Limited not to escape:

Lonely parkbench blues lowres

Illustration: «Lonely parkbench blues», A3, 2019, Moiret Allegiere

Limited not to escape are these dreams of complete liberty. Free-form expressions are denied by hands twisting and churning in feigned anguish, whose mere presence do nothing but waste time over disagreements regarding words judged to be not suitable for use by any but the twisters of hands themselves.

Aghast with sudden pain and thought-pattern-demise and blinking in the bright light of imprisonment, this sheltered spiritual decay of ours cry out in harmonious whispered whimpers, labelling as forces of liberty the same forces that lock the cage, that throw away the key.

Painting with broad strokes across the trembling sky, in black ink resembling soot and smog, a grand unifying manifesto calling the unburdened masses to arms, to fight, to feud, to fracture and dissolve what is, was and always have been through clinically insane trials of men whose only spoken crime is being men.

This manifesto adorn the walls and wails of bedsit-boudoirs under which roof sit fancy-free conformists claiming nonconformity, establishment pawns supposedly pawning the establishment, bound by unparalleled duty to spread the words and deeds and unthinking hate of this new morning of our mourning; a mutually assured suicide on part of both man and woman, on part of the feminine and masculine. Shaded, mumbled, jumbled, words thrown to the plasticine walls of society in a quest for sovereign ownership of the word and words hidden in and around the irrefutable, yet never understood term “equality”.

Smog-induced brain-fever is freely available, delivered with state-sanctioned gratification, with diaphragms vibrating with smug, superior glee. Dutiful neglect of responsibility. It was we who burnt the seas, who scorched the forest to spite the trees, who brought the mirage to the forefront, you see, thus removing any sense of truth and of justice and of liberty for all. Liberty is a pipe-bomb-dream, a long sought and forgotten treasure, a fragment of ages past standing in the way of this new sharp and shining razor-blade utopia.

To speak in tongues and gargled pseudo-intellectual cabbage-talk is divinity. Exhaustion and anxiety now revered by fragile nimble fingers seeking something to do. Drained by her sudden swollen body-odour and shaving her tongue with whiplash-cream, she turns to the camera obscura, proudly proposing personal hygiene to be a patriarchal conspiracy. It is her freedom to be just as fat, sloppy, stupid, sweaty, disgusting as men are.

Muttered words of some hardship or other spread like winged slimy eels beneath the slutwalk-moon and iron skies within this shallow and ridiculous opium-dream of hers. She thinks in terms of his and hers. Yet, surely, surely, surely, his and hers do not exist as anything but societal distractions from the radiant core, the essence that is all of humanity; the blank slate onto which all obnoxious behaviour on part of men is poured, all wondrous behaviour on part of women dripped and dribbled?

What, then, pray tell, is the doom and subsequent judgement of man? To be fat, sloppy, stupid, sweaty and disgusting? To have these shambled cornerstones of voluptuous ideology poured into our ears to ease the suffering and lamentation of the women, upon whose backs the chores and chains of the world left their mark as charred scars of some half-digested slavery?

Slavery making it so that she, now, carried on wings of affluent emotional labour, may soar like a vacuous eagle into the thin night of maladaptive malcontent. For her beak to spread this vile infection, this bubonic plague through spittle draining from her canker-sore eyes into the hearts and guts and golden cocks of men, onto these flat-chested streets paved with gold and oppressive affronts through words and deeds not proper etiquette in the presence of a lady such as herself.

Our illusion of liberty lying sprawled on the ground in some mockery of Christ, one thinks; crucified to die for our sins of masculinity and be buried in the gelatinous blob of intersectional feminism, transcendent academia throwing shade on history and on truth and on culture and on beauty.

Limited not to dreams of cowardly escape are these dreams of freedom and of liberty – to be allowed to speak and utter sentences and structured thoughts that go against the grain, the dominant cultural narrative of these decadent decades of socially engineered gender-blueprint-nonsense. This without the vile and violent milkshake-assaults from haggard street-thugs, soft and frail and weak and meek in the media limelight painting the assaulter as the assaulted, thusly blaming the victim and celebrating the victimizer, with no clarity of vision, focus, truth or sense of reason. Poor victims; fighting the establishment when the establishment is on their side. Detached from reality, pandered too and pampered still, delusions somehow given credence in this poorly painted plagiarized society of ours.

