Moving on


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.

As always: I’ll catch you later.

  • Moiret Allegiere, 04.07.2020
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My Generation Killed Rock «n» Roll:

Lonely Trainstation Blues – Poetry for the Lost Boys, Kindle:
Lonely Trainstation Blues – Poetry for the Lost Boys, Paperback:

Howling at a Slutwalk Moon, a collection of previous blog posts:
Vol 1 Paperback:
Vol 1 Kindle:
Vol 2 Paperback:
Vol 2 Kindle:
Vol 1 Illustrated Paperback:
Vol 2 Illustrated Paperback:

Other links: @MoiretAllegiere

The world went insane

«Derp-faced Fenris»

Fuck me, but the world went insane overnight;

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.

Fuck me, but the world went insane overnight.

  • Please like, share and subscribe
  • Moiret Allegiere, 01.07.2020

My Generation Killed Rock «n» Roll:

Lonely Trainstation Blues – Poetry for the Lost Boys, Kindle:
Lonely Trainstation Blues – Poetry for the Lost Boys, Paperback:

Howling at a Slutwalk Moon, a collection of previous blog posts:
Vol 1 Paperback:
Vol 1 Kindle:
Vol 2 Paperback:
Vol 2 Kindle:
Vol 1 Illustrated Paperback:
Vol 2 Illustrated Paperback:

Other links: @MoiretAllegiere

Lonely Train-station Blues #8: Mindless Apologia

This is part eight from my collection of poetry titled «Lonely Train-station Blues». Get it via the links below, if you should be so inclined.

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
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.

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

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

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?
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
we drain our glass again.

Imagine if we walked out
never to look back.

Imagine if we turned away
never to return.

Imagine if we became truth
never to apologize.

  • Please like, share and subscribe
  • Moiret Allegiere, 29.06.2020

My Generation Killed Rock «n» Roll:

Lonely Trainstation Blues – Poetry for the Lost Boys, Kindle:
Lonely Trainstation Blues – Poetry for the Lost Boys, Paperback:

Howling at a Slutwalk Moon, a collection of previous blog posts:
Vol 1 Paperback:
Vol 1 Kindle:
Vol 2 Paperback:
Vol 2 Kindle:
Vol 1 Illustrated Paperback:
Vol 2 Illustrated Paperback:

Other links: @MoiretAllegiere

Walk in the Woods

«A portrait of the artist as a moon-faced assassin of joy»

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.

Can’t say that, can’t read that, can’t watch that, can’t think that.

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.

  • Moiret Allegiere, 27.06.2020
  • Please like, share and subscribe

My Generation Killed Rock «n» Roll:

Lonely Trainstation Blues – Poetry for the Lost Boys, Kindle:
Lonely Trainstation Blues – Poetry for the Lost Boys, Paperback:

Howling at a Slutwalk Moon, a collection of previous blog posts:
Vol 1 Paperback:
Vol 1 Kindle:
Vol 2 Paperback:
Vol 2 Kindle:
Vol 1 Illustrated Paperback:
Vol 2 Illustrated Paperback:

Other links: @MoiretAllegiere

Taken for a ride


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!


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.

As we’re still being taken for a ride.

  • Please like, share and subscribe
  • Moiret Allegiere, 24.06.2020

My Generation Killed Rock «n» Roll:

Lonely Trainstation Blues – Poetry for the Lost Boys, Kindle:
Lonely Trainstation Blues – Poetry for the Lost Boys, Paperback:

Howling at a Slutwalk Moon, a collection of previous blog posts:
Vol 1 Paperback:
Vol 1 Kindle:
Vol 2 Paperback:
Vol 2 Kindle:
Vol 1 Illustrated Paperback:
Vol 2 Illustrated Paperback:

Other links: @MoiretAllegiere

Lonely Train-station Blues #7: Stayed all Night

This is part seven from my collection of poetry titled «Lonely train-station blues – poetry for the lost boys». Get it through the links below.

