This is part 11 from my collection of poetry, titled «Lonely Train-station Blues». Get it through the links below.
From the spectrum analysis of the void; wishy-washy nonsense now bottled and sold as perpetual freedom grieving the loss of some-odd something.
Veiled gurus cowering in shades, hiding mumbo-jumbo recordings of coked-up politicians flinging shit on the stage.
Nothing here to see, then, but business as usual in the circus where the clowns dance and the monkeys mock.
Weird visions emanating from the microcosm of cataclysmic bacteria in my gut. I hear strange noises in the inner ear;
a hum, a drone, devoid of meaning. ’tis wordsalads and stoned gibberish from the ranks of growling throats and teeth and tongues.
’tis a slow descent into madness: storytime sellouts, loud-mouth, obnoxious and drunk on power shouting at us from a pinnacle of perceived morality.
And we: we have become fat and bored cold and callous narcissistic, vapid, overcivilized, crammed into the backseat of an undersized Honda in soul-less threesomes or gangbangs and labelling it love.
Our revolutions have become pedantic miniature-scale overthrowings of the what-ever-man-I-didn`t-dig-it variety; gibberish of cancer-ridden mind-morons, cowering behind a shower-curtain drowning in an inch of proclaimed hate-speech.
All our piss-poor grievances bottled and sold wholesale as micro-dystopian junk to be injected constantly into the eyes and flaring nostrils of the clinically dead conscientous junkies; offended and seeing no shame in riding the wave of offence.
Chemically castrated, side by side and in pairs we walk jubilantly to mass-graves singing songs of joy and celebration and of joyus celebration, blinded to the truth by ideals too clinical to be sane.
Castrated and morally feverish we raise the flag of superficial fellowship, a banner of solidarity, free-falling, drunk and damaged, just another take on the old new world order of old new-speak.
Kallo! Kallei! Hey-nonny-nonny-neigh! Here we are, lost in permanent displacement; within a void, within electric buzz!
Hey! Ho! Hey-nonny-nonny-no! Here we fall, lost in a progressive shitshow; a hollow tune, a loss for words.
All our words, swirling down the drain (Hey honey, I’m home) seeing reason in the face of madness dance away, flip-flopping into the ether or into crowdfunded oblivion permanently scarred by the toxicity of freedom-fighters fighting now for tyranny.
Visionary journeys numbed by drugs and by TV
trashtalking gossip and no-nonsense dreamscapes
in bent reality reality-television, starstruck
by witnessing the vast open opiate-canvas of apocalypse
coursing through the veins of reflected
imagination and wild cosmic vibrations
fucked up by lack of oxygen –
nutritient deficiency on the mental plane
balanced by grievance-fuelled
we grow accustomed to the night-light.
A sudden bright-light flash of full frontal nudity whilst, in the background, heaps of cocaine-stunned nocturamas plow the cottonfields eternally in old world plantations.
Wondrous, magical distractions, sex and saliva, the eternal release of ejaculation squirted in our mad-desire minds.
What ya saying, humdinger?
dont chase the fractals dont frighten the children kill yourselves instead
melt into the background disappear in bad music hands at your sides or tied behind your back
choke the life from your throat, tear your voice from your eyes, silence and then
A vast freak-out on a global scale, weird pent-up lack of self-control in this moment: a permanent fixture.
In the moment.
We die, laughing maniacally.
We die, smiling goofily, succumbing to a fantastic trance-inducing death-dance.
We die, celebrating our death masqued as some rebirth or other;
built by futurescapes too horrible to comprehend past bleeds into the future – eternalism in the works, oh baby, our time is what once was will be again and again and again.
Cycles of mischief and of decadence dull and numbed and bored, grinning at nothing and laughing at noone, smiling at chasms or at wild-eyed wonders with childlike innocence and glee as we refuse to grow up
as we refuse to see.
And so, and now, and there and then, with childlike glee, we march backwards to our solitary confinement and, confined to isolation, silenced and then killed, we think: this is proper, this is good,
this is just.
Just history repeating.
We are going back. Backwards in time.
Shamanic madness on the fringes of society mystical and stained with blood; teeth at our throat and hamfisted theory theorizing hamfistedly blood and guts and gore from archaic esoteric wisdom.
Our cultures merging and diverging, coo-ee, coo-ee, it`s only me, it’s only me, shattered, tattered, torn apart by raven claws, smooth as skulls and dope or dopamine.
It’s only me; an eerie collapse, an aerial view of animal frenzy, an inverted comma on your lips, cold as the dawn and self-selected serotonin.
I grew up in a small village (I believe village is the correct word to use, though I am not entirely sure) in Norway. At the time, I absolutely hated it. Nothing happened there, and it did not seem to offer any opportunities for anything much but spiritual decay. As time went on, and I grew into my own and furthermore into my independence, I got out and moved to a city. Brilliant, I remember thinking, here, in these uncharted waters, there be opportunities.
How wrong I was. There was nothing but tigers in the uncharted corners of the map.
The wonderful opportunities which I expected would be present in the big city was nothing but an immediate and constant crunch – a bellowing and hollering mass of people trudging back and forth from one strange social obligation to the next, with no time to stop, breathe and relax in between all the this and all the that. “I’ve got time for a quick coffee at this overpriced coffee-shop, with all its fancy-panted and strangely named coffee, then I’ve got to go work out, after that, I’m going shopping, and then, and then, and then”. It was a culture shock for me, for sure. Excruciatingly different from what I knew. Yet, I would adapt, and learn, and grow, and furthermore take part. This I thought.
In hindsight, it all seems to me to be a constant set of distractions to alleviate the horrible boredom of having nothing to do.
The same boredom I so diligently tried to escape when I left the village for the city. What was even more disconcerting to someone with great plans of becoming a successful visual artist (my, how naive I was back then): everything cost money. Every single god-damned, god-awful thing cost money. From working out to parking, from going to the toilet or hanging out with friends: everything cost money.
