is not to say that I don’t own any stocks in the oppression-olympics or in the victim-hierarchy, of course. I am disabled, for one. Secondly – the illness that makes me disabled is somewhat rare, and even more so in men, and so that has to afford me even more victim-credentials. Thirdly, I am a life-long insomniac. That’s gotta count for something, right? I am also prone to depression, though this is most likely linked to the severity of my chronic pains as well as some long-lingering PTSD so this may or may not count, according to the whims of the great quivering pussy in the sky. PTSD is a hell of a drug. Don’t try it, kids, it’s even worse than crack. Or whatever drug is the popular drug at the moment. I can’t keep up with all the trends.

Being introverted in an extroverted society has got to give me some brownie-points for the budding victimologist. I also used to be fat. But I lost weight, so I can’t use that as a bargaining tool unfortunately. I’ve got thin-privilege now, you see. I can reach and I can reach even further, picking whatever could serve as a tool to grant me a piece of the glorious victimhood-pudding. But, I am sorry to say, I am unable to keep the tone serious enough. It would have devolved into screeching something sarcastic before long. Well, more so than usual.


It should, one hopes, not come as much of a surprise that I am not particularly fond of these chronic pains of mine, nor of my lifelong struggle with insomnia. If I wanted to use it for victim-points, I probably could. But, ya know, it is all rendered null and void by my straight, white, cis male privilege. This privilege revokes empathy. Renders it effectively null and void. Apparently. The privilege granted me by the dubious powers-that-be makes it so that I must endure the steady stream of misandry and other politically correct hate-filled drool that run through our societies at the moment. The privileged must always tolerate unbridled hatred and must never experience empathy, nor care, nor compassion for reasons of unearned privilege. Privilege which, incidentally, is invisible to the privileged one. Which is a brilliant way of doing things, since it can be neither proven nor unproven yet used as bludgeoning tool by those who claim to be able to see this privilege floating in the air like some strange ghost of patriarchal privilege past, come to shame you into compliance.

Aye; ‘tis a river of shit in which one must learn to swim before one sinks and drowns and dies.

Or, one could elect to not step into the river of shit at all.

The option to turn away is always there, and will always be there. It is not an easy path, not by any stretch of the imagination. But, hey – most of the work is already done by those who decided that men are privileged and so shall be afforded less care, love, empathy and compassion.

I got my finest lesson in the empathy-gap when I was wicked and mean-spirited enough to ferociously showcase my undeniable privilege by complaining about the searing pains I live with every day on the most hallowed platform for social maladies and social justice; Facebook.

Some feminist – you know, the ones who live and breathe chronic victimhood – saw fit to tell me that I was not allowed to make myself out to be so pitiful. This was sent my way in a private message, which I found to be interesting. Almost as though she did not dare shine a light on her own uncaring nature for all to see by posting her complaint about my complaint about my pains on my wall. Still, it was much compassion, such empathy, wow, from the ideology known to hold the true empathetic nature of peoplekind in their sweaty paws.

Though I knew of the lack of empathy levied at men prior to this, this really was to me the most distinct marker of just that. Feminism is for men too, you know, as long as men don’t complain about anything and just do what feminism dictates. Which includes not complaining about being in constant pain. We are naught but whining man-children. All of us. And so they bathe in male tears, or drink male tears when men speak about their problems, only to complain that men don’t speak about their problems.

Coming from the throats and tongues of those who believe that the Iphone is sexist and that women should be offered free rides home after being out on the town for a night, despite men being more likely to be victims of violence and thus the ones more deserving of a free ride home.

This happened in Norway. Four taxi-cabs gave free rides home for women and women only. As tradition dictates, they were painted pink. Which is interesting all on its own, because I was led to believe that this was horrible gender-stereotyping. Feminism, one learns, is allergic to the colour pink. Unless it comes with some unearned favour, one supposes.

It follows that our department of equality – there to make sure nothing of a discriminating nature happens – decided that they could not speak to whether this was gendered discrimination or not. Very interesting, I think. They could not even decide whether this was gendered discrimination or not, when it most certainly was and thus most probably was illegal under the law such as the law is. Well, it probably ain’t, considering that the law is written to particularly help women and minorities, which in itself is discriminatory and thus contrary to the law itself. And so it begs the question: if they can not speak to whether or not something clearly discriminatory is discriminatory, what the hell are they there for then? To protect whamens and minorities. Women, after all, feel more unsafe than men, despite objectively being more safe than men.

That is what the laws state; there to protect women and minorities. And to hell with men. Except men with minority status. Which I, interestingly enough, am due to this rare illness of mine. But, no matter: as opposed to women and the protected minorities, men are capable enough to care for themselves. This is the line of thought straight from the mouth and saggy tits of mother government. Women can’t cope with life on their own. Men can. Yet, men it seems are not allowed to care for ourselves, because we are supposed to sacrifice our safety and our sanity on behalf of women (he for she, as an example, the laws of the land as another example), and minorities.

And yet, me – and people such as myself – are considered to be the ones with a negative view of women. It is incredibly hostile, incredibly spiteful and hateful to expect women to act like adults are supposed to act. That would be demanding too much of women, it seems. And of minorities, apparently. Proposing that the rules be applied equally is also demanding too much of women. And minorities. They shall be offered extra protection and granted extra laws for them and only them. For that is all-encompassing and all-devouring equality.

These societies of ours claim to be all about inclusivity, claim to be all about equality, claim the tender term “altruism” and humanitarianism to be the guiding light that shines and beckons.

Yet that path is not a path of love. What is proposed as love, as compassion – as human compassion in fact – is nothing but divisive drivel. It is scorn, it is hate and it is shame.

The insults fly, the hatred spreads and grows, if one wears the cloak of non-conformity and so fly in the face of the narrative such as the narrative is. We are all-inclusive, all-encompassing, all-loving and all-empathetic as long as no-one dares come with the proposition that we should, perhaps and perchance, listen to what men go through.

If you do just that, all hell breaks loose. For including men in the equation is haram. Particularly white men, wicked and mean majority as we are.

Those who are allowed to speak on behalf of men are not men. Or they do not speak from being men. They speak from being feminist and they speak from feminism. They may be men, but they do not speak as men. As common, ordinary men. They speak as feminist men. They speak from intersectional feminism. They speak from critical race-theory and from gender studies. Experts in the fields, driven by naught but ideology and scorn and – dare I even say it – penis-envy. These are the ones who speak on behalf of the common man. Not the common man.

I remember watching a debate on our national television-station – functioning much the same as the BBC – about men’s rights. The ones they hauled in to speak on this topic were two feminist women, who stated that men who whine about their rights – or lack thereof – are unsexy. That was the main argument; the main bone of contention, apparently. Men who complain about their station in life are just plain unsexy. No MRA was there to defend, no man at all was present in order to propose another way of looking at it. Just two feminist women, complaining that these men weren’t sexy enough for their liking. How incredibly arrogant. How very objectifying of them. Not surprising, though – this was the same channel that funded and produced a show wherein a feminist woman went to a high school in order to turn all the students at that school into feminists. One realizes that no counter-point was made to feminism. Pure propaganda for one ideology, and that is all. Funded by the money of the common man, as we all are forced to pay for this trite trash. Now, isn’t that interesting, in light of how oppressed women supposedly are? So oppressed that all and sundry must pay for a program that is nothing more nor less than propaganda for a movement only for women.

Anyhow: that is the measure of a man’s worth, gentlemen – whether or not women find him attractive. Whether or not women find him sexy or not. And men swallow this shit. And men bow down to this.

Because men, such as we are, measure our worth by much the same. We measure it by whether or not we are good at what we do, whether or not what we can do will attract a partner. Whether or not we are useful, whether or not we have utility. As do all of society.

Our rights – or lack thereof – do not matter, as long as women find us sexy and attractive for not whining.

There is a reason Incel became a slur, unfortunately used as an insult even within the so-called manosphere. A man who is not attractive to women has no worth. This too is absolute nonsensical bullshit, of course, but that is the way it is viewed. Men would do well in unlearning this learned behaviour; this way of viewing the world. But the drive to procreate appears to be stronger than anything else. Not a need for sex, but a need to procreate. Which, of course, translates into a need for getting laid in our societies, as we circumvented that whole pesky pregnancy-thing with birth-control and prophylactics. Yet, it remains: a biological, primal drive that makes reptiles and primates of us all. If we are not attractive to women, be that through looks or through work or whatever, we are losers. We are incels. This, when internalized – as it surely is – can not be anything but damaging to a man’s self worth. If women are shamed for being sluts, men are shamed for being virgins. Slut-shaming tend to mainly come from other women. Virgin-shaming of men tend to come from women as well, at least based on my personal observations. A man who can not get laid… well, there must be something wrong with him.

As fantastic as it is to be in a committed and functional relationship – and by functional I mean just that and by fantastic I mean just that – it is not a necessity for happiness and for being content. This, I believe, is the lesson that needs to be learned first and foremost, if the incels are to come out of the very dark places they are in.

A functional relationship is a relationship in which both parties pull their load. Built on mutual respect and co-operation. Love that is nurtured and maintained.

Not romantic love; that sweet and short period of utter psychosis at the beginning of a relationship. Nor merely lust.


Love that is nurtured, that is grown and that is kept by both doing for the other. A partnership is a two-way street. All in equal measure.