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,
at the road toward intentions;
paved with good hell.

Crude drawings and sketches
of cocks and cunts
and words alluding to
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
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

We exit.

Stone-hands stitched at our sides.

We exit.

Stage door open left and right,
gone from centre and balance lost.

We exit.

God and me and vibrations stranger
than her whispered voice in
meditations lost to eyes and
shaking voice.

We exit.

  • Please like, share and subscribe
  • Moiret Allegiere, 22.06.2020

My Generation Killed Rock «n» Roll:

Lonely Trainstation Blues – Poetry for the Lost Boys, Kindle:
Lonely Trainstation Blues – Poetry for the Lost Boys, Paperback:

Howling at a Slutwalk Moon, a collection of previous blog posts:
Vol 1 Paperback:
Vol 1 Kindle:
Vol 2 Paperback:
Vol 2 Kindle:
Vol 1 Illustrated Paperback:
Vol 2 Illustrated Paperback:

Other links: @MoiretAllegiere

Is noting that nothing is

«Squeaky Grease Gets the Wheel»

Left foot, left foot, left foot, march.

In a circle.



Expanding and expanding.

And moving towards nothing.

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.

Of course.

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.

  • Please like, share and subscribe
  • Moiret Allegiere, 20.06.2020

My Generation Killed Rock «n» Roll:

Lonely Trainstation Blues – Poetry for the Lost Boys, Kindle:
Lonely Trainstation Blues – Poetry for the Lost Boys, Paperback:

Howling at a Slutwalk Moon, a collection of previous blog posts:
Vol 1 Paperback:
Vol 1 Kindle:
Vol 2 Paperback:
Vol 2 Kindle:
Vol 1 Illustrated Paperback:
Vol 2 Illustrated Paperback:

Other links:
Redbubble shop:

Take a Wee


Take a knee, buddy-boy, and pledge allegiance to the cause of justice and of fairness which would see you on your knees to lick and kiss the feet of your superiors for the equal treatment of your betters.

All for justice, see, the justice of the fair and few that were so left behind in hungry shades of imbecility and unthinking amorality perceived as supreme morality by the department of irresponsive irrelevance.

Random acts of violence and of arson ain’t happening; no looting, pillaging, sacking or razing here to mirror the violent excess and chaos brought by the Mongolian army sometime in the 1300s.

No manufactured outrage to be seen; no hand-made ruination, no rent-a-crowd to bring dissent, disaster, destruction and despair to further the great divide of the dread, the feverish, the hollow current year.

Aye, ‘tis but a peaceful protest; slight civil disobedience, some miniscule materialization of righteous anger directed at the wickedness of the world as the world is presented by daffodils with only justice on their mind.

Aye, ‘tis but a civilized, pre-planned, pre-programmed collapsathon of all that may well be considered old; tear-downs of old decrepit statues raised in memory of the wicked long-agos.

Aye, ‘tis naught but mob-law and mob-rule by the oppressed who want for nothing more than free shit looted from local businesses that ain’t done shit, but, hey, ones own neighbourhood is oppression gone supreme.

Aye; it’s all sealed by the blowfly-maggot-kiss of the western world showing solidarity with the beautiful rank-and-file hysterics of a crowd gone ape-shit, never thinking, only feeling and – then – acting.

And “Oh”, they’ll say, “you don’t understand the institutionalized this and that and you must educate yourself”; a grand excuse for petty loss of thought and knowledge never having to explain themselves.

And “Oh and woe”, they’ll say, when asked a simple question, “we’re not here to educate you – you must do that for yourselves – better you just take a knee and lay your swords there at our feet”.

And people are beat and robbed and mugged, and buildings are torched and businesses looted and still the mindless drones will say that it is mostly peaceful, mostly peaceful, and, not least of all, righteous.

