Dying of the Light

Ghost of christmas past 1 SNES A3 lowres

Illustration: «The Ghost of Christmas Past», A3, 2019, Moiret Allegiere


Overhead, a blimp is floating gently across the midnight-sky, contoured against the waning glow of the moon. Street-lights illuminate wet concrete slabs of pavement. A few stars, barely awake, can be seen fighting to keep their presence known plastered to a sky ruined by light-pollution above noxious city-streets lined with established ideas and ideals. Every wall plastered with posters of political platitudes, provoking lack of thought, promoting conformity beautifully and unity eternally; propagating lies eternal and divisiveness vindictive.

The blimp now circles a building smack-dab in the centre of the city, a giant middle-finger erected pompously and perversely with windows facing all ways, thus telling all to, kindly, fuck themselves, fuck off and be off, to leave the ivory middle-finger and its inhabitants alone to wallow in a well of self-aggrandizing self-pity.

And they who lie in the gutters, who have been told to fuck off countless times, know the sense and sensation of fucking off more than any other group.

Here, in the streets lined with sulphur, sin and salivating quests for salvation, a whole other world rise to prominence in the mean streets of madness, silver-tongued and frenzied. They of vision knocked down and of potential unseen and unheard and untold grow stale and grey and dead in the dying of the light brought this way from the immutable truth of this day, this age, this frantic city-state of be-or-do-not-be, do-or-do-not-be; the truth that equality is only equal for some, as it was, is and always have been.

They, of boundless potential ruined by lack of concern and lack of reason and lack of empathy.

They, whose lives are hung out to dry in the meanness of a world built not for them.

They, whose welcome into the world was built not upon understanding or compassion or respect, but upon the eternal hatred and shaming and guilt associated with their natural state of being.

They, whose humanity is reduced to one sentence and one sentence only: “the evil that men do”.

They, of whose suffering we do not speak and for whose well-being we do not care.

They of unending creative energy whose unending creative energy were squashed and killed in classrooms like dungeons by creative twisting of words and thoughts and deeds.

Here and now, all political platitudes promoted perfectly and pervertedly tell the same tales of vile violent vandalism, cold and callous cruelty, savage silent sadism, all told through slumbering self-serving statistics and ravaged revenge-fuelled research promoting one idea and one ideal above all else, disregarding proof to the contrary, twisting and turning words and deeds to fit the same old political propagandic platitudes promoted perversely by the powers-that-be, whose powers of reason and of truth are just as lacking as their powers of honesty and of insight, whose tall tales of terror and oppression matter more than the cold truth, who has made a career of weakness; who is showcasing severe weakness of will and of body and of mind and somehow passing this of as strength of body, mind and soul; whose neurotic nature is a source of joy and celebration, not something to change and alter and grow past, but something to nurture and to make grow, a tool used to bludgeon those of lesser worth and lesser weakness into cold clinical compliance under pain of shame and guilt and death; a tool finely crafted and embedded with old and archaic runes of magic, runes shaping sentences and words, twisting and turning them around until they lose all meaning and all semblance of structural integrity.

Weakness is our strength; our strength is our weakness; we can tolerate everything by tolerating nothing. You will tolerate everything and be allowed to do nothing!”

Pity me!” they scream from the central middle-finger of the city-state, in apartments, offices and bedrooms built with stained glass and brushed metal, with décor made from ivory and marble, perfectly enshrined in a desolate tomb of diamonds and jewels.

Woe is me!” they scream and cry and weep and moan in soft cushioned beds, on mattresses so soft that they sink below the frame of their beds; propped up on pillows so many and so giant and so soft and fragrant that they never need use their neck or head or backbone.

And the incessant wailing of the powerful powerless showcasing extreme weakness and inabilities to overcome the slightest broken fingernail, trickle down into the streets below and into the posters promoting political platitudes and piss; the weak and powerless powers-that-be desire protection from the strong and powerful forces that be, the ones who are said to seek destruction and despair, whose realm is said to be that of brutality and bloodshed, of violence and vulgarity, of sex and submission and rape and revenge and ruination, those whom, the legend says, care for naught but themselves and their toxicity, infected by the trash-heaps of the sullen city streets whose lips and trembling hips beckoned them to come; to come to doom and to come to ruin, to destroy the land and spoil the virgins shamelessly, those who have been told incessantly that they are viciousness made manifest in flesh, a teeming trembling pile of lust and of desire hidden only slightly by their lack of emotive intelligence, by their polished mask of humanity.