As fantastic as this is, it is not a necessity to live a good life. A man’s self-worth should not be tied into whether or not he has a partner, whether or not he has gotten his willy wetted by a willing willy-wetter. Nor should his worth to society be measured by his attractiveness to women and his willingness to sacrifice – and not “whining” about his problems is to sacrifice – for women and for society overall. The way our societies neglects the issues of men is in itself a sacrifice from men; it is the disposable nature of men showcased and burning with the might and power of aeons of evolution.

It seems that the path of non-conformity for men is for men to find worth in themselves first and foremost. That this can be considered as non-conformity sounds terrible. And that’s because it is. Non-conformity beckons, gentlemen. Embrace it with your all.

Men define ourselves, and are defined, by what we do, how we earn, how much we earn, things like that. We are defined by our utility first and foremost. The path of love, of compassion and of empathy begins first and foremost with loving ourselves, having compassion for ourselves and having empathy for ourselves.

In short, to find worth in being, not only in doing. Not to lay our happiness or our value in whether or not we have a partner; in whether or not we are attractive towards women, but in whether or not we can care for ourselves, love, honour, respect and nurture ourselves.

And that was this part done. More to come next week, if you can bear my cruel and unusual rambling for another go-around. This thing spiralled out of control and got way bigger than I originally intended. God bless the flow.

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  • Moiret Allegiere, 07.10.2020

My Generation Killed Rock «n» Roll:
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Lonely Trainstation Blues – Poetry for the Lost Boys, Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07ZB6K2JX
Lonely Trainstation Blues – Poetry for the Lost Boys, Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1692495518

Howling at a Slutwalk Moon, a collection of previous blog posts:
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Lonely Train-station Blues #18: Lonely Train-station Blues

This is the last poem of my collection of poetry «Lonely Train-station Blues». Grab it through the links below, should you be so inclined.


Pour another glass of wine,
sing this song another time.

So that time and time again
we return to shelter in the dusk,
and time and time again
see these shadows closing in.

So we know that,
time and time again,
the clock will strike
the hour turn
the minutes twist
and churn
then burn.

And all the dust of
our shared history
accumulated in the corners
of our concrete building’s
will be removed
and wiped away
and hastily forgotten.

To be spread apart and thrown
to our long-lost howling winds
of nowhere
no no
now now.

And all our visions
and all our songs,
our assorted
and fairy-tales
and myths or
legends moulded
on the shoulders
and the bones of
long forgotten hero-tales
will burn and then
be thrown away,
be cast away
into some vast and gaping void
where stranger tongues
tell stranger tales
of stranger pasts
that don’t belong.

These past paths that once we walked
slip-slide into loss;
all past futures once we dared to dream
will never more be dreamt,
as our lonely streets
and legendary beats go
horribly boom in the dawn
and in the dawning
of the spayed and neutered night
that see future manifestos
manifest terrors we never
dared to dream.

As the coming of the night
and singularity-dawn
of our choking cough and
stupour-drugged societies
and their apocalyptic malaise
find our trash-heap recluses,
our bearded hermit mad-men,
left for dead and long
forgotten, or else hidden
here and there, deceived
and truthfully neglected by
silver-tongued thieves
stealing all our
songs and poetry,
all our history,
our cultural peculiarity.

When longing some
and loving some,
when believing some
and beholding some
new spectacle or
something bloody
in fits of visionary journeys
or assaults of shell-shocked prophecy
in the depths of a lone drunkards poetry
that becomes the doom and
then the downfall
in the broken cataclysmic
eyes of fevered mad

Then truth will
and beauty
and substance
and share the same
shallow grave
or long-neglected tomb;
mourned by a few
yet mostly
dead and forgotten.

In the midst of belligerence
and in the stream of
lies this cultured malady
wherein we are told
to only listen and believe to

Bedridden bedraggled
horror-scopes told by those
that lost the scope
and lost the game,
or saw it swiftly
exchanged for play-pretend
midnight-blues where mothers
sang us lullabies and wiped
our brows of fevered

The faulty few whose lines of song
were murmured sinking suns
that saw the light of beauty appear
then disappear and reappear
in woodlands
where our shapes were left
standing lonely there
to howl so loud and mournfully
with fear and
then with terror
and with pain
at the coming of the night
and of the bedridden dawn –

This dawn and dawning
of the curved and bleeding sword
that saw the blood-feud fuel
perpetual machines of war;
a rhetorical war that saw
the language barrier
barricade language
in our minds and likewise
in the midst
of all our stories told
to children that were hiding there within
this flowing veil of censorship
where none accepted particulars
or spectaculars,
but the monochromatic
monotheist escalation of
war and subsequent subordination
beneath the crescent moon
and crimson star.

And sung we so
and sang we such,
then suffered long beneath
bare-naked lady-branches shaped
from our longing loving hands
that sought acceptance in
the fold
or in the hold
that was the fortress of our
where we wounded venerable
warrior ways
and threw our hands up in
despair and were then led
to isolation wards,
confined to the mumbled
babblelogues of unassuming
so-called beauty
localized in our
streets and on our inner thighs
where naked scars cast
tranquillized criss-cross shades
on eyes that saw and then beheld
the blood-orange Sunday,
the blood-tainted sun,
the blood-frenzied horde
that came charging to
and regurgitate
our news as well as news
of news that yet should come,
that yet would come and
yet would be forgotten
out there all alone within these
long and lonely nights that drew
these lines of silver-cum in the sand
and in the hearts and spines
of children that played childish
and childlike
midnight-travels across
the borders of our emotional
from us and history
and heritage
and the ground
beneath our feet
where we used to walk
with ease and with
long-standing memories.

And we here now:
lost and being lost again.

And never born or else reborn,
never again springing to life
and splendid form from
water’s depths to sing
our own songs again,
for we are forced to sing
another stranger song in
place of songs that once were ours.

And be,
and see,
and disappear
in this state
of stately governmental
over-reach and arching backs
that broke our spines
and whip-lashed our necks
from bending over backwards
to do,
and do
and do,
or else to die
so we should never
speak or sing

Or at the least never
sing again those songs
that we
once used to sing –

Or to never tell the tales once
again which we were
once allowed to

Just for us to drown in
contrived and haphazardly convenient
so-called lack of cultural difference,
drowned in epiphanies
from sacramental
blood-cult leaders of some
high-and-mighty pointless
university degree that show as manners
of national decree
feral beasts that are forever
devouring paintings of a land
where blood is drawn
and veins are filled with sand
as coarse and harsh as
a lover’s whispered words
in laughter as she leaves,
to seek some fresh pasture on
her knees,
for strangers bellowed
howling laughter,
howling hollow mockeries
that paints a strangers sign
in slow and deliberately dubious
strokes in a past-ejaculate
trance that last
a hundred years,
that bleeds and feeds
the lust for blood,
that delivers blood for lust
to give our brave and stunning
paradox-tongue of home
this new coat
of homeless paint.

Please pour another glass of wine,
and sing your penny-dreadful rhymes
and leave and long and love and live,
and break and shake and crack the snake,
and be no-one nothing nowhere.

And sell your soul
and sell your head
and sell your mind
and sell your heart
and sell your hands
and sell your spines
and sell your thoughts
and all your dreams
and all your feats
and all your desires.

So all your life
and all your you
will fade,
will be taken,
will be gone.


Sitting in the rain,
we approximate desire.

Dutifully neglecting patience,
we drown in rains of desire.

Stranger things have come
and gone,
and left us in
a state of woe,
suddenly deliberately

Finding neither home nor hearth
where home once used to be,
we keep clinging to this winter’s breath
that chills our spines and bones and minds,
we seek shelter where no shelter is
in helter-skelter deadpan minds
that prophetize vast vagabond eyes
upon the canvassed kaleidoscope
that suffered once and then forgot
once half-spoken truths of impermanence:
in order to dream, one must first sleep.
In order to sleep and dream one must be
unconsciously watching ones own mind.

Without regret or shameful shades,
to seek ever deeper depths
of self
and soul
and heart
and mind,
of spine
and balls
and courage
in the depths
that, never sullied by the hands
of time or of doctorate-degree holders
cowardly choke-hold-grip,
saw desire become despair
and despair become desire
through permanent bed-sit sores
on the butt-cheeks of news-anchors
that false-flag-like anchored
self-chosen truths to feed
the building of a fundament
or bedrock upon which to build
a towering inferno
to plummet down and

That then rendered fear and
vice-gripped terror,
chosen by the chosen few
who never once felt rain descend upon
a wondrous winters eve to kill
the roaring heat of the fire,
or never yet came down to see
those that died so they
should live.

We live in weird kamikaze-times,
in bloody raging wars of will
on the whim of whom-so-ever
flew by quickly and so egotistically
sought the chance to bask in this
transcendent sunlight’s glaring glow
of immediate celebrity by virtue
of the virtuous and doubtlessly
narcissist whose sole preoccupation
is to be seen as morally clean
and virtuous as a saint
for being holier-than-thou.

And we allowed deceased desire
to reign supreme,
lending no thought to nothing but desire
and immediate fulfilment of said desire,
and such needs as we believed were there,
in the instance and the second
and the tick and then the tock
of this horrid societal clock,
of momentary stop-watch tyranny
that rules our lives,
that governs all.