And the mantra and the war-cry spreads throughout the mob; “By any means, by any means”, chanted high and loudly roared by violent thugs for whom dissenting words are violence, yet political violence ain’t.

Take a knee, buddy-boy, and pledge that you shall never hurt, nor scar, nor burn or torch or touch or speak a word in opposition to your masters and their righteous mob of stray, feral, urban beasts.

Peace, you see, will be achieved when all demands are met, when all that is old lie burning, when all that is known lie broken, when all that once was is ruined and ravaged and raped.

Peace, you see, will be achieved when all agreements are in place, when all your old are found hanging from the street-lights, swaying gently in the breeze of our very own brain-wiped and pathological nuclear holocaust.

Peace, you see, will never be achieved for there will always be some new outrage, some new complaint, some new thing dubbed “institutionalized” that must be torn down by harmonious thugs.

There will always be something new, something other, something else that must be taken and destroyed and torn down and burnt, bruised, beat and killed to soothe the anger of the mob.

There will always be some new cause, some new schism, some new fracture to widen, open, piss and shit into and then infect with baby-faced glee and childish insistence on the righteousness of “me, me, me”.

There will always be some new demand as long as the demands of the mob are met. To believe that the mob will ease when once they are granted legitimacy and power is absurd, to say the least.

You don’t apologize to these people. You don’t bow down to these people. You don’t even have to fucking speak to these people… for they will not speak to you; they will roar and rage and throw tantrums…

But they will not speak to you.

They will speak at you and they will speak over you, but they will not speak to you.

They will scream in your face and kick you in the teeth, but they will not speak to you.

They will demand obedience and for you to pledge allegiance, but they will not speak to you.

They will burn your business and ruin your neighbourhood, but they will not speak to you.

They will call you names and label you as this and as that, but they will not speak to you.

They will threaten you, harass you and even dox you, but they will not speak to you.

They have already made an enemy of you; turned you into a caricature or an effigy upon whose un-personed form all scorn and rage and ridicule may be unleashed.

And they will not speak to you.

They will only speak at you.

Ignore them.

Kick them out of your life.

Don’t give them an inch of anything but your middle-finger.

  • Please like, share and subscribe
  • Moiret Allegiere, 17.06.2020

My Generation Killed Rock «n» Roll:

Lonely Trainstation Blues – Poetry for the Lost Boys, Kindle:
Lonely Trainstation Blues – Poetry for the Lost Boys, Paperback:

Howling at a Slutwalk Moon, a collection of previous blog posts:
Vol 1 Paperback:
Vol 1 Kindle:
Vol 2 Paperback:
Vol 2 Kindle:
Vol 1 Illustrated Paperback:
Vol 2 Illustrated Paperback:

Other links:
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Lonely Train-station Blues #6: Salvation

(This is part 6 from my collection of poetry «Lonely Train-station Blues» Get it through the links below.)

And we, the obscenities, should rave and roar and laugh like beasts let loose at the fall, at the dawn, at midnight and at noon.

And we, the alienated, weird and disenfranchised, should rage at the night-lined sky filled with pompous dreams and sacrifice; hollow futures in empty promises held by miniscule terrorists pointing fingers through the sockets of their eyes shooting us for revolution.

And we, being unceremoniously buried beneath the weight of a thousand thousand-yard-stares should bleed profusely profound truths delivered poetically true and just into the megalomaniacal minds of watered-down tempters ensnaring wild and mild and free kids with promises of salvation.

And that is salvation from liberty; the oppressive tyranny of free expression ideologically detained in waste-bucket nights; wild spittoon images popping up behind eyelids closed by the encroaching bombs dropping from skies sanctified by political circus-clowns trembling with alcoholic delirium.

And that is salvation in the post-apocalyptic utopia of an elite feigning incoherent anti-elitism; establishment goons fighting shadows of former glories pretending not to know of their own circumstance and happening upon blood-stained walls and gutters lined with entrails from sacrificed kids led to the slaughter by brutal behemoths frostily parroting death-terms of surrender.