Young, struggling morons with wide-eyed dreams of artistic success and a bloated sense of their own talents are not exactly known for their abundance of wealth. So came the cost of living. Exorbitant prices for crappy apartments infested with some strange fungus, and with damned weeds growing up through the cracks in the floor… tiled floors placed directly upon dirt, windows that just won’t close, walls and ceilings so paper-thin that every movement of ones neighbour is heard as though one was in the same room as them. Don’t matter. The market is as the market is, and when there is a shortage of housing, landlords can charge whatever and people will gladly pay out their nose for the luxury of having a semblance of shelter from the wild. Mind you: I don’t blame the landlords. I blame the morons, such as myself, who are willing to pay so much for so little, who chase a fantasy of city-living that is contrary to the reality of city-living. It is an illusion, a tall tale sold through television and suchlike, wherein people who do not live in cities are presented as uncultured… as uneducated, unknowing and ultimately unworthy. Much like the light in which the hordes of progressives paint the backbone of any nation; its farmers: uneducated simpletons with racist sympathies and all that other nasty stuff which the cultured and educated and enlightened city-dwellers do not suffer from. That they themselves can not seem to shake their snobbish elitism out of their bumbling buffoon-heads do not matter. Certain people, one comes to learn, is quite alright to dislike, lampoon and ridicule; is quite alright to paint in a negative stereotypical light. Others are not. Some are protected from satire, some are not.
And I am sorry to tell you this, but programs like Sex and the City lied to you.
I’ve now spent fifteen fucking years living in a city.
I came to the conclusion two years ago that this city is slowly killing me. Everything is cramped, and grey, and noisy.
The apartment I live in is cramped and uncomfortable, the constant noise and hum and buzz and drone from the city, its dilapidating buildings, its pavements with its cracks and holes, its streets and its traffic and its towering apartment complexes that block out the sun… apartment complexes where people live like ants in an anthill, becoming increasingly miserable and hostile and stressed out.
There’s noise and confusion and a confounding sense of press and pressure… the sensation of community – a close-knit community – being squeezed to death in a hydraulic press labelled “no common identity”.
And time wastes away and people waste time away and so waste away themselves, and money is wasted away, spent on pointless shopping or that damned overpriced coffee or whatever.
Everyday, the walls keep closing in, the streets get narrower, the neighbours get noisier, towering buildings go up, prices go up, everything goes up except the quality of life. That is eroding.
City-life is lack of life and lack of thought. It is lack of self, lack of identity.
In my way of thinking: when there is always something to do, something that happens, somewhere to go to widdle away the day… when there is constantly something that distracts, there’s no time to think, no time to meditate. I believe that we, as a culture, are overstimulated through overexposure. Through social media, through the internet as a whole, we are constantly distracted, constantly kept busy with petty shit that does not matter, caught in an endless loop of entertainment, a quest for validation and bad news.
When there’s constantly something beeping or flashing that demands our attention, when there’s always access to some cheap entertainment, something or other to waste time with, it requires a great effort of will to not fall into the trap of constantly doing something or experiencing something that distracts from something that may very well be more important.
That which is most important is, stupid as it may sound, getting to know oneself. In my world, boredom does not exist. At least not as something negative. Boredom, I have come to understand, is a blessing. It means stability, it means that one does not have to fight for survival. It means that things are actually so good as to allow for having nothing to do. I can hardly imagine a better blessing than that.
At the moment of writing, there is construction-work going on right outside my apartment. By which I mean directly outside. Some new giant god-damned apartment complex is being erected. And the construction work is scheduled to last for three years. That is three years of constant noise, directly outside our living room. If I wanted to, I could step out on our balcony and spit on the various vehicles and machines. That’s how close it is. The noise is impossible to explain properly. The work is heavy-duty enough that the entire apartment vibrates and shakes and quivers and quakes on a daily basis. In fact: we were told to take photographs of our walls before the work began, so that we could document it in case the work outside should cause damage to the walls. We were also instructed to move any breakable objects of the shelves and out of the cupboards, in case they should fall out and shatter from the vibrations of the work. Not a pleasant thing to deal with for up to twelve fucking hours a day.
So: I’m moving on. we’re getting out of the city. Far out, man, far away. Moving to a small village where there’s only 130 people living, seeking that elusive freedom that keeps eluding my grasp. Seeking boredom, if you will. Seeking to become self-sufficient. In a few years, we’re buying a farmstead. If all goes to plan.
Since, however, moving house is a chore and a damned hassle, I am going to have to take some time away from writing and uploading content. I will most likely keep uploading the “Lonely Train-station Blues” stuff, since that is already written and recorded and so does not take much time out of the packing and planning and preparing, nor out of the settling in and – finally – relaxing a bit after the stress and the storm. I am aiming at this only taking about a month, so I should be back to pester you with poetry, illusions of literary and artistic talent as well as badgering you to buy my bloody books, why won’t you, sometime in August. Also: I’m releasing another book sometime this year.
Chaz Thundersoy broke the chopping block in all its lidless revolutionary LARPing might. The femcels drearily lament their lack of cock – a terrible lack of suitable male suitors, see: men just earn too little now to be of any interest; undeniably and undoubtedly hypergamy, admittedly, yet women still earn too little when compared to the best. (No doubt a sad state of affairs for them to earn too much when being discriminatingly paid too little and being unable to find a husband as such who will provide for and protect someone so brittle.)
Fuck me, but the world went insane overnight.
There’s warlords patrolling fire-squad streets, skintight academic elites who really ain’t too bright, unhinged revolutionaries in your soup and in your sheets, race riots manufactured by a false-flag moral hysteria who demand you take a knee and then take a caning, who demand your obedience, your profits and your area, who demand your re-education into solemn Marxist training. To pretend that this fire would burn out, to believe that this madness would ever end when everyone and their mums gave them clout is a silly little game of play-pretend.
Fuck me, but the world went insane overnight.
Radical violence became the answer to a question never asked, delivered from the diversity-inclusive hands of this swollen blight; opponents shall be inclusively brained by the masked, and also by the shameless, nameless, blameless who shall remain forever forgiven and absolved through their participation in this motherfucking mess, since all they ever wanted was for muh racism to be dissolved. (Except their own bloody racism, of course – for one can not be racist against the oppressing whites, say the enlightened bastards and their whores as they with glee and splendour strip you of your rights.)
Fuck me, but the world went insane overnight.