And we allowed venomous immediacy
to usurp the blessed throne of intimacy,
to steal our simple bliss of life –
to lose ourselves in a lovers love –
replaced it with merely a lovers hasty grip
and then release,
and then another lovers hasty grip
and yet another hasty release
and then retreat
and then

seeking ever and always
fresher thrills and fresher still
to feed the sudden urge
for dopamine and
to feel better
still for being adored and wanted
and lusted for by someone else
that plays along with our
primal dance, our reptile brain,
in hollow tunes that plays in tune
with a junky-mind that seek
constantly a fresh-faced fix
or better high,
that chase the dragon
in immediate perpetuity
and perpetual immediacy.

Then chose to label it as freedom,
as perceptual individual liberty,
this chronic addiction
to dopamine and adrenaline,
perpetual fixation on happening
happening now,
now now now!
And happiness now,

Hollowly wishing for
this one slice of cheap-trick happiness,
of pinpoint-immediate euphoria and ecstasy
to linger in the mind eternally.

As though it should be permanently wired onto
the psyche as the only saving
grace of life that gracefully
caress the eternal high-and-mighty
high of self-imposed adrenaline infatuation,
nervous trembling dopamine addiction,
self-sought serotonin selectively released
into the pining pineal gland of those
who never learned to live for
the present and the future simultaneously,
those that pine for immediacy and for
immediate release of the
in the present,
that pine for immediate release of the present
in the future – a cancer of the minds eye
that views nothing of the past,
and nothing of the future,
that see nothing of the present as the end-result,
seeing no solution then
but the future search
for the next angry-needle bliss-fix-and-fixation
in the presence of the present
to alleviate or aggregate the boredom
and the stressors of the past.

All our summers taste of tense,
severely dense prosaic rapture;
a post-modern self-sought
and smugly sung
examination of ones lack
of celebrity and of celebration which
has become a god-damned god-given right
in this man-made search for substance,
truth and then for beauty
in a culture that is lacking substance,
truth and beauty.

All our winters taste of preset patterns in
the present tense – slip-sliding atomically
and automatically outwards from internal
rapture that ruptured and revealed a truth
presently presented as the present past
through mind-numbing pastures and
particulars that saw the future in the past
and made that past and future merge into
this tense present-tense blues through
meagre past-tense reaffirmation of the
present future seen in eyes of bloody idols
and icons and iconoclasts that dared defy
the norm, that held the standards waving high
upon the shores where once we stepped
ashore and claimed that substance, truth and
beauty would remain blessed truth and
long-loved beauty
internally eternally.

All our springs that sprung from hope
spring now from lack of hope and loss of hope
through hopeless deviations; strangled
cold and dead by the popular vote
of voter’s fraud which we lost,
in streams of collapsed consciousness
that bastardized playful literary whimsy in a
forceful application of confused conundrums;
that made word-salad-greens made to fill a hole
left by lack of proper meat;
by ham on rye and rye on ham crafted
then neglected, dreamt, forgotten by
some alluring stranger’s charm and
nightmare-fuelled harm.

All our autumns foliage, now cleared of
greenery, became cemented in a branded brain-dead
trust that thrust and thrust its lack of cock
into the sockets of our eyes to make us see
insanity as wretched true epiphanies, as
something made to aid us in escaping
these dim corridors, these poorly lit transient states
of being; that would elevate us to the very heights of
society in drugged and blissful sleep and slumber,
that made us chose to be blind
and become oblivious to truth and
to substance and to beauty
in the present and the past and in the future
as eternity reaffirms and reappears
and happens all the time
all around us, everywhere:
the vicious dance of time that will
repeat and then repeat some more
to re-establish past hierarchical-heretical
dominance in the present
and the unavoidable future sealed
and baked in this raw new deal.


We have never seen impermanence so permanent
as that which permanently burns its imperfection
upon our eyes and minds with its maggot-teeth
that lost our love and lonely longing
where we now, at the end
of our cumulus-wits, flew and fled across the
sky and fell upon the ground and snow and covered
us with tears and tearing of the soul and self and
sanity entwined in our hands and arms and
worm-infested minds and brains and psyche;
all three longed and loved and lost in hedonistic
depth-embrace that choked the cock and killed
the balls and fanatically fanned the smoke out
of the room, that fanned our madness into our midst,
into our chambered hearts – all lost and drowned
in venom and in spite and vile and treacherous
designs that sought the death and all destruction
through nuclear-blast pangs of pain all grown up
that blew our hands and feet clean off to
leave us only bloody stumps that never
are to be re-attached, yet which we imagine
to be reattached all the same in anaemic terror-dreams
that lost its grip, then brought cerebral haemorrhage
and blind-dead strokes that stank of sulphur
and burnt hair to us who sought this play-pretend
future bliss in long lost caverns of
Chernobyl-blast-academia, or art, or poetry, or
literature once so fine, so well regarded;
explorations of the psyche and the psyched weirdness
of the vivid western vocabulary that now, gazed upon
from without and from within, is seen as
lost death, terror-stricken and brutal subjugation of
the earth and all humanity from cold cooked worms and
maggots that do not understand anything above and
beyond the immediate knee-jerk-death of solipsist
solidarity with psyche-rape of our long-sought dreams
that lost in the gloom of night a fog-light or
fog-horn that ought to guide us to safety, but only steered
the ship upon the sheltered shores of narcissism
that muddied the waters, then caused us to drown
in wild and invigorated self-aggrandizing
virtue-signalling of dubious morality where
ethics play no part and all is dead to eyes and
minds and minds eyes that never saw with clarity,
yet sought a ferocious
fervent fever-admirer in the hands and paths
of palms that crossed the sand and tundra seeking
self and future-aid for all that fell onto our knees
and begged forgiveness for past sins to be
castrated permanently by good times that
stretched and etched and – far too long – became
the staple and the norm that caused all grievance,
whether real or utterly imagined,
to become personal transcendent Ayurvedic
bliss in the spiritually starved minds and thoughts
and tongues and teeth of ensnared and entranced
kids with material allegiance to the future throne
of nowhere where no where or how exists,
where nothing exists
but the open doors
swing-swung into existence
by a multitude of stupidity in the rim-job-realm
of mad despotic underhanded slavery and
nebulous cloud-dust accumulated in the eyes of
slaves to wrath and slaves to anger
and resentment,
or bitter jealousy where free-line singers of perpetual
victimhood-blues and woe-is-me and
woe-is-all and woe-upon-this-world-of-ours
stand and sing within the ruins of this world
that our hands built upon the blood spilt on the
beaches of Normandy or that drip-dropped into the ocean
to be swallowed by the salt and bullets through the
brain in trenches dug from madhouse-cliffs,
and in hysteria sought and sung and labelled thusly
fascist cohabitants of colonial transgressions
upon the noble savage and his kicks in
magic peasant-jungles tribal and so free
and willingly
free, in huts and
songs that sung a
stranger’s dream
which we are not allowed to sing,
and mystical mumbo-jumbo
and fantastical bliss and bliss fantastic
which brought and bought
upon the shore and seas and core of reason
intellect and beauty that saw dead and then
saw dying at the feet of our wardens falling into
histrionic fits of soul-despair for lack of
soul-food and fulfilment of the self.

Where sought we
once the ego or the self
yet found there only
mud and bones
ground to dust
and then forgotten,
kept on display in glass-case shelves
that fought the shame of life well lived
and hid the strange disharmony maddened
by a sensation of guilt for living in a world
so wild and wicked and ferociously violent,
yet living good and living free and living
as though one would expect to live and not be
killed outside at any moment or any hour.

So govern all and let all in instead
and homes all anchored to the sky
and high-flying and alluring hopes
and wild-weird-wicked harmonies
that sung and later on that stung so hard
and brutal where reality struck, so blind and dumb,
and saw infantile reasoning upon the bed-shattered
dead that was the dream of borderless utopia
now clamouring for false hope beneath the walls
of self-segregated tribalism reign supreme
beyond the hazy mirror-maze of mad
insanity or self-congratulatory glee.

Then fall,
then fall,
and then behold
the future
towering inferno
maddened by the bloody
pulp that stood and saw and gazed
beyond the permanent
impermanence of fear and terrorized
fear-mongering only futility in future
where the
dead and dying and decaying there upon
the brushed-off roses in a stranger’s dream
and stranger dreams
that has yet to die and yet to render
unconscious the collective
subconscious from televised
televangelist political preachers
preaching political platitudes that mean
absolutely nothing and can’t be trusted
any more
any time.


Here, now, standing in the shades of society
as society turns to rubbish haze and dust,
where once we sat in frigid yesteryears
and watched with glee as all turned stagnant,
then in turns turned toxic, tainted with the rust from
blood or heavy metals leaking into
the cum-stained drinking waters of dead-pan
flaccid revolutionary pen-pal peckers miserably
play-pretending revolution for the loss
of high excitement in their safe-sheltered homes
and hearts and lives and hollow bones,
failing to bone the high priestess of permanent
neoteny and her mighty state of overdosed hysteria,
we lost the plot in safe-zones built from ruptured
dreams of sheltered miniature madness gone
completely ape-shit in the high-and-mighty dementia of
proposed intelligence hidden in the folds of
insane academia turned on its head and gone
haywire-primitive for lack of lust and footholds.