Those who are told that they ruin the world are the ones who are called upon to save it. Those who are fragility and strength and toxicity, those who are driven by naught but their primal urges and violent sexuality are called upon to save the meek and powerless wielders of power in ivory towers flipping the bird eternally and demanding ever more and ever more protection and pampering and provisions, never being satisfied with what is or what was or what will be, and gazing eternally outwards to lay the blame and the fault on all but them and theirs and their own, who refuse to change themselves or their outlooks as they are considered perfection clean and uncorrupted by the same forces claiming the gutter-liners to be filthy and to be corrupted.

Those who chose to point fingers eternally are the very same who do not point fingers internally, whose minds are warped by senses of fragility so intense and so overwhelming that the same sensation of delicate fragility becomes a force of extreme strength through applied manipulation; subtly or blatantly emotionally manipulating the city-state and the gutter-liners into subservient submission, to play upon the protective nature of the city-state, whose ruined streets and gutter-liners all cry out in unison dismay and rush rapturously to ease the suffering of the weak and fragile victims of speech and of opinions whose frantic factual fragments cause severe mental constipation and emotional upheaval within these snooty frail minds bent in on themselves, whose tell-tale truth bring cognitive dissonance so strong that arguments fail and the only option of communication left to them is to shout their weak and frail nature from the skies, from loudspeakers circling the air and sky and heaven attached to blimps fantastically emblazoned with the word “submit!”

In a perverse role-reversal, the already protected and pampered become as such deemed worthy of ever more protection than the gutter-liners, the rough-sleepers, the never-understood and never-heard, the rough-and-tumble guys just trying to make it from one day to the next.

The protected and the pampered cry out for more and more and more, and those who die on the streets, those who freeze to death, those who are found hanging from the roof after a short drop and a sudden stop, those who are beaten up by their spouses and never heard, never believed and never helped, those who lose their lives and livelihood and love and laughter from a single word uttered by the powerful, the supposedly frail and weak, with no evidence but the word and nothing but the word, whose reputations are ruined by the mere utterance of a word, who are given neither protection nor presumption of innocence, who is dragged through broken glass in social-media-mob-madness instead, then drawn, hung and quartered despite clear proof of innocence on a word and nothing but a word, still remain the never-heard and never-seen, still remain a fleeting shadow on the lips of humanity, a droplet of blood dripping from the vampire-lips of established truth in a post-truth world.

In the dying light of the waning moon, when and if the never-heard and never-seen should dare to utter their misfortunes and their dissatisfaction at the treatment they receive, they are browbeaten into submission, they are shamed and ridiculed and made subject to the discipline of the metaphysical baseball-bat. They are told and told again that they are, in fact, the privileged ones, that they are the problem in and off themselves, that they are toxicity and fragility, oppressors by proxy if not by themselves, that they should step down, shut up and listen, listen, listen, never speak, never complain, never utter a word of contention because it is they who hold the power, it is to them all sympathies go and all strength and all help and all aid; it is from them the savageness emanates and it is from them and only them the brutality of the world finds its core, from their very essence, from their beating hearts and shallow breath.

And it is they who are weak and who are meek and who are shallow and contentious, it is they who sow the seeds of discontent, who ruin the discourse and makes the bloodstream of the city-state turn septic, decayed and ruined, tattered and torn by aeons of insensitive lack of sensitivity, of kalashnikov-rape and patriarchal brutality.

And on top, in the midst of the glaring middle-finger, stand the protected class, the privileged and pampered, the chronic complainers whose inability to see their absurdly privileged state of being from a lack of insight, of cerebral functioning and emotional intelligence claiming oppression despite clear evidence and demanding change for the sake of change.

But what change, and at what cost? No-one knows because no-one ever thinks beyond the immediacy of emotional upheaval, from one burst of emotive outrage to the next, no substance is there to stand upon, no ground to tread and the only windows there are within this frail and fragile middle-finger are polished steel themselves, from whose mirrored surface none will ever gaze upon the world outside. The supposed weak and frail and powerful are lost within a haze of words they do not understand, trapped in a world they do not understand, in a body they do not understand with a mind and soul they do not comprehend and a personality as fleeting and as charming as a golden mucous-laden fart.