Black lives matter, sir – well of course they bloody do; white lives matter too, you shambling massive frostbite, you white knight, you brilliantine white saviour you. Ehrmagerd, dem’s be hate-speech words from slavers; from colonialist white supremacists and their white anglo-saxon saviours; not from our cultish tribe; your Maoist nemesis. To proclaim that all lives matter is intolerant hate-speech most supreme. To state that white lives don’t matter is tolerant inclusivity gone supreme.
Fuck me, but the world went insane overnight.
The menfolk are so privileged that they don’t get a say, and so too is the case for those who happen to be white – privileged enough to be shut down lest there be hell to pay. For those who are allowed to speak are underprivileged buffoons, and those who ain’t allowed are overprivileged nincompoops, filled with hate and bigotry, to be beat by hired goons as the rallying crowd of pestilence jump through mental hoops to explain why their bigotry, their violence and insanity is quite alright in the spreadsheet of the current year, as they use their victimhood as currency to spread their truth through terror and through fear.
Fuck me, but the world went insane overnight.
The revolution will be televangelised by woke prophet newscaster spreading the light to all who never saw and never realized how privileged and evil and so-and-such they are for being born white or straight or male; all racist and sexist oppressors, all gone too far into their intolerance to be redeemed for being pale, no matter what they do or how they do or when. The revolution should be thoroughly memed; the social justice cult ridiculed by horrid normal men whose value as human beings is to be esteemed.
Straight back to the unbalanced apologia, strange visions emanate from peculiarities.
Opposites attract and distrust opposition that belong to shivers, radiant in summer-blues perplexed and free.
Alternatives to liberty frought in dystopia shook me all night long (you) shook me all night long, in linen drenched in anxious free-form sweat sweeter than the qoutations `round your neck or the roughness of your vampire lips.
Shaken, not stirred, we watched the sky turn from black to blues as spanish rhythms shook the dew from mouths raging sin, who sang fractured nursery-rhymes whose golden tunes inhibited practical applications of libido.
A lone violin complains in the corner . Bedridden and deceased, born from original sin, we thrust and thrust and go nowhere, digging mass-polluted multiples of graves to burn the fleas off our backs in imagined shame.
Which ecstasy to seek suffered I in wandering cataclysmic cacophony, in chaotic crawlspaces as a mind numbed with drugs sensed strung-out gutters counting cracks in pavements decadent, as the sun rose nonchalantly flipping the bird.
We, the fucker-uppers born from repressed rage gathering dust `neath eyelids gazing at truth or imagined truths of strange undignified pointed existence sharp as needles in our anaemic gums that found divine beauty hidden in the folds of an untrained bicep.
I shook. You shivered. We shone.
Defendant, primitive, and alone.
To think that these whirlwind wonders of truth lied not in the pursuit of truth as shown but lied in lies larger than continents, grander than galaxies, nailed to the lips of we, deemed unclean worthless cold callous.
To think grandiose schemes lay broken boundless `neath our fractal nursery-rhymes, or in beauty drugged and bound in the chest of Prometheus chained to simple soulless skyscrapers gazing at the concrete-moon in search of truth concrete.
To hear the cars hiss outside windows pounding nails in hardwood floors where legs numbed by millennia walk and wallow in pain drowned in drink fuels the fires of blank blindfolded brilliant catharsis.
I belong to the blind-eyed I said he and so said I.
Odd footsteps on pavements drenched in blood, we raised our glass and sung his last word: Catharsis.
Enveloped in wombs of decadent jazz as mud flung from skies turning blues shone the sun through our eyes where we saw that truth is naught now but deceit.
Rampaging we roared calm-fisted, our voices fluttered by like flutter-byes, to bury our hands in eternal deserts of oil-tainted asphyxiating asphalt.
Shone we numb-naked with our thumbs in their eyes, all smiles and birthday-pasts-and-presents.
I saw the sun rise through a draining glass of wine, and truth revealed itself to be a gelatinous blob.
We drained our dreary glass again, all birthdays and smile-pasts-and-presents, the jazzy sky glowed radioactive.
what is matter? nevermind what is mind? no matter
And we are nothing but leeches pondering preposterous notions of rainy-day freedom in selfserving attempts at justice legionaire, where might is all and all is might.
And we are nothing but silence whispering violently violet ideas in dead-pan slapstick comedies where truth became satire impossible to satirize.
And we are ghosts beholding beauty burnt and buried bottoms-up, we drain our glass again.
Never underestimate the first cup of coffee in the morning. Never underestimate the profundity of the mundane.
This self-portrait of mine, which I use as a logo of sorts, is not some ridiculous attempt to present myself as some enlightened being, third eye wide open, capable of seeing the meaning of life, the universe and everything. Nope.
I’m afraid not. I can’t even figure out what to have for dinner.
It is far more mundane than that.
It is made to illustrate the joy of the mundane. That is: the joy of that first cup, that first jolt of caffeine in the morning. Caffeine, of course, being the best drug known to man and God’s greatest gift to humanity. As I have stated before, and will repeat here with smug self-satisfaction at such a great fucking line: the eternal quest for God begins and ends with that first cup of coffee in the morning. That is happiness. That is fulfilment. That is completion. The first cup of coffee. The absolutely mundane.
There is a lot to say about the mundane, the dull and the boring aspects of life. Everyday stuff that seem so frightfully dull – like that cup of coffee – can not possibly be wholly unremarkable. Otherwise, it wouldn’t be done in such a ritualistic manner. Over and over and over again.
To be clear: this might just be me pining for rediscovering rituals of sorts, seeing as rituals are something we have more or less forgotten in our over-civilized way of life, where people are far too busy bitching and moaning on Twitter to have anything to do with such old and archaic stuff as rituals. Or ascribing actual meaning to things, for that matter. Which, as I understand it, is what rituals are at their core – a way of ascribing meaning to certain things… like coming of age.
People are floating, untethered, from one thing to the next, from one outrage to the next… constantly seeking that social validation, that dopamine fix, that elusive dragon of superficial moral posturing, instead of grabbing hold of something substantial. And what is substantial? The first cup of coffee, a walk in the woods, a hug from your partner or your child, petting your dog. Things like that.
