Stayed all Night

Once more into the frey A3 lowres

Ill: «Once more into the frey», A3, 2019, Moiret Allegiere

(This is a poem I wrote some time back. Not exactly my usual topic, but I’ll share it nonetheless.)

I got drunk and
stayed all night
in burnt-out
toilet cubicles.

Old-school guillotine madness
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 floated overhead
head over heels
posthumous humour between
walls lined with graffiti pointing
at the road toward intentions;
paved with good hell.

Crude drawings and sketches
of cocks and cunts
and words alluding to
fornication
within this holy cubicle
within this inner sanctum
within 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
I fell 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
huddled under my cheap
trench-coat stained with vomit
and with booze and rot.

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 cried «NO!» elaborating
drunkenly on fingertips elusive
in this foul ravens-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 into
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
vicious despair
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.

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
impatience
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
I-don’t-give-a-fuck-anymore
sentiments.

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.

– Moiret Allegiere, 20.03.2019

_____________________________________________________________________________________

Links:

Visit my blog:

https://moiretallegiere.wordpress.com/

Check out my youtubechannel:

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Check out my bitchutechannel:

https://www.bitchute.com/channel/EvbGZyTZSraY/

Stalk me on social media (as long as it lasts):

twatter:

https://twitter.com/MAllegiere

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A quick update

Baphomet patriarch lowres

Ill: «Grand Patriarch (Or: Baphomet re-imagined for the age of nonsense)», A3, 2019, Moiret Allegiere.

 

Lately, I have been working on compiling a book.

The book is nothing more exciting than a collection of my blogposts, with some of my attempts at poetry thrown in there, I’m afraid. But it sure as hell keeps me busy! I aim to selfpublish this book within three months or so from now. The working title of the book, and the one I probably will land on is «Howling at a Slutwalk Moon», an apt description, even if I do say so myself.

I am also working on a book detailing my experiences with the mental health services, psycho-pharmaceuticals and the muddled mess this made of my sanity and my life. This will probably not be done until mid-to-late 2020.

These two projects take quite a lot of my time, and as such the wednesday posts have been little more than a drawing lately.

Got something going up on saturday on ideological purity and our tendency to learn nothing from history, thus allowing it to repeat itself over and over and over again.

And that is all.

Be well.

  • Moiret Allegiere, 13.03.2019

______________________________________________________________________________________

Visit my blog:

https://moiretallegiere.wordpress.com/

Check out my youtubechannel:

https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC3IaCxAXE3pQd7PCdvHoaaA

Check out my bitchutechannel:

https://www.bitchute.com/channel/EvbGZyTZSraY/

Stalk me on social media (as long as it lasts):

twatter:

https://twitter.com/MAllegiere

Gab:

https://gab.ai/Moiret_Allegiere

Minds:

https://www.minds.com/Moiret

Flickr:

https://www.flickr.com/photos/152465815@N04/

 

«Strangely metaphysical»

Metaphysical Lowres A4

 

Nothing but a drawing today as well. Writing a piece on suicide. This takes some time. Enjoy a strangely metaphysical drawing of a hand writing the words «Strangely metaphysical» in the meanwhile.

 

– Moiret Allegiere, 06.03.2019

_________________________________________________________________________________________

Visit my blog:

https://moiretallegiere.wordpress.com/

Check out my youtubechannel:

https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC3IaCxAXE3pQd7PCdvHoaaA

Check out my bitchutechannel:

https://www.bitchute.com/channel/EvbGZyTZSraY/

Stalk me on social media (as long as it lasts):

twatter:

https://twitter.com/MAllegiere

Gab:

https://gab.ai/Moiret_Allegiere

Minds:

https://www.minds.com/Moiret

Flickr:

https://www.flickr.com/photos/152465815@N04/

«Dawn»

Dawn

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

Nothing but a drawing today. I am working on a long-ish piece on circumcision. Or, male genital mutilation, to be more specific. It took me longer to write than I anticipated. So, please enjoy a psychedelic winter morning.