And that is salvation embalming dead nights in drunk despair forming loose-knit bonds of me, myself, and I in drugged stupors claiming to know unflinching how the world works and where the world begins and where the world ends, miraculously pondering free-falling poetry encased in postmodern piss-pots overturned atop the heads of thinkers howling that truth is not beauty no more.

And that is truth. And that is beauty. The death of both in this perplexing glasshouse in which they stand to throw rocks and stones and gargle words that none would dare to understand, nodding in silent agreement for not daring to state the obvious and point out the elephant in the room; faulty reign of queen bee supreme, Mrs. death-despair locked within these walls and upon this gargantuan never-mind and never-where, spread words that sing like truth where no truth now exist.

And that is truth. And that is beauty. All glazed over in eyes that fill with fever, flailing like mad to gain a foothold within this hive of arrogance and decadence and dead-night despair where once we set our feet to pound the rhythm of the music, dancing in lines the conga stratosphere disaster, and then fall on the floor like mad vultures landing upon a carcass remembering where we used to be and how and who and whom and why.

Then weeping a little.
Then turning over to cry.
Then burning up and trying to recall some grand memory of times gone by where we remembered childhood innocence and pure understanding; where once there was such things as beauty and as truth, no longer valued in a state of bliss where we stay locked in cages scared to come out and play upon the streets and in the woods for all is locked down and caked with ice and crusty streaks of semen mixed with period-blood, guffawing crisis splendid and decayed.

Then creeping a little.
Then turning over to weep.

Then dying in mixed splendour, our screams reaching climaxes never thought or heard or seen before, stomped beneath the weight of land-whales marching to the tune of some frizzled memory of a grounded disco-beat.



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  • Moiret Allegiere, 15.06.2020

My Generation Killed Rock «n» Roll:

Lonely Trainstation Blues – Poetry for the Lost Boys, Kindle:
Lonely Trainstation Blues – Poetry for the Lost Boys, Paperback:

Howling at a Slutwalk Moon, a collection of previous blog posts:
Vol 1 Paperback:
Vol 1 Kindle:
Vol 2 Paperback:
Vol 2 Kindle:
Vol 1 Illustrated Paperback:
Vol 2 Illustrated Paperback:

Other links:
Redbubble shop:

Dominant Privilege

«The Great Wazoo, Part 2»

This morning, I got up as per usual. Did my regular morning routine. Went to the bathroom. Ground my coffee-beans by hand. Made my fancy-pants French press coffee. Checked my email. Walked my dogs. Did my casual sideways glance at Twitter, all whilst clenching a crucifix in my right hand and brandishing a tire-iron with my left hand. To banish ghosts and goblins, of course. Any Twitter-user knows the drill, I suppose.

I then sat down in a corner, slammed my head into a brick wall and screamed hysterically at the ceiling for about 20 minutes. All in an effort to soothe that existential dread I’ve been feeling for the past thirty years. Or thereabouts. All the regular stuff any man my age does in the mornings. At least if he has any sense at all.

The world took a deep dive into absurdity twenty-some years ago. Probably longer. The social game has changed profoundly. The rules we are supposed to follow got so obscure that they are impossible to understand, or to follow. They change all the bloody time, according to what best suits the will, whim and winds of the great mangy magnet of woke.

We are all equal under the law, see. Except those who get special protection under the law… meant to make them equal under the law. Which makes no sense at all, of course, but nonsense is the new sense. And new sense makes no sense. Though, of course, reason, logic and things of that nature are a patriarchal conspiracy conducted in shady corners of the world by the nebulous and nefarious white men of the world, so don’t bother, I guess.

The protected groups are a special breed, I am given to understand. Deserving of more protection under the law than the other groups. For the other groups are privileged. Even when each protected group that are given particular protection under the law is granted privilege.