There is little rhyme or little reason to anything, and what was presented as both rhyme and reason in one moment is forgotten in the next moment when some new rhyme and some new reason is brought to the shattered forefront of our collective hysteria and permanently perpetuated psychosis. And this is followed by people suddenly caring about something else entirely, forgetting and disregarding the last in honour of the latest. The latest, of course, being amplified by social media takes precedence and becomes prioritized where once the last was.
In the end, after much noise… after all the sturm und drang, all the roaring and the screaming and the rioting, pillaging, looting… after all the posturing and grandstanding, the propaganda and the pointless speeches and calls to action… nothing is resolved and nothing is changed. And then it all repeats. And repeats. And repeats.
You can not soothe a rabid beast, and you can not soothe a mob of people who have not understood that life is nothing and has no meaning were it not for the mundane; that life, for the most part, is made up of the boring stuff. Which, ultimately, is the good stuff. Because it is the safe, the known, the stable stuff. Things don’t need to happen all the time for life to be exciting. Once you accept this, you realise that it is damned fucking hard to be bored.
These social justice types; the feminist types, the slacktivists and the activists and the permanently sneering and offended… it seems like such an angry, hollow, pointless existence. Never any manner of satisfaction. Merely a constant state of dissatisfaction, egged on by mass media, amped up by social media, by lies and slander and nonsense and fear and terror and dread. All manufactured, all built and maintained. A constant quest for validation, for likes, for attention, for fifteen minutes of fame, shame or, failing that, infamy. Truth is pointless, facts are meaningless, thoughts are inconsiderate, words are violence.
Feelings, on the other hand, are immediate and thus the only thing of any substance in a world that has become nothing but immediate, celebrating nothing but the immediate and the insubstantial. A world in which nothing matters more than a catchy slogan; where cancellation of those not conforming to whatever moral panic and chastity crusade is currently in vogue is the greatest thing since sliced head. Once cancelled, one does not have to contend with the fact that people do not agree with the oh-so-delicious feeling of immediate outrage.
And all this being as substantial (and as immediate) as a dry, prolonged fart.
It does not do to spread information through 24 hour news cycles, when people – including the fraudsters and charlatans presenting the fucking news – are so caught up in the immediacy of their emotional reaction to whatever “news” is presented that they neither think nor consider whatever is presented.
Shit; the news said something. Better go out and burn something. There’s no point in waiting for further information.
That one kid smirked at an indigenous man gently and soothingly beating a fucking drum in his god-damned face. Oh, the horror of the white bigotry! And a male to boot! And, ye gods, is that a MAGA cap I spy with my little, shuttered, beady eye? Oh, no, oh woe. Lets dox him, threaten him, call for violence to be enacted upon him for the crime of smiling whilst white and male.
All with the blessings of the mass-psychotic media. And all this to present themselves as fools when more facts were revealed. And then double down on the insistence of the wrong done by the kid, of course. Because no-one really cares about what actually happened. They cared about the outrage, about the sense of moral superiority, about hollow, vacuous and pointless immediate moral grandstanding. And the eternally blessed outrage. The sensation of being in the right, despite being in the wrong. The left-hand path is a weird path. But so is the right-hand path. Because life is a weird and strange journey, you see. It is a decent joke with a terrible punchline.
People are too busy being outraged to notice the follow up. Or the follow up that came after that. Or the one after that. ‘cause they got themselves all riled up. You can not stand between hysterics and their target. They are still riled up, because that is where these people want to stay. It’s just some new rile-up, some new outrage, some new opportunity to show the whole wide world wide web how freaking fantastic they are, how good, honourable, noble and so-and-such people they are. Same shit, different day. Same noise, different outrage. Same outcome, different happening.
These people are such self-centred arseholes that they can not admit to having done wrong, thought wrong, reacted or acted wrong. It bloody well is someone else’s fault, god-damnit. Because it always is. What is presented as altruism appears to me to be egotism; a chance to show how good they are. When it comes to celebrities, it becomes doubly that. A great PR opportunity, a fantastic and phenomenal way to cash in on the wave of woke. No values. Except the immediacy of the wave rushing over the world.
Stop choking yourself.
They are like spoiled children in that aspect. Immature. Caught in a prolonged adolescence where consequences are something that happen to other people. Where boredom is a constant if something does not constantly happen. Preferably if it gives them some attention from somewhere. Does not matter if the attention is negative or not.
That anger and that outrage at the boredom and the lack of purpose, the lack of self, the lack of whatever, gotta go somewhere. I stand convinced that a lot of this outrage-culture, a lot of this permanent offence, is driven in no small way by a lack of purpose and a lack of values. A lack of purpose in the sense that most of their base needs are met. The fight for survival is long over. Petty shit can now be amped up and must now be battled. Like the size of Iphones being too big. Luxury is a problem. You never see blue collared people, ordinary working class people, subscribing to the church of woke. The day-to-day existence does not give people time for that. But, you know, as is the case with the Covington kid: he was – and still is – a white privileged dude, and so he must be guilty of something since he is the chosen enemy of this particular era of human stupidity. For fuck sake. And for the sake of all the fucks that came before. And after.
This nonsense… it happens all the damned time. And has happened all the damned time. Nothing ever changes. Just the chosen enemy of the day. It comes in waves and it comes in great gusts of wind. Hard times create strong men. Strong men create good times. Good times create weak men. Weak men create hard times. And so the circle goes.
People are so eager in their wish to fight for something, to be perceived as moral, their longing for a purpose to fill that gaping hole in their soul, that they will grasp at straws in order to stay afloat… that they will throw themselves head first into whatever the latest outrage is so that they appear to care about anything but themselves… all for the social validation of their peers. And everyone and everything else. Hell; if everyone else is doing it, it must be right and true and pure and proper and noble and whatever, right?
The witch offends me. Burn the witch.
My right eye offends me. Pluck it out.
Lord, help me, I think I may be coveting my own wife! This can’t be good. Off with my balls!
And so forth and so on.
The world forgot about the mundane. About every day heroes. The small joys. Or joy at all, for that matter. It does not matter any more. Despite being what should matter most in ones life. The chase is on, the game is on, the madness has festered and true hysteria let loose. No-one shall be celebrated but the victim.
That is now profound; the fight to be perceived as a victim. It is the new hip and trendy thing. The profundity of self-imposed weakness.
