Dread Mirror of Immediacy:

Enlightenment A3 Lowres

Ill: «Enlightenment», A3, Moiret Allegiere, 2019


Unreasonable demands are sung by the choir offended. Thus the web is spun. Each strand of the web leading toward the centre, manipulated carelessly and needlessly by trophy-hunting participators carelessly and maniacally seeking exclusive inclusivity in the victim-cult by virtue of myriad victim-points gathered from simply being part of the choir, all trembling vibrato and blazing accusatory eyes and fingers lined with truth-defying morality. It don’t matter whether true or not, it matters whether moral or not. So sing the soloists of the choir offended. Whose and what morality should that then be, grand orchestrator of dubious virtue?

Madness infused in vivid cocktails are served brilliantly by bartenders seeking death, destruction and despair to gain bland and half-interested clicks by stressed-out social media-junkies poked and prodded into immediate infancy; opinions claiming to be news forced down the throats of a public personified by outrage extreme, quickly bringing the imminent rage to a boil.

Lo: the choir offended screech eternally in glorious visions of paradise purged of bigotry bastardized by sing-song leaders mirroring the immediacy and immaturity of their hangers-on and clingers-on. Outlined by shades of unseen cruelty and unsung myth; hatred so extreme and so all-encompassing that we need manufacture it in order to bring the stats up, oh boy, oh man, oh queen-bee mimicking truth and evacuating her bowels to sway public opinion this way or that! The dread, frosted mirror reflecting our morality show naught but a steaming pile of shit. Nevertheless, it persists. Nevertheless, the fables are served time and again immediately, never given consideration. Listen. Believe. Even when told obvious lies and shown clearly rigged reality. Even when doubtlessly manufactured. Listen. Believe. Do not question the song of the choir.

Built upon sand and upon raging roars of silence, and then drugged and dragged beneath the waves hidden from the searchlights and the spotlights and the death-squad-madness, truth is hidden from our eyes as all hide their immediate tweet and twatter when their so-called outrageous truths lose their masks and show their faces as definitive deceit.

Such virulent and viral hatred, vacuous and hollow, sucking the life from the hive-mind and escaping from the void where social media once shone its light and bared its fangs to manipulate and then create a mob of hatred and unreason so unjust as to assume to be just in a split-second of unthinking, unblinking, unseen sensations of rage. No poetic justice for the never-mind hive-mind. Merely denial of facts and hiding, hiding, always hiding – nah, I never said that. Sure enough and yes you did, you just deleted your tweet and denied and then reversed victim order in order to be viewed as the true victim of the madness which you inflicted upon the world with your virulent hatred pointed at the one and only group-identity now allowed socially to be hated and scorned and assaulted. Stating that all men should be killed or that all men are evil caused you backlash. Look at the hate and misogyny you received by wicked women-hating men, all for being an opinionated woman on the internet. Imagine that, foul fiend of sanity: wishing death upon someone for the circumstances of their birth bring mad and angry backlash your way. Imagine that: making yourself out to be the victim when showcasing severe bigotry and sexism and wishes for death and dismemberment upon someone for their gender. For some incredible reason, this is proof that men hate women. Not that women hate men. To say it in kindergarten-terms, since that is how this hive-mind communicate: You started it! Or, even more bluntly: You smell like poop!

Alas; the choir offended seek only to offend and claim offence where no offence is given. Alas; the choir offended seek only to justify their putrid and petulant existence by pointing towards morality exempt from values and exempt from reason; a wishy-washy sense of morality supreme as brittle as a slut walk G-string, ever-changing as the course of the mob flies hither and thither busy collecting pollen to add to the hoard of the hive, or busy catching flies to bring as an offering to the centre of the web where all virtue gather in heaps of insane sludgy waste, immediate and peculiar, a brand of justice so far removed from justice, so separated from reality, that it snaps, crackles and pops at the slightest tremble of the string or poke of the hive.

To justify the existence of the hive, the web, the imminent rage sprung forth, fingers point and throw shades of shame, shame, shame upon the so-called bigots in defiance of the gibbering mouth of madness drooling and dribbling on their shoes; their morality is far better than the truth. And so they shout and so they screech and so they scream and roar and rage and gouge out your eyes instead of responding or defending their position or explaining in clear and certain terms what this explosive rage is all about.

There’s roars all around and revolution in the air, some poor bastard is chewing his tongue out in the corner for defying the pack, force-fed mediocre daytime television talk-shows all his life and dropped straight into the middle of a god-damned reptile-zoo, and someone is giving booze to these god-damned creatures. There is no survival to be had in this pack of frenzied and bloodthirsty beasts, lest one submit. Submit or be crucified, submit, or be burnt alive to be cleansed of your sins! We need revolution, for fuck sake! And no fucks given that day; the revolution will not be televised. It will be tweeted. A revolution of immediacy, change and progress for the sake of immediacy, change and progress. That is progress perceived as progress by those who consider segregation to be a virtue; who consider superficial traits more important than personality and character. Change sought due to boredom and dull complacency.

Someone polluted our air with neurotoxins, greatly affecting our intelligence. Then they poured a honeyed poison in our ears to make us frightfully afraid of something-or-other, a mythical monster from the fabled days of yore. We have to be at constant war, we need our bogeyman of the day and of the night to fight, lest we relax and feel good about ourselves. War is peace.

Should we let our guards down for a second and start existing in the present moment such as it is, we lose. Or so it seems. Somehow, some way, we need to get our fix of anxiety for the day, we need to get our fix of constant validation for our moral courage and justify our bastardized simplistic view of the world: group A good, group B bad, group C protected from all, particularly from group B. Submit, or be called a bigot and a liar by the forces thriving on bigotry and lies.

 – Moiret Allegiere, 20.02.2019


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