 

  • Moiret Allegiere, 27.02.2019

__________________________________________________________________________________________

links:

Visit my blog:

https://moiretallegiere.wordpress.com/

Check out my youtubechannel:

https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC3IaCxAXE3pQd7PCdvHoaaA

Check out my bitchutechannel:

https://www.bitchute.com/channel/EvbGZyTZSraY/

Stalk me on social media (as long as it lasts):

twatter:

https://twitter.com/MAllegiere

Gab:

https://gab.ai/Moiret_Allegiere

Minds:

https://www.minds.com/Moiret

Flickr:

https://www.flickr.com/photos/152465815@N04/

Lopsided Jesus

WWJD a3

Ill: Lopsided Jesus, A3, 2018, Moiret Allegiere

I`ve been celebrating christmas. So I haven`t gotten anything written of any substance. There will be something of substance this saturday, of course. In the meanwhile, please have a lopsided Jesus.

 

Your own lopsided Jesus

someone who heals your hangover

someone who cares

 

Your own lopsided Jesus

someone who pours the wine

someone who shares.

 

Moiret Allegiere, 26.12.2018

Searching for the lost boys

Searching for the lost boys A4 Lowres

Ill: «Searching for the lost boys», A4, Moiret Allegiere, 2018

 

Our boys are failing at schools. Consequently, they drop out of society. An entire generation of boys and young men left behind and forgotten. A generation of lost boys, searching for, yet never finding direction and purpose. We have decided it is better to grind them into dust instead.

I could drone on, but I won`t. Not today. Consider only this: it is not our boys failing at schools. It is our schools failing our boys.

Am I allowed to laugh at this? – A poem for the elucidated snowflakes in our midst.

Transcendental Blues A4 lowres

Ill: Transcendental Blues, A4, 2018, Moiret Allegiere

 

 

 
Hey there big government,
may I maybe laugh at this?
Or are my giggle-qoutas spent
on serpentine hatespeech-hiss
emanating from my every pore
and sweating from my golden
mucous-laden cis-het core;
thrice cursed and beholden
to your standard deviation
of rapturous and torturous
flaccid curious domination
of the vaporous and glorious
equality of constipation
as laid forth by erroneous
drunk and pseudo-metaphysical
intellectual part-time stimulus
who deadpanned, drugged, hysterical
tends towards incompetence?

Good morning dear, big brother, sir,
may I mayhaps maybe speak,
or are my dual testies such a blur
that you much prefer «protect the weak»
to anything which I alone declare
about this sudden state of woe
which you through tyranny prepare,
for us to pack and buckle up and go
somewhere you vaguelly labelled «new»
where faces through barbed wire grin,
then through incessant howls accrue
dubious layers of trans-generational sin
along paternal bloodlines old and mean,
or deemed as such from vantagepoints
whose decadent and pampered spleen
would see old and tired rheumatic joints
removed for progress and progress alone?

Good evening, Xister, gracious Xir
whose numerous labels illuminate transparencies;
neither noxious he nor saintlike her
to grace the present with abundant inconsistencies –
may I please receive my license to laugh;
my bi-monthly allowance of moderate giggling?
Or is it maybe justice served to split in half
the radical notion of humour making wriggling
forms and shapes of those of lesser worth than you?
Is it maybe so that neither his or hers should
transcend obstacles indifferent to your woo;
or ascend through laughter troubles which could
break the minds of those who, weak of will,
would never fathom liberty through comedy?
Those who traverse hardships extreme, and still
find the strength to laugh at statesanctioned travesty?

Woe unto you, drooling mad and moonfaced mob
of justice served through thoughtless crime;
a viscious cancerous infected blob,
a product of our superficial callous time
whose endless never-thinking rage
seeks offense where no offense is done;
whose imbecilic nonsense-plees encage
freeform-thoughts to make sure none
would ever find the courage to engage.
Whose cancer spreads through hate,
through vile and vicious mob-rule bullying
to make sure none would ever create
a movement clear and concise in defying
your lung-puncturing screech of incompetence
flowing on wafts of air in monosyllabic drools
brought on by dumbstruck identitarian decadence.

Good evening identitarian identity crisis,
vague and venomous and vile!
Could your suburbanite pawnshop ISIS
allow me my speech for a while,
or would it upset these fragrant gardens
of your comfortable middleclass;
these delicate withered petals of your wardens
who trapped you in this personhood of glass?
Would it threaten your victim-narrative
were I to raise my cis-het voice regarding
your pettiness; to say it is comparative
to sheltered prepubescent children guarding
their mudcakes in their sandbox-paradise?
Oh, would we then see your castles crumble
bit by bit and piece by piece
or hear your vacuum-voices mumble
something-something war is peace?