The new hero is the victim; the new king the one who kneels, who throws himself prostrate at the feet of the victim. To beg forgiveness for something which he does not do, that he never did do, but have been told that he does and always have done. And so he must have done it, even if he is certain he has not.
Doesn’t matter. People must like and accept him, and so he goes with it. Into the vapid void, faceplanting magnificently, thinking “Now, they’ll accept me!”, only to realise that it only ever gets worse from there. Here’s an inch. Would you rather have a mile? The king is king no longer. He is now, and will always be, a tyrant no matter how flat he lies in the dust for people to walk all over him. The cardinal rule is to never apologize to these people. A lesser rule, which I believe is of incredible importance, is to not give them any attention. Not to speak to them, not to debate with them, but to meet and greet them with a wall of silence, to let them wallow in the misery brought by not being granted any attention.
The noise is a constant. Abhorrent madness. Uninformed and immediate. Overstimulated and senseless. Stressed out, freaking out, roaring and raging and carrying on. Today, they said this and so it must be true and I must be pissed off. The next day, they said something contradictory which is also true, but I must still be pissed off about the first thing. And the second thing.
What is really going on? Death. Chaos. Destruction. War. Famine. Pestilence.
We are being beat down and broken up into smaller and smaller tribes. The chasm is widening, the gulf opening, the wound opened and opened again. To sow the seeds of discontent.
Women versus men.
Black versus white.
Tribe versus tribe.
As it once was, so it shall be.
Forever and ever.
One can never be content when something new is constantly manufactured to sow the seeds of discontent.
Doesn’t matter if it is true. What matters is the outrage, what matters is that it may cause this and that to change. Engineered change. To put the one above the other, the other below the one. Forcing the personal to become political; allowing the state to peek into the homes of everyone. Governing all in minute detail.
We’re monitoring your internet, storing your data. All for your safety. You’ve got to understand. Don’t worry, we’re only here to protect you from those horrible others. And from yourself. Your safety is our top concern. That’s why we are watching your every step and banning you from saying certain things.
Someone might get offended, and that would make you unsafe. And no-one should feel unsafe.
And no-one should feel offended. Except you, of course. You can not be offended for reasons of superficial privilege, or something. Hell, I don’t know – we’re just making this shit up as we go along.
There is nothing of substance here, nothing but a fart and a farce. A grim dance of death and a funeral march carried on by people who don’t necessarily know or even realize that this is what they are doing.
I didn’t go for many walks in the woods last year. For reasons of severe sleep deprivation and illness, I was more or less confined to my sofa, lacking the energy to do much of anything but write, ramble, rant and rave.
Being riddled with so much pain – probably due to sleep deprivation (it is a vicious circle) – that any activity was a difficult activity. Fatigue and pain does not make for good companions in bed. No matter how small of an activity, it was draining.
Now – some days were better than others, and so I was capable of getting out and moving about a bit. This year is better in that regard, as I have been on many a walk in the woods. I aim for two walks in the woods a day. Preferably an hour each, though this is not a strict rule.
Have you ever just gone for a walk in the woods? Left your phone at home and forgot about it? It is well worth it. Good way to collect your thoughts. Good way to think at all, really. Just the movement, the silence, the smells. It is phenomenal. I highly recommend it to anyone. Preferably alone, as solitude is a necessity for thinking things through. And men especially need their solitude. No hassle, no noise, no constant yap-yap-yap from anyone or anything. Just you and your thoughts. And the eventual release of stress.
Never underestimate a simple walk in the woods. Never underestimate the power of the mundane.
Motherfucker’s just riding the wave, from here, from now, all the way to the end of the line. Caught in the flow, in the ebb and in the tide, round bricks in square holes… pegged by their empty-headed mistress and experiencing phantom pains when the same multi-gendered mistress kicks them in the balls. You know: you’ve all been taken for a ride.
Bang, boom, crash and burn. Until the end of the line. You’ve all been taken for a ride.
The sky is falling. Our bridges are burnt. Resolution is right around the corner. Straight past the bend, at the junction of the revolution. You’ve all been taken for a ride.
Spoilt to the core. Superficially inclined. So-called “proletarians” eating muck and bile crammed into the blood-stained utopia of safe-zone education; cell-shaded limelights atop the pedestrian pedestal where browbeating brown-nosed sycophantic children play in oncoming traffic, disregarding the hole from whence the madness came. You’ve all been taken for a ride.
No truth beyond the perimeters. The city is falling. Future is bright shimmering dollhouse-blue.
Little boxes filled with faeces… flaming flamingo feminists celebrating their gargantuan gargled abortions in streets flowing with white-feather-shame. Hedonism on the rise, decadence in vogue, debauchery the sad uncertain sign of the times… spoiled children of obscene overabundance doing the happy-slap dance of too much free-time and not enough real problems… White saviour complex rising in throats filled with enemas and acid reflux… The idea of the noble savage broke through the walls and through the fences of anthropological history. Soft bigotry of low expectations is all fine and dandy, brother. I take a knee against muh much mulched raci-ma-tisms and sir’s succulent sexism. Because why not – everyone else is doing it. It’s on the national news, nagger, now, kneel, nagger-boy, kneel.
You’ve all been taken for a ride.
My dear Lumpies and Gravy-trains: You’ve all been taken for a ride. Twice past the moon-shined gunk left behind by your father as he was booed and booted out the door of your gimpishly acidic house, You’ve all been taken for a ride.
An entire generation born and bred on reality television, on side-walked, side-stepped, by-passed and bipolar twisted reality, beat and broken into the mould of hysterically inclined historical revisionism… pestilent and penitent faces staring us up and down, pointing fingers and saying: “Look at me – I’m history now”. We’ve all been taken for a ride.
There’s no future when there’s no plan. Tic tac toe. No future and nowhere to go. Tic tac toe. For fear of brutal beat-downs by the squawking gutter-mouths, the silent majority stay silent through the shaming, finger-pointing, acid-flinging, shit-stained brutality of the hissyfit-mob. The peaceful and the so serene mob of pyromaniac free-falling formless freaks; the glob, the blob that is the beast, that is the mob. We’ve all been taken for a ride.
Ah, yes, we’re all racists now. Ah, yes, we’re all sexist chauvinistic pigs right now.
