Red Pill Rage, Wrath, Ruin:

«Heirdom», 2019, Moiret Allegiere

There is anger. Red hot and searing. Boiling and bubbling beneath the surface, in the blackened brain-contractions, in the dying and divided heart-palpitations, in the subterranean lungs nailed to the ribcage of those who have swallowed and choked on the proverbial red pill.

It lies directly underneath the skin at times, dragged up from the depths – wide-arching monorail pathways of the mind-that-learned and thusly changed and altered its perceptions of the space and time and views and lore of the world as the world has been presented in greyscale fragments born from schools with razor-blade fences used to lure the goons into the nest and entrap them in the hive.

At the first inkling that something is wrong, was wrong, always has been wrong in how the world has been presented, how history has been told, how the myths and legends of our time is sung; biased, full of half-truths and deliberately presented new-facts shown in the light of dim-cloud stars and suns that shone and shine in brutal burlesque-like blues from teachers and pedagogues presented as demigods who hold the truth and key and path towards free-flowing salvation for one and all, there is rage and wrath and ruin.

At the moment that the veil across the eyes is ripped and torn, as the first seam split and the light appears to be less clouded, fuller, brighter – at the first glimpse of a full spectrum light, bright and brilliant as the day or horrifying, terrifying, grim and serious as a fully haunted witching hour night, there is rage and wrath and ruin.

And in the slow-choking, breathtaking, stunning death of all that once was known as truth and fact, at the point where the bitter red pill is caught and held in place at oesophagus-height to be marvelled at, to be slowly released into the system, to be slowly devoured, slowly dissolved, slowly part of the self, there is no breath, there is no air, there is nothing but rage and wrath and ruin.

For to see the wilful blindness of the world and weary worm-filled void in place where truth and beauty once was said to hold court is dementedly infuriating, inconsiderately anger-inducing perfect fixtures of rage-fuel for those whom, once they strayed from the trodden and accepted path, saw the shape of true enslavement manifest as me, myself and I willingly chaining I, myself and me to the plantation to be presented as permanently penitent for the grim and ghastly crime of masculinity.

There is rage and wrath and ruin at every ill-conceived flash-flood of fast-food-news presenting limelight-studies from the chosen-and-presented-as-our-one-and-all babblelogue hordes that babble needlessly and grunt noisily about the latest branch of outlaw-statistics made to present their side, chosen for their deliberately worded wordplay, their yellow-bellied gelatine juggling of the numbers and the truth to present the statistical anomaly of those who are beaten and brutalized and ravaged and raped as far worse than is, as affecting the one and only the one, perpetrated by the other and only the other, never affecting the other and never a deaths hand dealt from the one, who, so innocently and gifted with all the worlds wordly charm, blame the other for the trials of the one and only one, whose pointed fingers subtly or overtly finger only the other who just so happen to be me, myself and I.

Where the true truth is seen as the surface is scratched and the world reveals its phantasm mask and spectral shape of filtered lies and hand-spun songs to sing, there is a revelation and a personal transformation, a logos rising from within and the Godhead taking form and shape in the chest and in the beating hearts of death-defying murmurs in the wishy-washy void as the programming and the programs both drip out the ear or drip as drool from parched, cracked and dried lips, revealing the self, the ego, the me, myself and I in the eye of the beholder that is I – and I, you come to comprehend – is pissed right the fuck off.

Doubtless, righteous and justified anger at the past-present-future dance which we have danced to faulty tunes and ill-informed tempo-changes the likes of which not one can follow without fault, yet which will still ensnare its dancers with its primal beat that sways the fertile hips of those who danced the dance before, who sung the song and rhymed and timed the rhythm to beat in tune with pre-conceived ideas and ideals of what they once were told to believe and so believe eternally despite concrete, objective, observable and obvious evidence to the contrary presented ad infinitum from those who transcended the trials of rage, wrath and ruin and came out the other side more whole than ever they were before.

For anger is an energy, a pure and primal force of creativity if channelled properly, if focused and delivered with split-seamed righteous poignancy – if dealt in deadly doomsday blows to the ear-splitting siren-skulls of simian society, the domesticated primates going with the ghostly flow of the tribe as the tribe is, who have not yet dealt with the suffering and the rage, wrath, ruin that rises from the notion that – hey, now, wait a minute, something isn’t right here.

That is to say: anger is an energy, a focused beam of clarity and vision and clarity of vision when once anger is transcended and the first immediate roar and grunt of dissatisfaction has passed and gone and been let loose within the chained and shackled sleeping self.

Anger is an energy when once curtailed, when once subdued and controlled and transcended; when once turned flat on its side or on its head so that the destructive becomes the constructive, fired from all barrels of a fully loaded cerebral gun at the core and beating, festering cancer-sore of the brave blue world, or when let loose of all its chains and made to seek its source to take comfort in the fact that once it was misguided, unfocused rage, wrath, ruin, yet now it is not.

Quite the opposite, in fact. When channelled neatly, focused extraordinarily, it may become the driving force behind the change that transforms beast to man and man to Self. Then anger dissipates, dissolves, disintegrates and makes room for the calm, the tranquil, the self-assured and satisfied.

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  • Moiret Allegiere, 07.09.2019

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

Other links:
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