Should these labourers of self-induced coma ever harbour thoughts of more substance and more sense than grandiose hedonistic whispers of affront from some imagined ailment of the sexual interplay, I fear their caged minds would rupture and their spinal fluid leak out through their flaring nostrils.

The twitterati tweet and twatter with all the obscene and obfuscated flirt and flutter of a brilliant raven, perched atop the flaccid bust of a moral high horse just above their chamber door, speaking words that make less sense than “never-nevermore”.

Succulent whimpers from infant-like adults veiled as brave and heroic calls for censorship of hate-speech and thought-and-syllable-and-breath-hate abound in this spectacularly grim shell-shocked utopia. All hate-speech controlled by an unparalleled unified singularity; a cosmological universality deemed singularity by the chosen frozen few who consider it absurd that their calls to kill all men should be considered hateful speech and conduct, not proposed equality in luscious bullshit-peddling. Snake-oil is what it is, was and always will be. A fantastic cure for any and all, no matter the functionality of the thing. It is piss. Piss and ink. Call it what it is, and carry the fuck on.

Freedom does not equal freedom in the minds of so-called freedom fighters fighting for fragile freedom to be free from their own self-imposed frail fragility, bottled by operatic, dramatic, coagulated upper-middle-class snobs as heroic bravery. It equals freedom for them and theirs and their ideological equals, not for the likes of me and you and they and them who dare to disagree with the pussywillow-masses, shaking profusely and profoundly in glass-shoes and silk undergarments, donning battle-helmets of pink pussy-lips so empowering and fantastic; reducing women to their vulva, their vagina, their urinary tract infection and fungal-coated thighs and Venus fly-trap charm. Courage is being weak no matter what. Weakness is being courageous no matter what.

Are there any vaginas in the room?”, she says, to jaundiced cheers and mindless glee and thunderous applause. “Are there any vagina-friendly men in the room?” she carries on, to the same mind-numbing hum-drum, banal as only a room full of drools and dribbles may be; then complain that men reduce women to their vaginas, then complain about objectification, even when referring to women in a room full of women as “vaginas”. Woe unto the weirdness of it all. This is the age of instantaneous insanity, of moral decay through decadence and hedonism; we have it so good that we must have it bad. We have it so good that all must be bad, and we are bored and we are dull and we are nothing but a snake-pit floating out to see, sinking to the bottom, not realising that the only thing we need to do to stay alive is stay afloat. Or, perhaps, perchance, ride the currents of life and calm the fuck down for a moment or two.

Criticism is not tolerated by the equality-brigade, whose understanding of equality is not equality as one should think it is, but equality for those who are of equal opinion as the equality-brigade, engineering equality in equal measures to the equal opportunity destruction of society. All speech to the contrary of their definition of equality is akin to the clenched fist of a neo-nazi Obersturmbannführer wishing each and all a grand day and a free speech, thank you very much. A Nazi, a fascist, a true scum-fuck, is anyone who wishes that everyone should be allowed to speak and to listen. Whilst the true liberal view of liberty and truth and justice for all is the denial of the right to speak and listen for those who do not think as the equality-brigade and their vacuum-cleansed sense think. Hell hath no fury as a feminist scorned by someone disagreeing in a civil manner.

It is so painful, this lack of diverse thought in the dawning of our age of diversity; a clouded muddled mind shared by thousands upon thousands, the same thoughts and meaning and feeling and sensation, a shared experience, mutual as mutual may be, sound of mind and sound of heart and sound of body, yet hard of hearing, hard of seeing, hard of thinking anything but the buzz of the hive, the drudgery of the colony the beep and bloop of the collective.

This present-era diversity is doubtlessly good. As long as the immediate knee-jerk reaction of the eyeballs see representations of women and minorities, the rest do not matter. A superficial brilliant diversity in this dawning of diversity, diversified in appearance but not in thought by the might and power and influence of clawhammer-feminism, whose wisdom veiled the truth behind incoherent moutwash-gibberish, exposing cleft palates of distinguished beauty within their salty attack-wombs and sagging choke-hazard breasts.