So primitive now that it turns to pure tribalism,
lost in locomotion or the thrill of thundering applause
for every nonsensical syllable uttered in the
moral virtue grandstanding that fought the lines
of reason and of beauty and then won the soul-less
price of being heard even when they have nothing to say.

The monotonous monologues from babbling
conveyor-belt hordes that churn and churn the
same drudgery and naked protoplasmic insecurity
into the wraith-folded ears and hearts of every-man
that seek only peace and possible prosperity
for him and then for his will listen to the serpent hiss
and take it then for truth for coming from the lips
and trembling fingertips and hips of those who
are supposedly much more clever than he is
on account of them being lost within the egotist
halls of cock-twaddle professorial degrees
or subdivided bachelor degrees minimized to the
‘nth degree.

He will then turn his back on what once he took for truth
for wanting only to do good.

Then fall into the hole of wanting only holes fulfilled
within his soul and shackled self
that stood the test of time until
such time as time itself should die
and he then find himself alone
upon the ruins of a life that dealt
its final blow by demanding his sacrifice
to be greater yet than already it is
or was or always have been,
beneath the shadows of the walls and towers
that tower there above his head,
that keep society transfixed within,
that keep its pondering judgment
hard upon his ruptured shoulder-shells
that whisper majestic tales of woe and worry
that he is death incarnate,
evil white-man tyranny made flesh.

And sit there then longing to belong
or to become that which he is told he must become
to be a true and honest man in times of trials
such as these;
to give his all and everything to those who
are far worse off than he
which is, according to the whims of
revolutionary eulogies murmured by the
ratpack few whose flaccid cocks
and failing hips tremble so eternally,
everyone that is not he or of his tribe
of patriarchal cis-het white-faced overlords
that supposedly subjugate and then enslave
everyone who is not him and his and
of his tribe of patriarchal tyrants
that is to be shamed into compliance
and then killed in factories to feed
the frenzy of the revolution that came
and went and saw us all accomplish
nothing where we sat and gazed
upon the stars and then the sun and then the moon,
waiting for it all to end so we should not
have to raise our arms in arms or fly
the banners in response to the nonsense
shot our way from frigid waste-bin nights
and cocks and cunts that killed our truth and
choked our beauty,
that hid all truth and buried all beauty behind
and beneath word-salad nonsense
and atavistic moral relativistic gibberish,
full of sad songs and uncertain rustling
of the frail and frenzied frantic few whose
dead-eye shots and red-hand rape of
sanity saw nihilism become the norm
despite obviously believing in something.

And we sat here and let it happen.
Inch by inch and death by death.

We saw it come and we let it pass,
this madness that now eludes our grasp
and passed us by at breakneck speeds,
that broke our necks and tender hearts
for wanting only to belong and to become
part of all of this and all of that,
all that tit and all that tat.

So that now we believe that we can only
sit and only watch
as the trains come and as the trains leave,
carrying no-one nowhere in the dream that
was the west
or in the dream that was to live
in love
and to be free,
to be at liberty to speak and do,
to express, emote and to exist
as only we could wish to do.

So that now we believe that we can only
sit alone in Train-station waiting rooms,
pining for the days to come that will see all this
one day erased so that we return to better days
of less permanent confusion, less cataclysmic
despair through fire-and-brimstone preachers
preaching political platitudes for cheap
woke-points to win the votes of those
sheltered and temperamental few
who do not need to sit alone and sing
that solitary song that we now sing;
the lonely train-station blues
of those who have nowhere
to go,
who have
nowhere to be.

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  • Moiret Allegiere, 05.10.2020

My Generation Killed Rock «n» Roll:
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Lonely Trainstation Blues – Poetry for the Lost Boys, Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07ZB6K2JX
Lonely Trainstation Blues – Poetry for the Lost Boys, Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1692495518

Howling at a Slutwalk Moon, a collection of previous blog posts:
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Vol 1 Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07TZTPDPR
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Times are tough #2

Times are tough, gentlemen. There’s little point in denying that. As the song by the ukulele-wielder goes: It sure is a scary time for boys. The ukulele-sturmbahnführer was more correct than her snarky, hateful, spiteful and neurotic happy-fun play-time would suggest. Yeah. It sure is a scary time for boys.

Back in my school days, I thought that the pinnacle of self-righteous, smug hatred and condescension from the harrowing harpies scorned was reached.

It could not get any worse than this, I thought. Surely. The end of the line was reached.

Girls and women were smarter than to fall for that nonsensical ploy, that ideological drivel. And so, too, were boys and men. This was my belief at the time – until I god-damned fell for it myself. In particular; since girls were ever so much more mature than the boys, one would assume they would not kowtow to the nonsense. This incredible maturity of the girls is what the teachers beat into our heads, after all. So one would assume their capacity for reason and understanding would be higher. Boys are defective girls due to maturation, amongst other things. Shame, then, to bring the boys into compliance with the feminine model of behaviour. Sit down. Shut up. Don’t disrupt. And don’t question authority.

And so my tangled thoughts went: what could possibly be worse than teachers telling the whole class that the boys were – essentially – underdeveloped rape-machines with severe malfunctions in the empathy-department as well as the intelligence department?

Well, I’ll tell you: the stupidity of herd-mentality.

Trend-hoppers and group-blaming.

The strange victim-status becoming so popular as to be a self-parody.

Perceived strength in weakness celebrated rather than actual strength.

Emotional manipulation.

Affective reasoning.

And scores upon scores of thirsty boys who will accept anything, seemingly, as long as they get a crack at that crack.

…as well as people allowing for the political indoctrination of children. Because that sure as shit is what it seems to be when one set of ideas is presented as truth that can not be challenged, lest one wishes to be ridiculed in front of the whole class by a teacher scorned… and, what’s worse (at least for a teenaged boy): being shunned, shamed and mocked by the girls in the class for daring to oppose their divine right to shun, shame, mock and ridicule the boys in any manner they so saw fit. They even had the blessings of authority on their saintly shoulders, and so any protestation would end in a dizzying display of double-standards, the likes of which the world has never seen. Oh, fuck it – who the bloody hell am I kidding – the likes of which the world still sees to this day, amplified and driven forward by those who were educated in just such a manner. There must always be something to fight in order for feminism to stride ever forwards towards goals that are designed in such a way as to never be reached.

Rules, once supposedly meant to be applied evenly across the board, one quickly comes to learn does not apply equally and are not applied equally by teachers who figure that the boys must pay for decades of oppression. The sins of the father shall be visited upon the son. Through shame and browbeating and ridicule; a barrage of sly jabs and wicked rhetorical whippings.

And the devil made me do it.

And Cain slew Abel and so Abel must pay.

Because why the hell not?

Might as well mix some biblical stuff into the mix, because the whole victim-cult is more akin to a dogmatic religion now than it is anything else; demanding blind obedience and even blinder belief. Very narrow in its acceptance of anything going against the dogma and the belief and the structure and all that jazz. Very narrow, and very suspicious – one might even say hostile, aggressive and violent towards anything and anyone who does not conform to the rules of the scripture. One would almost, if one was so inclined, dub it fascism and be done with it. But that is, of course, simplistic to the extreme. I much prefer to dub it tyrannical and authoritarian, with all the introspection and self-awareness of a limp one-trick pony and all the hunger for power one would expect from any strict authoritarian regime. Doubt not, young boy. Just submit.

Why any young man, why any boy, would bother with any effort in education is beyond me.

I believe it to be evident that we see the results of the indoctrination now, as boys and young men drop out. There’s nothing there for them. At all. As the story goes: no-one cares because, hey, an overabundance of girls and young women anywhere equals equality. Where girls and women are a majority, equality is reached. Where boys and men are a majority, sexism is rampant. Likewise: where boys and men struggle, gender equality is evident.

Boys dropping out?


And I say, crude as I am: you go boys! You fucking go!

As god-damned sad as it is, as depressing as the trend of boys and young men dropping out is, I figure that dropping out is a necessary evil at this point. There’s just nothing there.

Not only dropping out of schools, but out of society as a whole and such as it is.

Not in any defeatist way, mind you, but in the most splendid turning of the back. To my eyes, as angry and bloodshot as they are at the moment from the chronic pain thing, the best way to say “fuck you and fuck off!” to the whole stinking thing and sinking ship is for young men to turn their backs on society just as society has turned its back on them.

It’s payback time.

And this time, it’s personal.

Fuck it; the feminist hordes wanted to make the personal political. And the political personal. Little did they figure that this line of thought would – in a strange and roundabout way – be adopted by men. Dropping out and not participating is the greatest show of political protest I have ever seen. And it’s not even a protest. Not as such. It is glorious, in its sad way.

As stated: it is a damned tragedy which I would rather see not happening. But the more who drop out, the more who turn away, the more who turn their backs on the fraud and sham that is our so-called inclusive, equal and resilient societies, the better. Because you don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone.

I have noticed that the greatest strength and the greatest flaw of men is our individualism. This individualism is both a blessing and a curse, a necessity and an obstacle, depending on what and how and where and when. Our out-group preference and lack of in-group preference fosters individualism rather than collectivism.

Men compete. All the time, whether conscious or unconscious. Come to think of it, it would be much more correct to say that men exist in a hierarchy all the time, whether conscious or unconscious.