Say bad things about Islam, say, and the thought-police will come knocking at your door; dare oppose unfiltered mass immigration, and you may well lose your job.

Dare to point this out, and you will be dubbed a racist fascist neo-nazi, (and whatever else is currently in vogue to shut you down and dominate the discourse via shame and qualm-peddling), extreme right wing tin-foil hat wearing chugger of conspiracy theories; a humble water-filter salesman wearing the sleazy, shit-eating grin of a used car salesman. All the while beating your spouse, kids and dogs. Oh – you are also an incel.

Because it does not happen, even when it does. You are exaggerating. Besides: racist scumfucks don’t deserve an income. Nor do their families deserve to eat.

Even if their supposed racism amounts to little more than holding the terrible opinion that immigration ought to be coupled with integration and assimilation into the dominant culture.

There’s nothing to see here, the thought-police will say, in front of a dumpster-fire of forbidden books and thoughts deemed not suitable for a moral climate such as ours. All cultures are beautiful. The dominant culture of a nation kind enough to open their borders to immigrants; hospitable enough to harbour refugees is an oppressive one to those which it is kind enough to accept. And so, that culture is not beautiful. It is, in fact, so terrible that people are risking their lives to get there. Only to then complain about how terrible it is. And so the dominant culture must change its ways. For that is justice, that is truth, that is beauty. That is liberty, that is equality, that is fraternity in our shattered glass-house, in our very own eve of destruction. Where I live, the government have no issues and see no problems in stating bluntly that immigrants will be prioritised for public housing. Doesn’t seem fair nor equal to me, but then again – I am but a humble moron, and probably a thrice-fisted fascist as well. Must be systemic racism that made the government do it. Or a white saviour complex.

Cultural differences must be respected: multiculturalism is the pinnacle of modernity – the peak of morality – a wet dream for putrid politicians whose been sucking EU-dick for eternity, whose been fondling UN-balls for decades, all the while having their index finger jammed tightly up the anus of the WHO; a gangbang so depraved, so debauched and so obscene that it would not be hosted on any porn-site for long, no matter the perversity of its visitors or moderators. Even Ron Jeremy would blush.

We have freedom of speech, you see. As long as you don’t say things that are not protected by freedom of speech. Ahem, ahum, say what, say what, come again, I must have misheard. Please do elaborate.

Then follows a phenomenally burlesque song-and-dance routine in which those who propose that freedom of speech is still alive and well, (even if your are not allowed to say certain things or harbour certain opinions for reasons of wrong-think thingamajiggers), dance around the issue, never once giving a clear reply to the simple question. How can one pretend to have freedom of speech or equality under the law, if certain things are not allowed to be said and certain groups given special protection under the law?

Equality under the law ought to be fundamental to the concept of equality. It is, in all honesty, the best outcome one could wish for when chasing this ever-chancing and apparently very elusive concept of equality; the new dragon to chase now that heroin is no longer in vogue.

To my admittedly plebeian mind, this seems a very simple thing, a very simple concept and something that ought not to be overcomplicated. But, of course, if there is one thing we are damned good at in this age of abundance, it is overanalysing and overcomplicating things that are not that complicated, that don’t need all that much analysis.

A is A and B is B, say the plebeian.

“But”, say the academics and the elite in forked-tongue tandem, “A can sometimes be C and B might as well be A”.

In order for perceived equality to be achieved, clear and concise inequality must be implemented, here and there and everywhere. Equality does not mean what you think it means: it is no longer equality of opportunity, nor is it equality under the law. It is equality of outcome. And that, dear friends, is something that must be manufactured and engineered. For it is a ridiculous notion that all people – all groups of people and all individuals – would chose the exact same path through life and thus end up in the exact same place in life. Some will choose this and some will choose that and some will choose neither this or that but something else entirely. There is absolutely no certainty that as many women as men, say, would choose that particular career or this particular profession. And vice versa, of course.