Hey, now, wait but a tender minute minute boy, girl, girlish boy and boyish girl; white feminism is so last year, so passé, so out of touch and out of tune. In fact, it is even more passé than white-feather-feminism!
Shame! Shame! Shame!
We don’t need that privileged white bird feminism in this day, dawn and age of the multicultural, of the globular, the idiosyncratic intersectional intermesso-mess.
Boot and boo the white birds out. Now: watch as this morose moon-mad movement makes a massacre of itself.
All for love. All for kindness. All for diversity and for inclusion. All for gabble-gabble, goba gaba, one of us, one of us!
And a slight smidgeon of auto-cannibalism. Or auto-erotic asphyxiation. Don’t forget the slice of lemon.
And so it timidly tumbles. Washed away and wasted. Time and terror wasted. Shame and shaming wasted. New age rat-hole wasted.
I got drunk and stayed all night in burnt-out toilet cubicles.
Old-school guillotine madness at schools stained with memories, a dream from footprints in snow, a trail of blood and cum.
Carry on, my wayward son.
Transcending life and death with a drunkards hypnotic gaze, I exhumed God, feeble-minded, from rolls of toilet-paper on cold stone-tiled floors.
An imminent explosion – pulse beat at the tip of the heart, pounding nails into my jack-hammer migraine, transcending life and death to sway far away, saintlike.
Clouds floating overhead head over heels, posthumous humour between walls lined with graffiti saying “fuck” and other juvenile vulgarities, pointing at the road toward intentions; paved with good hell.
Crude drawings and sketches of cocks and cunts and words alluding to fornication within this holy cubicle, within this inner sanctum, within this shrine, this temple to the body.
After a while, cloven in twain with my particles rising towards space incandescent, diamond-like and scattered alongside my marbles, fell I to my knees at the feet of my porcelain-altar.
Lying coiled at the feet of God drawn wishy-washy towards enlightenment, cold as hell and huddled under my cheap trench-coat stained with vomit and with booze and rot, lost in midwinter booze-hound partying.
Existence exited right of centre with high-strung nervous tension and frost caked in the corners of closed eyelids, blinking REM-like aiming at immediate psychosis.
Voices crying «NO!» elaborating drunkenly on fingertips elusive in this foul crows-nest-night, cold as the babble found in throats closed by anxiety where God descended his beggars throne, asking for handouts and receiving analogue telephone receivers to comprehend only silence on the other line.
Heavy pressure on chest huffing puffing heaving for air, forcing breath into lungs to be met only with hyperactive neural interface-madness click-clacking on the receiving end of telephones spattered with gold, alone and descending onto madness particular to God; his voice whispering in my elusive ear: “transcend”.
Then transcending what exactly? Collapse of air and breath and lungs prolapsed back-stroke and neck, stinging burning sensations of pain and fatigue extreme and fatigued extremities, then turn your head and wobble then turn your eyes inwards gaze at pits of madness or vicious despair, to become cold and clinically insane.
Then transcend transcendence. Become a noose, a laughter golden. Become a silence, metaphysical, then freaking out. Running wildly over the hills, wild horses roaring with laughter, sacrosanct, taboo, fetishistic, seeking truth in nonsense and finding only nonsense in truth.
Words spat at murals hanging drugged from streams of light, crawling naked towards mountains of madness, covered in piss and shit and dust and stone.
Eerie mechanical prophet-words immediate, cleaner than impatience in the face of God and in the face of Society and its snake coiled in the back of my throat forcing vomit out in screams of frustration and roars of rage.
Then meet only silence. Hands that claw at heartstrings, silence more profound than words of wisdom gathered in stoned drum-circles, or in dilapidated concrete-blocks where peeking children gaze at death through folded curtains padded with razor wire.
Seven layers of madness. Tragedy ensues. Suicidal seeker-dream drug-born, ravenous and weird.
Pecking at the eyes of reason when shivering scatterbrained, huddled in a corner of sacred and permanent building-blocks of bygone society, resting at the feet of psychiatry showing no mercy to the likes of scatter-marbled me, seeking drunk tiger-dreams and strength in adversity as sweat drips to the floor and find me crawling at the door beckoning for a reckoning and begging for alms to grace the ever present present of the past with calm relaxed I-don’t-give-a-fuck-anymore sentiments.
Stone-hands stitched at our sides.
Stage door open left and right, gone from centre and balance lost.
God and me and vibrations stranger than her whispered voice in meditations lost to eyes and shaking voice.
The communal howl of the western world is at this moment, and has been for years upon years, one of victimhood and of oppression. Then came all these wonderful words like “diversity” and “inclusion” and whatever else could fit in our noggins. These words, if one is to be perfectly honest, translates into “no white dudes”. Because, in the western world you’ve got to understand, all white dudes are the oppressors and so they are privileged from being the majority. Despite men in fact being a minority. Yet, words no longer mean what they actually mean. Minority does not mean minority any more than majority actually means majority. Now, it is all seen in the strange light of the new jargon; blasted into some peculiar new meaning from over-educated academics who dominate the discourse and, in so doing, trick the sleeping masses to believe in the new-speak of the current year.
Language, I have come to realise, is a play-thing for the high-and-mighty academes; a BDSM-slave tied up in their basement there to do their bidding and for their amusement.
Besides: all has become subjective, not objective. Objective fact is a conceptual social construct-bogeyman manufactured in the evil scientist laboratory of white supremacist patriarchs of the third order. Or something to that effect. I’m not even joking. Stating otherwise is offensive.
If you were to add the freemasons to the mix, you’d get yourself a glorious conspiracy-theory to rival all the other conspiracy theories. I have mentioned this before, yet it will tolerate repetition: I prefer either the illuminati or the reptilians to the grand patriarchal conspiracy-theory of history. At the very least, the reptilian theory is entertaining. Besides: any thinking tin-foil hat wearer ought to prefer one of these to the patriarchy. The nebulous patriarchy is way too unbelievable to be true. Believing in the patriarchy theory is to believe that men as a group are so mischievous, so malevolent, so wicked and so lacking in basic human decency that they willingly, knowingly and with malice aforethought have oppressed and victimized women through all of history. How, one wonders, can one claim to not harbour any ill will towards men if one is to believe that men are, at their root, as evil as this? At the same time, it purports that women are so weak of will, so fragile and so incapable of any action in any direction as to put up with this for all of history. It does not paint a particularly nice picture of women or men. I am so rude that I just so happen to have more faith in women in general than all that. Imagine that. I don’t believe women are as weak as feminism presents women to be.