If I have understood this correctly, this stretches back – far, far, far back to a time where survival… where mere existence depended much more on the typical masculine traits, now painted as toxic and damaging. To succeed, a man must be strong and willing to use that strength. Keep in mind that this does not mean only physical strength. Controlling ones emotions is a strength as well; a psychological strength that, one assumes, comes in quite handy when facing down some towering, lumbering beast that is to be hunted. Or that hunts one self, for that matter.

That men compete does not mean that men are incapable of co-operation or functional communication, despite what the horrid harpies would claim.

Merely gazing at the functional nature of military operations will prove that. Or any other typical male job, for that matter.

Orders are delivered, carried out and then it’s on to the next task. It is highly functional, given that the chain of command is highly functional. If the chain of command is not functional, the chain of command is challenged and positions competed for.

Now, obviously, this is a very simple way of putting it. I am a mere plebeian after all, neither educated nor schooled in any field but the pointless, vapid and self-aggrandizing field of art.

Not that I believe art to be pointless, mind you – I quite enjoy art and wholeheartedly believe that it has its place and its purpose – but I find it very difficult not to get disillusioned by the entire world of art such as it is, with its nonsensical wailing and pretentious douche-baggery. The worst part of art is the god-damned artists.

But I digress.

Men tend to hunger for status and for purpose. This seems to be the gist of it. Whether conscious or unconscious, men tend to seek status and men tend to seek purpose.

If I am to hazard a guess, I would dare state that the purpose – strictly biological – is to procreate. To, in essence, become a father and care for a family. And who is better suited to do that, than a man with status, strength and purpose?

Now, I am aware that society has changed. I’m not living under a rock. Not at the moment, anyhow. I emerged and felt the sun on my face some time back. Then I crawled into a somewhat bigger cave to get drunk and grow my beard.

There is more to society than simple biology, and our societies have – at least supposedly – opened up in such a way that the purpose of life is no longer merely life and the creation of new life. At least on the superficial, societal plane.

I am not, however, convinced that the biological drive has changed, be that in men or in women. The reptile brain is as the reptile brain does, and we are all mere beasts; domesticated primates roaming around, doing what we have done for all of eternity yet labelling ourselves civilized and somehow removed from our primal ancestry. We are apes with heads too big for our shoulders. Men still provide and men still protect. And women still seek just that.

(addendum: most of our leaders and rulers and politicians seem to be simians whose greatest strength is the ability to climb to the top of their ego and kill themselves by jumping to the level of their IQ.)

Being apes with heads too big for our shoulders, we created civilization and we created laws and rules and regulations and codes of conduct meant to make it so that civilization and society, such as it is, could function. More or less. Even when it has been dangling from a short and curly hair over jagged rocks and crashing waves for most of recorded history. The barbarians are always at the walls and at our doors, and we are nothing but a stone-toss away from chaos at all times.

Little did we know, or care to admit, that the barbarian, that the primate, is still inside us. We smuggled that bastard-beast over the walls and we chained it and leashed it and tamed it as best we could with rewards in exchange for conformity. We organized our competition – some, including myself, would say to an obscene degree – and we smacked labels on it and we called it a day. Then we cared less and less about the past, and about the present, but decided to gaze constantly and continuously into the future. Being progressive was the most important thing, all of a sudden. Never stopping and enjoying, nor looking back and learning, but running like mad beasts forward, in a stampede, with neither a thought nor a care. Until we reached a point where all that is old must not only be forgotten, but burnt and ruined. To make way for the new, even when no-one cares to figure out exactly what the new is and what the new is to be built upon. As long as it is new, you know?

It reminds me of those guys that gets a new cellphone the moment the latest model comes out. No matter that the old one is still working and the new one is overpriced and overhyped. Gotta have it, brah, gotta have it.


Because it is new, god-damnit.

I enjoy technology very much, but Jesus tap-dancing rim-stealer, there is a limit to how often I care to get new stuff. Usually when the old one breaks. Which, admittedly, takes less time than it damned well ought to. I’ve got amplifiers from the 70’s that still blow the lids of anything produced in the last five years. And I’ve got a fancy new surround-sound amplifier that’s only two years old and has been faltering a bit lately. But, again, I digress.

Still, it seems, our past is catching up with us. Chasing us down, never leaving us alone, beating us about the head and neck and shoulders with a burning stick. Prometheus stole fire from the gods. Now that fire comes back to burn us. And we burn in perpetuity with the denial of our roots, our history and our biology. In our hubris, we came to see ourselves as more than mere animals, seemingly as more than mere biological creatures. We were gifted consciousness and self-consciousness, and we wasted it away with petty squabbles and waste it even more away now with even pettier squabbles. Our entire society, our entire civilization is over-civilized and over-educated, churning out disease and depravity and decadence; churning out people from higher education who have lived so well for so long that the only thing they can find to complain about – because complain they must – is first world problems.

When the point is reached where oppression must be manufactured in order for people to feel as though they have a purpose – that is, some cause to champion – it is most certainly time to turn back. Or at the very least stop and think for a little while.

Does anyone truly and honestly believe that any society not floating into the existential dread and hopeless void of nasty nihilism and depraved decadence would manufacture an ever-expanding list of gender-identities which must be protected by law? Who the hell has the time and the energy to do something so pointless? A depraved and decadent culture. That’s what.

That any society not falling into the jagged rocks below it would have time to manufacture and amplify petty grievances to such an extent that laws must be implemented so that someone’s feelings are not hurt by a spoken word? Or bitch and moan about air-conditioning being sexist, the I-phone being too big and, as such, also sexist? Or that women have too many choices when it comes to bras, and so that is also sexist, even when it very god-damned well proves that the manufacturers try to cater to every wish, whim, shape and form of woman?

That any society that has not flown too close to the sun would make laws dictating how men should sit on public transport? Or have time to complain – and have their voices amplified to the extreme – about men explaining things to women, whilst simultaneously complaining that men will not mentor women? The list goes on.

Ordinary people, you know – those damned pesky individuals that make up a society – who live day by day, pay check to pay check, struggling to make ends meet, have neither the time nor the energy to care about these petty and nonsensical issues; have no inclination nor any interest nor any care in the seventy-two thousand different genders. Yet, they are forced by law to not only accept it, but to speak it as truth.

These are the ones who should matter; the vast majority of society. Yet, we listen to a minority of voices supposedly championing the cause of the poor and the down-trodden.

We have elected to listen only to a ruling class of people who have never once lived the lives of those whom they supposedly speak on behalf of.

We listen to champagne-socialists and greasy celebrities, believing that they – for some strange reason – can speak on behalf of the common man and the common woman. And they sure as all pesky hell enjoy speaking on behalf of the common woman; the cause célèbre of our century, as well as being sure to beat down the common man who has done nothing wrong in this world but be born as a common man.

And the diseased and the depraved and the decadent all applaud and nod their heads and wiggle their perfectly manicured fingers of shame into the face of the common man who dares defy the norm such as these bastards see the norm by being, living and acting like a common man.

For make no mistake about it: it is the common man that is being attacked by virtue of sharing a random chance with the top one percent of men; by virtue of the apex fallacy. By being superficially similar to the men who competed and then won in the eternal hierarchy that men live in, these men are to be shamed and mocked and ridiculed and made to bear the burden of the supposed sins of the nefarious patriarchy. A pack-mule for all the scorn and shame and hatred and ridicule from bored and spoiled brats who never once tasted life outside the walls, who never once tasted anything but opulence and affluence. Were it up to me, all these snobs, all these champagne-socialists and the greasy celebrities, the politicians and the hangers-on and clingers-on should be allocated to pig-farms, in service to the betterment of humanity.

Despite having nothing in common with these horrible and wicked men except for being men, the common man is shamed and ridiculed and surrounded by a searing hatred and an even more searing mistrust. Rape and plunder and violence and depravity and oppression is all he’s good for.

And so too is the common woman being attacked, for not being woke, for not being enlightened, for not being bathed and swallowed by the divine light of feminism and intersectionality and all that other trendy stuff that is here today and gone tomorrow, as it takes a new shape and a new form.

Yet, she is not attacked as such – she is condescended to, she is spoken down to by those who propose to know better than her how she should live her life and how and where she should find her purpose.

No-one shames and blames women more than other women, and yet the blame is placed on men and so too is the shame for all the terrible horrors that women go through in life. There has never been horrid “misogyny” so bad as the “misogyny” piled on a woman who dares defy the sisterhood, who dares state in no uncertain terms that she would much enjoy being a home-maker, thank you very much, or other such things that are sins to the eyes of the sacred sisterhood.

All this piled on by ardent believers in feminism, stating that women can choose to do whatever they want to do in life, except those things which the sister-hood does not condone. Which are all the fault of men, because men can do nothing right and need to step in and help and save and protect women so that women are protected from the world, which is other men, because the only ones supposedly able to act in the world are men, and the only ones supposedly being acted upon in the world is women.

Does not seem to be a very empowering way to navigate the world to me, but I am most likely blinded by my male privilege so what the hell do I know? This must be the same privilege that brings me the scorn and ire of feminism for what they perceive to be the failings of my wife, (my failings by proxy); in essence her introverted and quiet nature. According to those who supposedly empower women, I am responsible for my wife talking and taking part – not only in conversations, but in society. That is my job to do, not hers. I wonder what would have happened if I stated, in no uncertain terms, that I am the one responsible for how my wife navigates the world. That she has no say in it, but that I am the one to control how she interacts with society. Same shit, different sex. Her behaviour is my responsibility, I would have shouted to the world. Then I would have been tarred and feathered, beheaded and cloven in twain by the righteous hordes of indignant women who only recently told me and my wife the exact same bloody thing. Women are frail, weak and useless stick-figures, here to be controlled, governed and moulded to the eyes of feminism; cast in her brilliant light and blessed with her filth-breath.