This concept is, apparently, something which the putrid politicians understand to a certain extent. I have not made any secrets of contacting the Norwegian department of equality (not that far removed from the Orwellian ministry of truth, one assumes) several times when the hypocrisy of certain decrees, laws, whatever becomes painfully obvious. In fact, they told me that they did not wish to hear from me any more. I must have struck a nerve. I’ve only contacted them five times, so I don’t think it would cunt as harassment. But – what the hell do I know? I’m pale, male and stale, see, and so should be ashamed and quiet since everyone everywhere listen to me and give me all this unearned privilege all the time.

I contacted them regarding gender-quotas in higher education once. Seeing as the majority of students in higher education are women, yet there still being special programs and quotas for women in higher education, I contacted them with a very simple question after looking at the statistics for certain studies. See, the gender-studies courses were – at the time I looked at it, some two years ago – filled to the brink with women. 98% of the students in the nonsensical gender-studies courses were women. And so I asked them why they had not put quotas in place to get more men in there. Perhaps some rewards to the men, as it was not that many years ago that women who chose to study some STEM-field was given a free laptop.

I inquired about this, not because I believe in quotas – I would much rather see the entire concept of quotas (and gender-studies) burned to a crisp, pissed and shat on by syphilitic old lecherous lepers, and then fired into the sun on a rocket-ship blessed by the high priest of the church of Scientology before I would accept it – but because the rules are supposed to be applied evenly. If less woman than men means quotas for women, then less men than women must necessarily mean quotas for men. You know; phoney equality and all that.

They replied that, oh and woe, they shared my concern that there were so few men in gender-studies (not that I was in fact concerned, but, of course, that’s how it was framed), but quotas were not the way to go to get more men in there, despite the opposite of course being true should there be more men studying something than women. As we have seen, time and again. Special quotas, gifts, incentives and – in fact – privilege.

On a side-note – I also contacted them regarding some taxis that were set up in Oslo – by a private company – meant to give women free rides home, because women were so at risk for being assaulted, herp-derp.

If memory serves, this was only supposed to last for four days. No matter, according to the laws, this is illegal discrimination based on sex and gender. Considering also that men are far more at risk than women are of being violently assaulted, they really ought to give men a free ride home for their safety. I mentioned this to the department of equality, only to get the reply that – and I am paraphrasing here – “We have received several complaints regarding this. A case can be made that men are also at risk of being assaulted.”, (yeah, no shit, Her-lock, men are more at risk,) “The department of equality can not say if this is discriminatory or not”.

Well, then, ain’t that interesting? The department of equality – supposedly there to check that equality is present – can not take a stand or whether or not something is discriminatory – I.E. inequal – when men are being, quite blatantly, discriminated against. But, ya know, we must protect the whamens from the menz. And the menz can go fuck themselves. As opposed to the strong and powerful and brave women, men can take care of themselves. Despite drowning in male fragility.

This is what our taxes go to; subsidized discrimination and lawful inequality, painted as non-discrimination and presented as equality. All manufactured, all engineered by dancing monkeys blinding and bedazzling the crowds of gawking onlookers as the hands that govern us put their shackles and their chains in place, blindfold us and tell us that we are free to see, to do, to walk about and look and speak and feel and think.

As long, that is, as we don’t see too far, speak too loudly, think too much, walk about over there or round that corner there. This may, of course, seem like hyperbole. As if I am stirring up a storm in a tender teapot. But people do lose their jobs for having the wrong opinion. As well as experiencing violence for it.

A teenager just got beat up in Norway by a group of grimy grunts for posting “racist” memes on Instagram. He then apologized, and the paper and the police interviewed in the paper focused more on him posting this terrible meme – making such a horrid mistake – and subsequently apologizing than on him being beat up by a group of guffawing grunts high on their moral indignity and hysterical outrage for posting this wrong-think in the form of an edgy meme. And the judgement of the people, on Reddit and elsewhere? “I don’t condone violence, but he kinda deserved it.”