This present-era hypocrisy is doubtlessly of the good and for the good. As long as no-one speaks out in disagreement against the salty brigades or the bonesaw-brutality of their rhetoric, dripping with venom re-named champagne, all shall be well and all shall be good and all shall praise the miraculous coming of the Christess from beyond the slutwalk-moon, from beyond the iron-labia sky, whose reign on this earth shall be the best and also the last, the finale, the end.

There is more at play and more at stake than anyone could have guessed. There is no path nor plan nor ploy nor play more distinguished in their brilliant stupidity than this force now sweeping across the world in a fantastically morbid dance.

This assault on basic liberties – to speak, to think, to express oneself – somehow wormed and wiggled and sucked enough cock to get all the way to the top of the elusive pyramid-hierarchy. A trail of dust and broken shields behind. Free speech is hate-speech. Thusly, hate-speech is not free speech. And those who control the language control the world. Those who control speech control thoughts, control patterns of behaviour, control the domesticated primates in their cages, in their cosy comfort-zone never seen as cages. Now repeat after me: I am free. Must be free. I can not see the bars and chains, now can I? Nor can I see the door closing shut, the roof falling in, the walls closing in around me. Individual freedom dies slowly. Bit by bit. So slow, that we do not see it go.

Limited not to escape is this dream of freedom; of emancipation from tyranny. To wish all and one the same freedoms as one wishes for oneself is the basic humanitarian approach. Not to curtail someone else’s freedom to elevate ones own, but to allow for the possibility that people dance to different tunes, and tread different paths than oneself, and that this truly is no problem, no matter how vehemently one might disagree. That this is cause for celebration: the diversity of ideas and of opinion; the battlefield upon which they are tested and tried and trialled.

In this evening of our society, this autumn of our civilization, a boot is stomping on a human face, forever. And the ones who are doing the stomping cry to the ones who are being stomped that they are oppressing the boot and foot with their face and head. The face and the head is denying the boot access to the ground, you see. And so the boot must stomp harder, the face be more pliable.

People do not think. people react. people do not consider. people act. Immediately, without pause, without glances, without second chances, without consideration for the fact that denying someone the right to express their views for fear of hate or fear of hurt feelings does not reflect kindly upon those who wish to suppress the basic liberty of speech and thought and expression of someone else. And who defines hate, and who defines truth, and who defines sanity in our mass-deceived societies? To the victor go the spoils.

People do not think further than the tips of their noses; do not have the self-awareness and introspective power to realize that they might be wrong. That these calls for the limitation of speech and expression should never hit them in the backs of their heads or in their drooling moron-mouths for they – they – they themselves are never in the wrong; self-obsessed and vain modern-era narcissists are they; gazing in the mirror admiring their own beauty, gazing at their mind-mirrors and marvelling at the beauty grasped from minds and thoughts that never stray from the trodden path, the accepted path of societal discourse where white men are bad, women are good, and minorities are stomped under the heel of the ever-affluent patriarchy, sometimes known as the kyriarchy, omni-present and elusive as fog, as mist, as smoke and mirrors.

Always present, yet never seen or pointed to as something concrete. Just a vague rumour, a susurrus, a rustling of the leaves and breeches of highly offended maidens of integrity and honour.

This patriarchy, who honours men and dishonours women, who elevates men and oppress women, is the same patriarchy that allows for calls to kill all men; that allows any critique of any women saying that all men should be killed to be labelled as hatred of women. For wanting to kill all men is not hate-speech. Attacking the harpies who shout from pedestals of translucent morality that all men should be killed is hate-speech. Under the reign and thumb and crushing weight of the cock and balls of the patriarchy, women shall never be criticized no matter what they say. And men shall have no say in any matter, no matter the matter at hand. This patriarchy who absolutely hates women, this society in which women are treated so poorly, allows for a movement for women and women only to speak on behalf of women and men as genders and as sexes, simultaneously denying a movement for men to speak on behalf of men.

You kerfluffled yet?

Limited not to escape from society is this dream of freedom. It is a dream of values and responsibilities. A future shared in co-operation, where diversity of thought and of opinion is valued, not diversity of shallow superficial traits. Where thoughts and thinking and ideas hold more sway than sex, than gender, than racial traits and characteristics. Where people are judged on the content of their character, not on the colour of their skin or the lack of a cunt between their legs.

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 – Moiret Allegiere, 05.06.2019

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