What strange logic these cretins follow. But, no wonder – in their infinitesimal wisdom, they decided that men are the oppressors of women, and so any woman not acting such as they – in their very solipsist, navel-gazing view of the world – think a woman should act must be oppressed and down-trodden by whichever man is in her life. And the way women should act is the way that one individual feminist acts.

And so the burden of responsibility falls on men for how their partners act in the world. Women are creatures with no self-ownership and no agency, according to this view of the world. And men are creatures of oppression and violence and dominance. And no-one seems to have any qualms in repeating this mantra, be that schools or mothers or journalists; be that politicians or sisters or store-clerks, be that powerful institutions or gutter-dwellers, be that businesses or individuals.

The mantra is repeated: women are powerless, men are powerful; men use their power for bad and women would have used their power for good if they only had any, but that was denied them by men. And for this, men shall pay. The women who are powerful and who are in power are, for some strange reason, ignored. Unless they don’t adhere to the dogma. Then they are harassed.

There is no wonder that boys drop out and men turn away. It has been noticed by the powers that be – that is – mass-media, and so shaming tactics are implemented in order for men to go back to the “plantation”. Not respect. Not adoration. Not empathy or care or love or understanding; not a smidgeon of compassion. Shame and ridicule.

Men are weak and dare not take part; men are scared of powerful women. Men are irresponsible; they would rather play video-games than take part in adulthood. Men have no ambition; they don’t care to better themselves. And on and on and on it goes. The supposed failings of men are men’s own fault. Society, such as it is, plays no part in it. And men must fix themselves. Which I agree with. But not as the powers-that-be would have it.

Little do they care to understand that the paths that they inadvertently have opened up for men will lead to men fixing themselves. It just so happens to be in a way not accepted by the heavy-handed standards of conformity. And so that must be beat down, by any means necessary.

And that ends part two of this ramble. Please join me next week for more, lest my eyes, ears and mouth is swallowed by this overwhelming urge I have to sit on my lazy arse, watch documentaries, drink wine and not give a fuck.

  • Please like, share and subscribe
  • Moiret Allegiere, 03.10.2020

My Generation Killed Rock «n» Roll:
Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B089DHKBQB
Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B089M59JXF

Lonely Trainstation Blues – Poetry for the Lost Boys, Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07ZB6K2JX
Lonely Trainstation Blues – Poetry for the Lost Boys, Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1692495518

Howling at a Slutwalk Moon, a collection of previous blog posts:
Vol 1 Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/107571074X
Vol 1 Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07TZTPDPR
Vol 2 Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075714184
Vol 2 Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07TZR25NL
Vol 1 Illustrated Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075717094
Vol 2 Illustrated Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075723078

Other links:
Parler.com: @MoiretAllegiere
Blog: https://moiretallegiere.wordpress.com/
YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC3IaCxAXE3pQd7PCdvHoaaA
Bitchute: https://www.bitchute.com/channel/EvbGZyTZSraY/
twatter: https://twitter.com/MAllegiere
Gab: https://gab.com/Moiret_Allegiere
Minds: https://www.minds.com/Moiret
Flickr: https://www.flickr.com/people/152465815@N04/

Times are tough #1

Times are tough, gentlemen. There’s no denying that. At least not for those of us blessed with the ability to see the world as the world is, as opposed to those who choose to dig down into blankets made from histrionic history-bending, turning, twisting and churning.


Given my increasing grumpiness, I can only deduce that I am growing old. Or growing more reasonable, sane and rational. At some point, anger gives way to grumpiness, I suppose. Or just good old fashioned cynicism.

As things stand; the status quo must be maintained. The status quo is this overwhelmingly strange idea that there is a nefarious patriarchy consisting of straight, white, cis, etcetera, men here to ruin the world – and life – for everyone who don’t look like them, or share the same random genetic make-up or whatever.

All that are considered minorities are hated beyond explanation and oppressed beyond words. And out of all of these women struggle the hardest and suffer the most, as they always do. Not a minority in numbers, but a minority by virtue of everlasting oppression. Which is why no-one listens to women, even when they do listen to them.

This is all institutionalized and written into law like holy scriptures, even when the law allows for positive discrimination towards the aching necks and bruised and battered hands of the minorities. And women, of course, as they deserve first dibs on the positive discrimination which is not discrimination because the word “positive” is put in front of it, and so it is quite alright, A-OK and all that jazz and stuffy stuff. Makes perfect sense when running on fumes and being emotionally underdeveloped, I suppose.

Feel bad? Oppression. Have some victim points and call me in the morning.

Failed a test? Patriarchy. Have some brownie points, and call me in the morning.

Didn’t get a job? Discrimination. Have some phoney social media sympathy, and call me in the morning.

Some bastard drove past you on the highway? Male chauvinism on display. Have some social media outrage, and call me in the morning.

You may refer to me as Dr. Allegiere. I got my medical license through gender-studies. And I know all the solutions to whatever it is that ails you, xister. You can count on that.

Odd and peculiar though it may seem, men are the ones whom all of society listen to and whose woes and worries are what is taken seriously. By all and sundry.

Which is why, when God-Emperor Donald Trump mentioned in a speech (or was it an interview? I can’t rightly remember…) that it is a scary time for boys and men, this was taken very seriously by the whole wide world.

Across the blue sphere, people watched in horror as the truths and facts of the lives of men were rolled out onto the screens for all to see.

The suicides and the cancer-deaths, the lack of funding for male-specific diseases, the dropping-outs and the violent attacks, the drug-addictions and the substance abuse, the sexual assaults and the rapes that apparently don’t exist, the false accusations and the loss of custody and the disposable nature of men, the empathy-gap and the lack of bodily integrity, the confusion, calamity and chaos, the divorce-rapes and the domestic violence suffered by men, the expectations of sacrifice and the constant ridicule, the neglectful school-system and the hateful rhetoric spat their way by the sneering mouths and ferret-fists of feminist academics teaching hatred in the guise of equality, inclusivity and resilience… and all the rest; all that was bad in the world of men came to light, and all who saw it gazed upon the light and decided to rise up and give aid to men and boys and only them, as is the custom of the world… as it has always been.

Suddenly, the killing, torturing and torment of young boys by Boko Haram was brought into the limelight, overshadowing by far the Bring Back Our Girls campaign which had gotten such a serious, such a remarkable spot in the limelight before.

Even all these years later, this is still utterly remarkable to me. Tens of thousands of boys killed, murdered, tortured, raped, forced into being child soldiers and other such pesky little things that are of no consequence pales in comparison to some 200 girls kidnapped. The value of one girl is approximately 2000 boys. As is the way of things. A greater example of the empathy-gap; the pure lack of concern and care for boys (and men) I can scarce imagine. But, of course, it was men doing it and so it doesn’t matter as much. Because sharing the sexual characteristics of ones assailant somehow makes the assault/kidnapping/torture/rape/whatever easier to bear. One wonders, of course, if the victim cares. No-one knows, because no-one cares enough to ask. After all – it is only boys and it is only men and they must have done something and they may as well kill themselves and each other. Saves the sisterhood some work.

Oh man; that was a dark tangent. Sorry about that. Onwards we go:

Was it just a dream?

Was it naught but a fever-dream? Brought on by years of sleep-deprivation and caffeine-abuse, maybe?

Was it an hallucination brought on by pain-killers and an overabundance of dog-fur clogging my nostrils, thus pumping too little oxygen into my bloodstream?

Had it all just been a dream?

God-damnit! There never was any balm in Gilead, was there? It’s all just one big dastardly lie!

What really happened after these most horrible words spoken by Grand Dragon Patriarch Donald Trump and his holy orangey spectre, was smugness, self-satisfaction, mockery and contempt by the usual suspects.

They even brought out the ukulele troops, wielding the cute-as-a-button innocent face of neoteny that no blue-pilled and blue-balled man could resist wanting to protect and care for, singing a song about how horrible it is to be a neurotic woman in this day and age; so oppressed and downtrodden by the fears she has been told to succumb to that the televangelists of our day and age – the show-runners and the media-personalities whose trembling fear and terror about going against the status quo makes them psychologically castrated victims of their own stupidity in a way; merely a cunts hair away from their very own #metoo trial by social media and fire – toss them onto the screens for them to cast their searing hatred and obvious contempt for boys, men and their troubles onto the world.

This time, the beast of revelations appeared in the guise of cutesy fun play-time, for all to laugh and mock and ridicule the plight of boys and men. At other times, it appears as truth-twisting academes with chips on their shoulders the size of a long-lost cock.

Surely, the world concurred, boys and men can’t have any problems that needs addressing by anyone but those who decide what is and is not right? Particularly not white guys, wicked oppressors and tyrannical wielders of privilege that they are.

Just look – the evidence is all there – they share the same genitals and the same complexion (underneath all the cheeto-dust, at least) as the grand kyriarchical oligarch patriarch of the world, herald of all that is bad and naughty and somehow wicked and, of course, masculine. Though, I am repeating myself.