Violence for wrong-think is not OK and OK at the same time, in other words. Which makes one think where our freedom of speech and of expression is gone. Violence is quite alright, according to some, if someone says something mean and bad. This is political violence. It is also double-speak, since they don’t condone violence, but he should have known better and so we can blame the victim of violence for being so rude and obnoxious as to have the wrong opinion… or for posting an edgy meme. He’s just a racist, a fascist, a sexist, a whatever-ist. And besides, he’s a white man, and so he is by default privileged scum who ought to take a knee in front of his betters, pledge not to hurt them and, while he’s at it, not notice nor complain about the boot stomping on his face.

I wonder if the same people would feel the same way, were they to be beat up by someone disagreeing with what opinions they hold and choose to share. The answer is: of course not.

Shocking as that may be.

Consistency is not the strongest character-trait of these wondrous warriors for social justice.

One rule for me, and another for thee. For that is equality, that is liberty, that is non-gender specific fraternity.

Now, to be frank, I am not fond of violence. The only time I can accept violence is as self-defence. Considering how many times the social justice urchins have said that words are, in fact, violence, one wonders if they do, in fact, believe that they are acting in self-defence. That is if they actually believe anything at all, of course, which one sometimes wonder if they do. That words in themselves can be considered violence is absolute bullshit, in my humble opinion. Yet, that seems to be part of the manifesto of the high-and-mighty guardians of morality, milkshakes and the mighty bike-lock and lighter-fluid of truth and justice.

If that is the case – if words are, indeed, to be considered violence – how long until the words of the social justice crowd are considered an act of violence, and people start acting in supposed self-defence against nothing but their words? I mean; “kill all men” is not exactly a kind and inclusive thing to say. Nor is what that one professor said; “I’m dreaming of a white genocide” a particularly nice thing to say. “All men are misogynistic” are another one… “All heterosexual sex is rape”… “All straight people are homophobic”… “All whites are racist”… “Die, cis scum”… I could go on and on.

But: make no mistake about it: I believe people should be free to say this. And people should be free to react to this. With our god-damned words. Except that we are not, in a manner of speaking, free to react to this. We stand to be beat up due to it. The above is not hate-speech, according to the peddlers of hate-speech laws. Those who write something in opposition to this are guilty of all manner of foul things, apparently… from hate-speech to harassment. And get subsequently blocked, banned, and beat up, de-platformed, disappeared and doxed, named and shamed and blamed by mass-media pundits and politicians as well as the wider populace, blinded and seduced as they are by these mass-media pundits and morally grandstanding, virtue-signalling politicians who care only about the next crop of votes to be harvested from the plebs and peasants.

The idea – the very thought of this – is something that terrifies me to my very core. All speech is equally protected, but some speech is more equally protected than other speech. And some speech is banned outright, for that is freedom of speech and of expression: the freedom to not say anything that certain groups of people may deem offensive. This is hate-speech, see. A notion that, in itself, is incredibly offensive – and quite terrifying – to those of us who believe that everyone should be free to speak their mind, no matter how inane, offensive or whatever.

Unfortunately, we live in interesting times.

I am very sorry to say this.

Here’s to hoping it won’t be this interesting in a few years.

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  • Moiret Allegiere, 13.06.2020

My Generation Killed Rock «n» Roll:

Lonely Trainstation Blues – Poetry for the Lost Boys, Kindle:
Lonely Trainstation Blues – Poetry for the Lost Boys, Paperback:

Howling at a Slutwalk Moon, a collection of previous blog posts:
Vol 1 Paperback:
Vol 1 Kindle:
Vol 2 Paperback:
Vol 2 Kindle:
Vol 1 Illustrated Paperback:
Vol 2 Illustrated Paperback:

Other links:
Redbubble shop: