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
(you)
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.

Defendant,
primitive,
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
worthless
cold
callous.

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
word:
Catharsis.

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?
nevermind
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
bottoms-up,
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:
Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B089DHKBQB
Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B089M59JXF

Lonely Trainstation Blues – Poetry for the Lost Boys, Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07ZB6K2JX
Lonely Trainstation Blues – Poetry for the Lost Boys, Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1692495518

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

Other links:
Parler.com: @MoiretAllegiere
Blog: https://moiretallegiere.wordpress.com/
YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC3IaCxAXE3pQd7PCdvHoaaA
Bitchute: https://www.bitchute.com/channel/EvbGZyTZSraY/
twatter: https://twitter.com/MAllegiere
Gab: https://gab.com/Moiret_Allegiere
Minds: https://www.minds.com/Moiret
Flickr: https://www.flickr.com/people/152465815@N04/

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,
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 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
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.

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

My Generation Killed Rock «n» Roll:
Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B089DHKBQB
Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B089M59JXF

Lonely Trainstation Blues – Poetry for the Lost Boys, Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07ZB6K2JX
Lonely Trainstation Blues – Poetry for the Lost Boys, Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1692495518

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

Other links:
Parler.com: @MoiretAllegiere
Blog: https://moiretallegiere.wordpress.com/
YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC3IaCxAXE3pQd7PCdvHoaaA
Bitchute: https://www.bitchute.com/channel/EvbGZyTZSraY/
twatter: https://twitter.com/MAllegiere
Gab: https://gab.com/Moiret_Allegiere
Minds: https://www.minds.com/Moiret
Flickr: https://www.flickr.com/people/152465815@N04/

Author’s note, «My Generation Killed Rock N Roll»

(This is my Author’s note from the latest collection of ramblings. Get it via the links below.)

Author’s Note

31.03.2020.

Music fills the room as I attempt to write this introduction to this second collection of my very own home-grown writings, ravings, rants and ramblings.

Staring out the window, I see grey rubble, busted concrete, stones and bricks… pure destruction on the construction site.

Grey skies. Cold winds. A not insignificant threat of rain.

Grey buildings silhouetted against the grey sky.

Grey roads.

Filthy pavements.

An end-of-the-world feeling eats its way through everything. Blame Corona-chan for this apocalypse sensation; locking us down, forcing us into self-isolation to appease the beast and keep the viral pandemic at bay, subdued and somehow controlled.

Though, of course, for a pseudo-hermit such as myself, nothing much has changed excepting that a lot of businesses are closed… and the mail is even slower than usual.

What a year 2020 turned out to be, and as early as this! It does not bode well for the remainder of the year. What a fucking let-down this whole thing is, man.

Originally, I wrote an author’s note for this collection back in December of 2019, planning for a release in February or March of 2020. Things got in the way, however – external happenings over which I had no control, forcing a later release-date.

Hopefully all will now go as planned, and this collection of contrarian ramblings will find its place in the overflowing bookshelves of distinguished and scholarly gentlemen and ladies of culture, class and good breeding sometime in the merry month of May, 2020.

Yet, who the hell knows anything any more?

Nothing is ever certain. Over night, things became even more uncertain.

Hopefully I will manage it this time, as I won’t then be forced to write another introduction to these ramblings. Though, admittedly, being a sufferer of chronic keyboard-diarrhoea such as I am, writing an introduction is not a problem.

Ending it is.

I do not talk much, but by God do I write much.

Probably too much, come to think of it.

Oh well, that can’t be helped.

The ramblings within were originally published on my blog ( https://moiretallegiere.wordpress.com/ ) from January through December of 2019.

2019 was a remarkably rough year for me, with illness and pains and stress and struggles and trials and tribulations galore. More like than not, this is reflected in the ramblings within.

For better or for worse.

There are some pieces I did not include in this collection. Some of them ended up as being very repetitious. This may very well be all fine and dandy for a blog updated on a weekly basis. Not so much for a book, in my humble opinion.

Those who have followed the blog and/or my channels on YouTube and BitChute may perhaps notice that the “Why I am an Anti-feminist” series is absent from this collection. There is a simple reason for this: I aim to publish them in a volume for themselves.

Such a professional rambler am I.

Just gotta clean them up first, using all the professionalism granted me from my furious attempts at iron-willed self-discipline.

As we all should well know: the most important thing with a book is having a snappy title and an eye-catching cover.

I have yet to figure out either for the anti-feminist series.

The insides don’t matter any more. Our cultures suddenly decided that judging a book on its cover was the way to go.

Contradicting all prior wisdom and knowledge in the process.

I can not stand identity-politics at the best of times. Now, at the worst of times, I find I really and truly abhor it. Superficial traits has become the only thing that matters. And it is so cheap, so simple, so naive and so – ultimately – dehumanizing. Reducing people to their genitals, the colour of their skin and their sexuality is way too fucking quick-and-easy.

No wonder it got to be as popular as it is. We are losing our ability to focus, to concentrate, to spend any amount of time on anything.

Everything has to be quick, easy, simple and superficial… plastic and synthetic. Identity-politics is the product of a society gone astray, devolving into hedonism, decadence, debauchery and simplicity.

NOW it happens.

And NOW it is gone.

Nothing happens between the NOW and the NOW. Nothing substantial. Nothing that can be grasped, held and enjoyed. Straight from the NOW and straight onto the next NOW. With no thought about what consequence, if any, the NOW has on anything. Particularly not on the NOW.