This, then, was nothing but further proof that the patriarchy is real, further evidence that feminism and social justice and intersectionality is needed beyond words, and must spread beyond the world as the world is, onwards to new and unfathomed horizons. Besides, the patriarchy hurts men too and so singing a cutesy fun play-time song mocking and ridiculing the troubles of boys and men; making light of their plight, is really nothing but yet another middlefinger towards the patriarchy, scourge of the world and destroyer of purity, kindness, inclusivity, equality, resilience and all that other stuff which means all and nothing all at once.

Besides, who was anyone to argue? After all – she did wield a ukulele. And she was cute to boot. No-one that cute, no-one wielding a ukulele, could lie or be mean and wicked, or high and mighty on her own smug self-satisfaction, lost in a daze after sniffing her own farts could she? Come to think of it: no-one that cute even farts, let alone sniffs them. Though, admittedly, women do poop as the articles have let us know. Even when they don’t enjoy doing it at work, which is – as one would expect – the fault of the patriarchy.

After much careful thought and deliberation, it was decided that she who holds the ukulele also holds the truth.

These people always fucking play the ukulele.

Sometimes even competently.

Though that last bit seems to be the exception rather than the rule.

Competent playing or not; wielding the ukulele saved the world and the status quo. No-one listened to boys and men as they were proven to be the privileged oppressor class once again.

If they were in some kind of trouble, it was by their own making. If opposing pounding me too, this could only be proof of sexual harassment on part of the guys so wicked as to oppose what was, quite clearly, a social media witch hunt. They might even be latent rapists. Which all men are, any way, so no surprises there.

So spake the ukulele, the wielder of the ukulele, and all her disciples. And women were terrified, because they were told and taught that they should be terrified. And they were terrified of men, as well as being terrified of all the troubles men had which was, of course, the fault and fancy of men for daring to be men. Not the fault of them as individuals, of course, but the fault of them belonging to that terrible cult of men known as… err… men, thus being moulded and pressed into the shivering sheen of the macabre masculine by the never-ending and all-engulfing hydraulic press of the patriarchy.

All went back into the witless wonder of the void, brought there by the witless wonder of the void.

And all the chants and all the music and all the cuteness in the world spake and sung and deliberated in the same tone and, with the same voice, said that which is the truth of today: women have problems, society must change. Men have problems, men must change. Men need to take responsibility for themselves, and society needs to take responsibility for women.

For women, see, are completely and utterly incapable of taking responsibility for themselves, apparently, and the whole of society makes men out to be the victors, even though men do worse by all metrics, but, hey… in the undying words of Kurt Cobain “Well, whatever, never mind”.

It followed that the words of the great and glorious Cheeto in the sky was thoroughly ridiculed, forgotten and neglected.

As, of course, is tradition whenever someone dares say anything in regards to boys and men that are not venomous accusations of privilege, toxicity or fragility.

Shit, fuck, damn and blow me – were I not such a privileged oppressor, I would almost think I would have been pissed off at the whole ordeal.

Alas; I am far too privileged and far too toxic to get pissed off. Or, well, my righteous anger and indignation don’t matter much as anything but proof of whatever nonsense is spat our way by the ukulele-wielding harpies of the world, buried as they are beneath layers of ridiculous arrogance and smug self-righteous ideas about fighting the chosen enemy of the hour, with all the wits and wonders only true neurosis can bring. To quote the glorious honey badgers: “Hatred never looked this cute”.

If there is one thing that is known to be truth about all whole-sale oppressed groups through all of history, it is that they are given air-time and limelight-dimes to sing cutesy songs about their oppression and their oppressors, whilst all the world – including their oppressors – looks on in glee and applaud like trained seals, never thinking beyond the neoteny and the fruits of their labour in protecting, saving and sheltering this poor and timid maiden, who is terrified and quivering, yet proud and strong and powerful and whatever.

Women are not oppressed by men any more than men are oppressed by women.

If I am to be perfectly honest, and put aside any pretences of being a brilliant satirist, I don’t think the word “oppressed” fits in any of it.

Men are not oppressed. Nor are women.

I would say that it is worse, in a way. For boys and men are forgotten, neglected and shunned by society at large; our trials, troubles and tribulations either neglected or painted as our fault for sharing chromosomes with those who – supposedly – rule the world. If men were oppressed, it would be easier, in a very weird way. Because that would have given us a tangible enemy to fight… it would have given us a certain power to fight that was more than just an idea floating around, a notion in the air, a sensation in the ether, invisible radio-waves.

But there ain’t and there isn’t. There are concepts and ideas to fight. There are certainly powerful forces that can’t be said to help boys or men; powerful forces that, quite unabashed and unashamed, spew hatred and ridicule and mockery and contempt from every clogged pore and every unwashed orifice.

I would dare state that these forces are not our oppressors, gentlemen. They are merely enablers of the status quo; a force that has been present for aeons. In order for society to go around and so and such, men must be disposable. And this must be taught and it must be learned and it must be shown. Otherwise, the whole shit-stain stops, the train will neither choo nor chug.

In the murky mist of history, there were rewards for the self-sacrifice of men, rewards for watching the borders or hunting or whatever. There were social rewards and there was gratitude. This changed. Given that a man can be accused of sexual assault for helping a young woman change a tire (thank God for security cameras!), or for passing by a woman on the subway, there is little gratitude for self-sacrifice or for being helpful. Then there’s further bitching and moaning, because men don’t help out and do and woe is me, but where have all the good men gone?

What is now being used to force men into the mould of the disposable male is shame.

Granted, shame has been used for a good and long while (just look to the white feather campaigns of the domestic terrorist group that was the suffragettes to see that), but now it is nothing but shame and shaming. Men need to step up and protect and provide. The traditional gender roles are still present and accounted for where men are concerned, and those who claim to oppose traditional gender roles are the ones maintaining them. He for she is a good example of this. Men; come here, step up, come and help and support women. Such as it is, was, ever shall be. Yet, it is presented as a new idea. It is absolutely astonishing and ridiculous, but there you have it, boys – our superiors have spoken, and if you disagree, you are a foul and horrid misogynist who just hate women so much that you expect them to take care of themselves like the strong independent women who don’t need no man that they are.

There is no oppression from men or women. There is neglect and there is scorn and there is ridicule; men and boys are forgotten and given no empathy nor understanding for what we go through. Granting boys and men that small favour, which would be the sum of earthly bliss… well, now – that would upset the apple-cart. It would upset the delicate balance of the whole thing, which is so damned delicate now that it ain’t balanced in the least. One could almost say that it has tumbled and fallen and gone down the drain, along with what was left of reason, sanity and good old fashioned – drum-roll please – Kindness, equality, inclusivity and resilience.

So ends part one. Join me next week for more ranting, raving and rambling as I attempt to put in print what the hell is going on in my head at the present moment, burdened by genius (or was that pretentiousness? I can’t remember) as I obviously am.

  • please like, share and subscribe
  • Moiret Allegiere, 30.09.2020

My Generation Killed Rock «n» Roll:
Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B089DHKBQB
Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B089M59JXF

Lonely Trainstation Blues – Poetry for the Lost Boys, Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07ZB6K2JX
Lonely Trainstation Blues – Poetry for the Lost Boys, Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1692495518

Howling at a Slutwalk Moon, a collection of previous blog posts:
Vol 1 Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/107571074X
Vol 1 Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07TZTPDPR
Vol 2 Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075714184
Vol 2 Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07TZR25NL
Vol 1 Illustrated Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075717094
Vol 2 Illustrated Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075723078

Other links:
Parler.com: @MoiretAllegiere
Blog: https://moiretallegiere.wordpress.com/
YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC3IaCxAXE3pQd7PCdvHoaaA
Bitchute: https://www.bitchute.com/channel/EvbGZyTZSraY/
twatter: https://twitter.com/MAllegiere
Gab: https://gab.com/Moiret_Allegiere
Minds: https://www.minds.com/Moiret
Flickr: https://www.flickr.com/people/152465815@N04/

Lonely Train-station Blues #17: Putrid Spiritual Decay

This is part 17 from my collection of poetry «Lonely Train-station Blues», which you can get through the links below.

Downcast ban-hammer-eyes all
doe-like in this strange glow of
bio-luminescence born from
putrid spiritual decay;

her love-lorn shape forms
single swan-songs made for
local singles in areas groped
for lack of hopelessness –

  • now sought in drug-born
    rape – a clinical trial of baby-boomer
    metastasis – fixed in eyes and
    trembling lips dyed like danger.

Sixteen tons of low-hanging fruit
plucked by far-reaching consequence
left open in splatter-punk revivals
of Christian gospel puritanism –

  • All shall love or all shall despair
    in the name of love and for love’s
    final grasping at straws saw throats cut
    by mad reapers final breath;

a swollen sullen mistress silenced
by a gunpowder gangbang-bag where
wicked wings bruised and battered
spread their cosmic stench

above the gates of heaven to find
formless voids atop the depths of
hell through visionary epics lost
in the fog and mist of days long gone.