In this mind, intangible as a corrupted rubix cube, fragments are lost in the daydream of some unsympathetic tomfoolery – the subjective experience painted and plastered on walls promoting a lack of personal agency made it so that truth left these halls long ago, that doing unto others as you wish others do unto you has been made to drift away, being replaced immediately by the notion that others need do unto them all good, and they need do unto others naught but harm. The oppression-olympics are in full fractal fucking swing in the frivolous pursuit of justice legionnaire; slap-in-the-face mental gymnastics top-and-bottom-heavy so as to justify disregarding the suffering of half the population.

There is no right and wrong no more; perceptions altered in the cum-spray of revisionist history made it so – the lifting up of one on the backs of the others – hoist the colours high – we march to war, the siren song sings sing-songingly and longingly, forgetting belonging and staying and being so that they remember the elucidated fact of our time beneath these perplexing and eternal dreadful midnight skies: only my tribe matter: the tribe of the faulty, feigned and faked despair, the tribe seeking reparations for past hallucinations of grievance, fleeting visions tattooed on the inside of their eyelids and made to be truth immediate in the immediacy of the hunger of their souls for substance in a life of superficial virtue-signalling slimmer and of less substance than the skinny jeans of a teenage hipster.

From the concrete slabs the stench of corruption sets in; pulsating from the tower of superb superiority, shapes dancing prophetically in circles dimwittingly chanting with new-found religious obsession as lightning strikes the flaccid fingernail atop the ivory tower: “It’s alive, the grievance is alive, the war is on, it’s alive, it’s alive, tits alive!”

Intergenerational gender warfare! It’s on! Oh, man, it’s on! Their goons are on patrol, the streets are drenched in blood and piss and shit and the lamplight is gloating over mystical vomit-inducing gibberish wobbling out the doors of gender studies departments where armies of fools steer the ship of fools and of folly onwards through the city-state, slaughtering in psychological warfare any-and-all attempting resistance. Bow before your subjects – the revolution is now!

Resistance is futile. Join the ranks of the blind and of the fools and of the narcissistic virtue-warriors; join the ranks of the permanently sneering and offended, or perish, or be disappeared and made to disperse and then to feel the full, pink fury of manipulated pussy-hat troops, trip-trapping tremendously on tip-toes through tramadol-streets throwing tantrums tragically telling traumatized twitter-terrorists tantalizingly tell-tale tall-tales tenderly told of their own twitter-warfare and subsequent PTSD from having to survive the horrors of opposing opinions from those who dare not or wish not signal phoney virtue for phoney victim points and phoney holier-than-thou saviour points to celebrate their whimsical Marxist Messiah-complex. What a fucking mess.

Bee-hive saviours in a hive full of saviours, roaring and raging on and on about sin and about salvation and about redemption and the need for compassion, knowing not their own sin, their own lack of salvation, their own need for redemption and their own lack of compassion from seeing nothing but the very tips of their noses or the inside of their magnificently powdered buttocks.

Solution to any-and-all problem? Give us more. Someone else did it. I did not. We did not. Someone else did. Give us more. Give me more. Pay me reparations for something I have imagined happened in the past which have not happened to me but pay me reparations nonetheless.

I will show you the sins of your father…

This city-state governed by conflict – ideas rammed in place, made to stick if they do not stick – governed by fools in hysteria for absence of self-control – claiming the search for stability, equality, justice and truth yet seeking nothing but personal gratification through the sudden and gorgeous golden shower of dopamine from making a false idol of themselves for others to admire and for others to dance around, proclaiming “aren’t they the pinnacle of virtue, aren’t they nice?”

Meanwhile, the gutter-liners, the down-and-outs, the poor huddled masses in the slums beneath the oppressive shade of the ivory tower, need not apply for equality, for compassion, for justice or for truth. Those whose war is fought every single day just to make ends meet, whose brilliant eyes and busy hands grease and move the clockwork underneath the city-streets, whose sacrifice of self makes possible the virtue-signalling of the hollow self of others, whose daily drudgery made possible the erection of the ivory tower, from the loud and shrill speakers of which they receive nothing but scorn, contempt and ridicule. From the base of which they are told they need to change and need to be better, from the very walls which they themselves made safe and made secure, they are shown time and again the true meaning of the hollow and vacuous phrase “equality and justice for all”, namely: “Equality and justice for us, disregard and malcontent for you”.

– Moiret Allegiere, 23.03.2019


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