In order for feminism to thrive, women have to be seen as – and consider themselves as – weak, frail and incapable; eternally victimized and terrified. Not a pretty picture to paint. And then to present this as some manner of strength is… Hell, I don’t know… ridiculous?
Yet; I am but a humble privileged white dude, and so my inherent privilege refuses me both the right and the ability to speak on certain topics.
One can easily figure out what these forbidden topics are by observing which feminist fables or social justice fabrications are easily countered by the horrible and extremely oppressive patriarchal invention of actual god-damned facts. Or merely a simple, yet effective counter-argument. Or just your average, every day, rational observations.
“No uterus, no opinion” is one such slogan meant to make the horrible men not have a single say on the topic of abortion, for example. Which is interesting, of course, as it takes two to tango. That is to say: it takes two to get pregnant. This don’t matter none, though – the contributions of the father to the pregnancy, to the birth and to the raising of a child is not important in the least. This has been hammered into us for some fifty years. The nuclear family must be torn down. Sperm don’t matter. The father don’t matter. All pregnancies and all births are nothing but the sole product of the mother.
I just read a (feminist of course) woman on Reddit claim that a child belongs to the mother. Emphasis must be put on the word belongs. She carries it. And so the child is entirely her possession, apparently. Yet the child is not her sole responsibility. The father must take responsibility. Preferably in the form of child support. Even when he has no say in anything, and even when the child apparently is the sole possession of the mother. The child, after all, belongs to the mother. The financial responsibility belongs to the father. Though he is not, as the gargantuan fraud and sham of feminism and gynocentrism will say, necessary in the raising of the child. Fathers are not important. All births are virgin births; all children a product of the holy communion between a woman and God the father-mother. The woman, of course, being impregnated by the holy spirit through the right ear, left nostril, or some other unmentionable cavity.
By that same logic, one would assume that women should not have a single say on the topic of male genital mutilation, then, as they have no penis. Or on anything to do with men. A not insignificant number of women – especially in the USA – seem to have fetishized male genital mutilation. “It just looks better”, they’ll say. The most absurd, and I would dare say perverse, things I have heard from women in regards to male genital mutilation is that the penis of their baby boy will look better for future partners, and that it must look like the penis of the father. I struggle to not shudder at this. Surely, I can’t be the only one who finds this somewhat disturbing? “I want the penis of my baby boy to look beautiful, otherwise no woman would put it in her. It must also resemble the penis of the father, and so it must be cut”.
Now – reverse the sexes. And see if the reaction remains the same from this rat-infested den that is the world. It really should not be that difficult to stop mutilating the genitals of babies.
When it comes to baby boys, it apparently is remarkably difficult. Muh religious freedom, and all that. This was the response I got from the government when I brought this up. Which does not cover the freedom of the baby from religion. (Or the religious freedom of those who wish to mutilate the genitals of their daughters – that is illegal. As it damned well should be. Yet – where is their religious freedom, if you want to use that piss-pot argument?) But, of course, the baby is the property of the mother. Apparently. Despite there being huge governmental systems put in place to save children from abusive parents. As there bloody well ought to be. Children are precious, and they should be protected from abuse. Except baby boys. Of course.
And so: which is it? If the child is the property of the mother, surely the mother should be allowed to do whatever she wants with it, right? Right. Fucking morons with their blindfolds and double-speech.
Yet, there is no use for moral, factual or medical arguments. The only thing one needs to say, if we all are to play by the same rules, is this: no foreskin, no opinion.
You perverse filth.
Still: feminism – women overall, really, yet fuelled by the frantic fire of feminism – see no qualms in telling men how our lives are, how we actually feel, why we do what we do and whatever else. Very interesting. Men can never understand what life is like for a woman. (Unless one transitions from male to female… but Male to Female trans-people don’t matter when they don’t align… or when the TERF-wars are made manifest in the news or in society overall… whatever.) Nor can a man know what life is like for a man, apparently. Women, of all stripes and from all walks of life, are perfectly able to understand – to intuitively know – what life is like for a man. Of course. They have all the right in the world to speak on behalf of men’s lives, no matter how very obviously imagined, manufactured or creepily insane. And, of course, no matter what men say in opposition. When it comes to the lives of men, only women are allowed to speak about it. Or, well, only feminism and their pestilent potato-army are allowed to speak about it. For there is but one God, and that God is the secular carpet-munching deity of feminism. Which, one assumes, is the same God that keeps impregnating all these women with children who don’t need no fathers (except the wallet of a father) or whatever and what-not.
In the mass-manufactured madness of the current year, the victimhood-olympics are in full swing; the drooling insanity of the flaccid blue-balled or blue-waffled mob is in control of the discourse. The reins have been handed over to the lunatics. Mass-psychosis brought on by garden variety lullabies and pop psycho-babble reign supreme. Everyone must be heard and must be seen as being oppressed… and their oppressors are, by and large, white men.
All of them privileged, all of them oppressors, all of them wicked and evil and tricksy and false. And all of them counted as strong and resilient enough to deal with this barrage of hostility, ad hominem attacks and whatever else that not only attack them on a personal level, but also attack their very identity as men. As masculine. As doers, movers and shakers. If you will allow me some gendered generalizations of supreme offensiveness.
The circumstances of our birth; the colour of our skin and the form and function of our genitalia the only thing needed to be pointed out in order to shut us up. Check your white male privilege. Check mate, you fiend. Now, take a knee. Kneel, I say, kneel! Now, come over here and suck mommas cock.
It seemed, when I first started noticing this god-damned guffaw, sometime in 2013 or thereabout, that it all just sprung up over night. Which, of course, is not true. It has been coming for decades, and it has been gaining momentum. More and more and more.
Choo-choo say the train of insanity and obscenity; Choo-fucking-god-damned-motherslapping-choo.
Over time, I came to the stark, grim and terrifying realisation that this rhetoric; this guilt-inducing, shame-peddling, qualm-manufacturing nonsense did not pop out of some vacuum. Remembering my own days as a naive and hopeful, somewhat innocent and optimistic schoolboy – the rhetoric was there already, presented by teachers peddling bogus information and tall feminist tales (amongst other things) as though they were absolute fact. Opposition was not accepted. Arguments to the contrary not answered, but huffed away with the trademarked sneer and scowl of a feminist scorned. The further into education I got, the worse it became. Art-school was the worst. As one would expect. Who, in their right mind, would ever study art? Someone not in their right mind. That’s who.
I’ve rambled about this before. And I won’t bore you with it again. Suffice it to say that my ramblings on my experiences in school has been referred to as “lies and bullshit”, and let’s leave it at that. Because of course it is: a man’s experience is not his own. It belongs to the dragon dominating the discourse; the vapid venom-spewing serpent hiding behind the equality-peddling monotonous drool of their supreme ruler. Besides: it is way to horrifying to realise, to understand and to accept what our society is doing to boys and young men. And so it must be denied instead, any exposition and explanation of what has happened and what does happen must be dismissed. Above all, the holy sea-cow of feminism must be protected from any criticism; its faults and flaws, lies and bullshit be hidden from view.
One would think that accusations of lies and bullshit ought to be replied to with an angry keyboard and low, guttural growls. Yet I can’t be bothered with it. Except for now, obviously. I know it to be true. And I know their accusations to be untrue.
This goes for any accusation of misogyny, of racism, of fascism, of Nazism, of white supremacy, of this or of that; whatever nonsensical label of shame is currently being used by the hordes of sneering and rampaging social justice fuckwits. Don’t be bothered with it. If it ain’t true, it ain’t true. There’s no point in defending oneself against such accusations. When the truth is that you ain’t A, it does not matter how many times these cowardly receptacles of insufferable indoctrination will say that you are, in fact, A.
The truth is what matters, I think. When the truth is the truth, the shaming tactics are lies. As long as you know the truth, accusations of allegiance to the unholy vermin of the day does not matter in the least. Do not give them the time of day. And – not least of all – never apologize to these people. They will use that apology as a stick to beat you with.
For my part: arguing with random rancid reptilians on the internet won’t amount to much except clog my sinuses and bring me internal bleeding from the stress of unwanted social interactions. Sometimes, I wonder if I am an undiagnosed autist.
Come to think of it: they burst the bubble of my safe space! I call sexual assault and ovary-acting woman-spreading cunt-plaining of the third degree!
Of course: I understand the idea of referring to my experiences in school as lies and bullshit. That which is asserted without evidence can be dismissed without evidence.
Yet, I struggle to understand what I would win… what I would gain by lying about something like that. I also struggle to understand how I am supposed to conjure up evidence from so many years ago. It’s not as though I am winning any popularity contests by writing about what I write about. Quite the contrary, in fact. The truth of the matter is that the social punishments – if one wish to look at it like that – is far greater than any social rewards. Going against the established status quo is a lonely path, as these things go. Still, it is what it is. If people don’t believe me, that is all fine and dandy. And if people believe me – hell, that’s even more fine and dandy. Anyhow; that’s more than enough about that. Fuck if I don’t get a bit riled up about this despite all I say to the contrary. Time to go pet my dogs and drink some more coffee. Caffeine is a nice substitute for painkillers. And so are dogs.
To not notice the male-bashing… the anti-male sentiments of the vapid void that is the western world, is to be blinded. To not notice the cultural revolution; the Maoist refurbishing of society – out with the old and in with the new – tearing down statues, getting rid off, or rewriting books based either on the sex and race of the author or some unpalatable-in-this-world-of-woke sentence within, is to be blind and deaf. (Don’t know what it’s like in other places, but the alteration of literature has begun over here. The father of Pippi Longstockings is no longer a “king of the negroes”. He is now naught but a humble sea-faring king.) You don’t bloody change art or culture just because it is not suitable for the current sensibilities. Shit; it’s only a matter of time before people start bursting into museums, wielding paint and brush, painting clothes on the naked women present in the works of the old masters. So as not to offend. Unless the naked woman is a feminist statement, of course.
This blindness to the cultural hatred, the cultural shaming, is made manifest either by will or by indoctrination. To not simultaneously notice the constant attacks on that terrifying concept of “whiteness” (whatever the rancid fuck that means) is to clog ones ears and pour bohemian bleach in ones eyes. Yet, it is all considered justified through some perversion.
Muh whiteness is muh raci-ma-tisms. Muh maleness is muh soggy knees. Muh oppressors are muh raci-ma-tist soggy kneed white men. It is all muh problematisms, and it must all be potatoed out.
It is all identity-politics, it is all collectivism, and it is all nonsensical. I’m not buying it for a second. Nor, I think, should anyone. Yet it is gobbled up with lustre and with guts and with glory. Rage running rampant in the radical sphere of young people’s minds, here to rebel against what is perceived to be the establishment and the status quo. As is how things naturally go. In the line of fire, they never noticed that they are the establishment.
Young people… the youth… are supposed to rebel. It is a natural part of growing up, such as I have understood it: a part of establishing independence. Independence filled with piss and vinegar. And loads and loads of booze. And cigarettes.
However; such as our societies are today, our adolescence has been lengthened so that people stay in a bubble of prolonged adolescence, never maturing and never really growing up… acting sixteen at the age of 25, or beyond. I would dare propose that an immature mind will seek social validation above all else; will consider the validation of their peers to be more important than truth, than reason, than functionality. And when the minds don’t mature as they should… when adolescence is prolonged out of some fear, I suppose, some terror about growing up and taking bloody responsibility, or whatever… then we’ve got a problem. Then we’ve got an entire generation of me, me, me who can not stand disagreement, who can not fathom that somewhere, some one is in disagreement with them, who seek nothing but validation, who do nothing but posture profoundly about their remarkably good moral character, their phenomenal altruism, their radical hatred of the pale and male and stale (which somehow does not contradict their kind and inclusive altruism), their inclusion into the fold of all the other hateful and spiteful, vacuous and vapid lost souls of the world who don’t really understand that what they are seeking, what they are – in fact – lacking, is a greater purpose that is not found in social validation but in knowing and coming to terms with oneself, warts and all.