  • Please like, share and subscribe
  • Moiret Allegiere, 28.09.2020

My Generation Killed Rock «n» Roll:
Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B089DHKBQB
Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B089M59JXF

Lonely Trainstation Blues – Poetry for the Lost Boys, Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07ZB6K2JX
Lonely Trainstation Blues – Poetry for the Lost Boys, Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1692495518

Howling at a Slutwalk Moon, a collection of previous blog posts:
Vol 1 Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/107571074X
Vol 1 Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07TZTPDPR
Vol 2 Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075714184
Vol 2 Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07TZR25NL
Vol 1 Illustrated Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075717094
Vol 2 Illustrated Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075723078

Other links:
Parler.com: @MoiretAllegiere
Blog: https://moiretallegiere.wordpress.com/
YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC3IaCxAXE3pQd7PCdvHoaaA
Bitchute: https://www.bitchute.com/channel/EvbGZyTZSraY/
twatter: https://twitter.com/MAllegiere
Gab: https://gab.com/Moiret_Allegiere
Minds: https://www.minds.com/Moiret
Flickr: https://www.flickr.com/people/152465815@N04/

The traveller

The traveller came, at long last and after many adventures, upon a village seemingly bathed in sunlight. As he came closer to the village, he saw men toiling in the fields as men are known to do, shirtless, red and scorched from working in the sun. The men there appeared to be digging holes and moving dirt.

Travelling for weeks on end, as is the traveller’s toil, he was thirsty, hungry and soaked in sweat. It had been a warm couple of days, and the lack of rain and wind had not done wonders for his constitution.

His mood, however, was as excellent as it always had been, and seeing the village made it better yet as this gave alluring promises of much needed rest and relaxation, until his travels would continue.

He still had some food left in his backpack. His supply of water, however, had run out. No rivers or streams had the journeyman encountered since the last village upon which he had stumbled, wherein he had been able to stock up on food and water, wherein he had slept in a bed for a few days, before carrying on upon the road. His was a journey with no end in sight; a journey driven by nothing but wanderlust and the pure unbridled joy of curiosity.

Halting for a moment to survey the land, to take in the sights, he saw the buildings erected in the village, all of solid stone. He spied a giant tower in the town square upon whose elaborately designed and curiously, intricately carved arabesque pedestal a giant clock rested, ticking, tocking, gazing down upon all those who toiled in the fields.

To his surprise, he saw no children playing, nor any people resting, neither in the fields or in the streets below the curious clock-tower. No sussuration nor strange hum of life came from the village. This came as a surprise to the traveller, though he had encountered stranger things and weirder sights upon the road and so resolved to not think overmuch on it, reasoning that he had merely stumbled upon the village at the busiest time of day or of season or of both – that all and sundry would be engaged in their tasks at the moment, yet would retire in the evening for rest and merriment and such.

The traveller tried his best to gain the attention of the men he saw there in the fields. This had no effect, as they all seemed to ignore him, engaged in their toil as they were, paying little heed to anything else.

“No wonder,” thought the traveller, “they are far away and their task must be important”.

Walking further down, into the shadows cast from the tall buildings like stone and marble monuments, his feet hit the pebbled road, moving by pure chance and coincidence along with the beat, the rhythmic ticking of the clock. “How strange”, thought the traveller as he walked gaily down the street, searching for water and a bed in which to spend the night.

He then came upon a group of men tearing down a stone-wall, removing it stone by stone, bit by bit.

Thought the traveller: “it should be possible to here enquire as to water and to bed”, those two things that seemed to be of the most importance at the moment. The sun was rising in the sky. The temperature increased. The still air offered little in way of consolation, being hot and humid and giving the traveller the sensation that it was hard to breathe.

Looked he then, with sympathy, upon the men in their work dismantling the stone-wall, and enquired whether they would take a rest soon, as it must be time to eat and drink. The men there, never pausing in their task, looked at him as though he was crazy; as if the words he spoke were madness or heresy or both. They carried on with neither a word nor a gesture in reply or response, once again leaving the traveller to his own devices.

And so he moved along the immaculately paved road, spotless buildings rising higher and higher around him as he came closer to the centre-piece of the village; the giant clock with its tick and with its tock. Noticing not only the absence of children, but also the absence of women and of the elderly. Very curious, the traveller thought, as he moved through spiralling pathways and buildings that seemed to get taller with every step.

The village, it appeared, was bigger than the traveller had at first assumed, more like a city or a town than a village. And yet, it was so quiet as to be wholly deserted. Not a sound could he hear but the sound of work and the eternal ticking of the clock, ticking with nuclear precision and – seemingly – forcing his feet to move with its beat, the steady, thundering, omnipresent tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock.

Here and there he saw men engaged in work, all middle-aged or thereabout. Now and then he attempted to engage them in conversation, or at the least get direction towards an inn. None replied, as seemed to be their custom. And so he carried on, towards the centre and the clock and the tick and the tock.

Usually given to a light mood and being something of an easy-going character, the traveller could not help but feel an increasing sense of unease. A certain sensation of dread crept along his spine, something he was not accustomed to.

Still: his resolve was iron and his will untouchable, and so he moved onwards through the now labyrinthine pathways, seemingly moving through spiralling circles hearing only the ticking of the clock and getting closer, ever closer to the source. There was a strange feeling of moving downwards, as if in a vortex of sorts.

The sun seemed to have disappeared, hidden somewhere far beyond the towering buildings, and he and the streets and all there was and ever should be was bathed in shadow and in darkness, as though night had come upon him without warning.

All of a sudden, giving him as little warning as what he thought of as a sudden nightfall, he found himself standing at the base of the clock-tower which he had spied from afar in what seemed like a dream a lifetime ago.

Gazing from its base to its pinnacle was dizzying, maddening; a horrifying task that gave the traveller such a sensation as he never felt before; a terrible sensation of both falling and flying towards the peak of the tower. He steadied himself as best he could, then sat down in confusion and was surprised to see, far above him that, on either side of the clock, there stood two men, pulling a lever for every tick and for every tock. Tick, went the lever and the clock and the men that by it stood. Tock, went the lever and the clock and the men that by it stood.





How long had they been standing there, toiling and toiling, the traveller wondered out loud to himself. The sudden words spoken, whispered, seemed to make the silence surrounding him even more profound, even more enveloping; seemed to make the ticking of the clock more intense, somewhat angry, somehow enraged, he thought.

He sat at the base of the clock-tower for what seemed like hours, and quite possibly was, entranced and ensnared by the ticking of the clock that seemed to drink and eat all other sounds and all his resolve and all his spirit and his soul.

No longer could he hear the sounds of work, nor his own heartbeat or his own breathing. He could only hear the ticking of the infernal clock, tick-tock, tick-tock.

Finally, summoning what little strength and resolve remained, he rose and moved back the way he had come, noticing that there were no paths or roads to take to move him beyond the clock-tower. There was nothing there but a gigantic wall of buildings, all in grey stone, windows looking down at him with no light from the inside like soul-less eyes staring, glaring, hypnotized, dead and decayed and dreary.

Moving back through the spiralling road, rejecting the strange pull of the clock, the odd sensation of being dragged towards it with every tick and every tock, the traveller came once again upon those who had been dismantling the stone-wall, being surprised to see that they were now putting it back together again. Stone by stone and bit by bit they put it back together again, strange pieces like pieces in a jigsaw-puzzle. The men there, still toiling, still sweating, still saying nothing or doing nothing but the task that was put there in front of them seemed oblivious to all but the task. They worked and they toiled as though in a trance, caught, perhaps, in some strange web from which they could not escape, whose cobwebbed pattern they could not feel or sense or notice.

Moving ever onwards and outwards, feeling as though he was climbing upwards even when the ground beneath him was as level as could be, the ticking of the clock becoming less intrusive with every step, the sun beating down on his face again, the air feeling free and fresh – at least in comparison to the air beneath the clock-tower – again, he came upon the men in the field and saw that they were now filling the holes that they previously had dug with the same dirt and the same mud.

The men merely stared at him, all the while moving the dirt mechanically, not looking at the task, barely noticing what they were doing. Their gaze at him, and their movement, felt as unnerving as the tick and the tock. He looked away and walked away. Finally emerging from the darkness of the village, or town or city, the traveller resolved to walk around the grotesque spectacle with its tick and with its tock, to circumvent the whole terrible ordeal; to continue his travels and leave this horrid place be.

Not long after, he came upon a river.

The traveller sat down at the bank of the river, filled his water-skin with water, drank some and ate some, bathed in sunlight, he thought: “this will be a good day”.

  • Please like, share and subscribe
  • Moiret Allegiere, 26.09.2020

My Generation Killed Rock «n» Roll:
Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B089DHKBQB
Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B089M59JXF

Lonely Trainstation Blues – Poetry for the Lost Boys, Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07ZB6K2JX
Lonely Trainstation Blues – Poetry for the Lost Boys, Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1692495518

Howling at a Slutwalk Moon, a collection of previous blog posts:
Vol 1 Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/107571074X
Vol 1 Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07TZTPDPR
Vol 2 Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075714184
Vol 2 Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07TZR25NL
Vol 1 Illustrated Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075717094
Vol 2 Illustrated Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075723078

Other links:
Parler.com: @MoiretAllegiere
Blog: https://moiretallegiere.wordpress.com/
YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC3IaCxAXE3pQd7PCdvHoaaA
Bitchute: https://www.bitchute.com/channel/EvbGZyTZSraY/
twatter: https://twitter.com/MAllegiere
Gab: https://gab.com/Moiret_Allegiere
Minds: https://www.minds.com/Moiret
Flickr: https://www.flickr.com/people/152465815@N04/