Now we find ourselves in the grip-and-claw-and-teeth of a global crisis; a pandemic, in fact. The chickens come home to roost. NOW has suddenly become there, then, what, where and when. It is remarkably strange to experience. And I am curious to see what the outfall will be, curious to see if our priorities will shift when this crisis is over and done with.

Suddenly, there was something real and not imagined or manufactured to fight.

The brave solipsist warriors of moral virtue and navel-gazing social justice have no imagined and manufactured ill to fight any more. There is something true, something real, something substantial knocking at the door… something with real consequences… something worse than the latest Iphone being too big for the tiny hands of women; something more terrifying than the horrendously sexist air-conditioning.

Only time will tell what happens next. And what a time it will be!

In the meantime, I hope you will enjoy reading this book. I enjoyed writing the ramblings within very much.

Remember: it is quite alright to recommend it to friends and family as well.

How in the world am I supposed to feel like a true and proper professional writer, even if my writings is the product of naught but a humble thought-crime salesman, if I did not push my ramblings by proxy on unsuspecting victims of said thought-crimes? I hope you will enjoy the ramblings within. They are best enjoyed with a bottle of red wine, a glass of Xanax and a rusty chainsaw. As is how life is always best enjoyed.

With regards:

  • Please like, share and subscribe
  • Moiret Allegiere, 12.06.2020

Lonely Train-station Blues #5: Monsoons

Part 5 from my collection of poetry «Lonely Train-station Blues: Poetry for the Lost Boys», which can be bought by following the links below.

I dreamt monsoons as a kid

wired and lying still
and
wide awake
drowning in the nights satin madness.

And overcome with panic
floating in permanent
acid-solutions,
moon-mad and
colder than cold.

I dreamt tall trees
and
blasts of air
and
drunk death
behind waking
eyes

as a kid.

I dreamt faces of stone,
marbled, garbled visions
of faces closing in
laughing with silver-fangs

as a kid.

Locked in, stocked up and shaking,
vibrating ferociously with mild
hay-fever
and
ridiculous fever-dreams
stir-fried and stiff beneath lead-sheets
grasping at midnight-straws
the colour of swans
giving birth.

Midnight lovingly left me
drowning in perspiration
dripping of my waxy skin

with

Calligraphy-lips sealed by
mad-monk-kiss
sounds of sweat
and whispered breath

drip

drop

Reciting verses
cold-heart mantras
reading chapters
buried in my pillow,

Repeating repetition
repetitiously

same as before

as a kid.

Engulfed in plague baths
and
cobwebbed whispers
chanting my name
and
hollow sounds of
disembodied breathing
and
hallucinatory tactile
sensations prodding
flesh and skin and bone,
cold as cold and
limitless, yet encaged,
yet
enraged

as a kid.

Bright stars high and slow
dazed my late night
night-light frenzy
calculated
and
as cool as
corner-store bullies
showing down in
grievous ecstasy
noiseless
voiceless,

voiceless
and noiseless

lessons learned from
sleep deprivation

as a kid.

Talk-show gibbering rubbish
gibberish through paper-walls
and
down the up-stairs
and
slam
and
bam
and
wham
and
thank you
ma’am
with white noise
buzz and drone
and drone and buzz
sat I, nonplussed,
dreaming monsoons

as a kid.

Weird surreal dreams
and
wicked wide-eyed
white-out absurdities
went premeditatedly
clink-clonk,
trembling
in a wishy-washy
wishing well
and
white feather fantastically
burning
brighter than the
brightest flame
deep within the
great wild yonder
and
smoke signals
and
varied visions
and
salutations
and
greetings,
singing
greetings
singing
greetings
trembling
weirdly

as a

kid.

  • please like, share and subscribe
  • Moiret Allegiere, 08.06.2020

My Generation Killed Rock «n» Roll:
Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B089DHKBQB
Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B089M59JXF

Lonely Trainstation Blues – Poetry for the Lost Boys, Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07ZB6K2JX
Lonely Trainstation Blues – Poetry for the Lost Boys, Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1692495518

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

Other links:
Redbubble shop: https://www.redbubble.com/people/Moiret/shop
Blog: https://moiretallegiere.wordpress.com/
YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC3IaCxAXE3pQd7PCdvHoaaA
Bitchute: https://www.bitchute.com/channel/EvbGZyTZSraY/
twatter: https://twitter.com/MAllegiere
Gab: https://gab.com/Moiret_Allegiere
Minds: https://www.minds.com/Moiret
Flickr: https://www.flickr.com/people/152465815@N04/

Release «My Generation Killed Rock N Roll»

(Another collection of contrarian ramblings is now available! Way later than I intended, but that’s just how things go. Here is the foreword for it, written my Mrs. Allegiere herself. Get it by following the links below)

I am Mrs Allegiere, the wife of Moiret Allegiere.

My husband asked me if I would be interested in writing the foreword to his book.

After picking my jaw of off the floor and wondering why I was awarded this honour, I agreed.


As I’ve never written a foreword before I don’t exactly know what I am doing, but I will at the end let you know why you should buy and read this book!

To start this off I’ll let you know that I have never considered myself a feminist. Well, except for that time around 18 years of age when I got told that if I believed in equality I was a feminist. Luckily I quickly got over that, probably due to the fact that I usually keep to myself…


Some of you might think that this is impossible however, especially considering our society’s current state… and you would be correct.

I never considered myself a feminist, but feminist ideas are at the base of our educational system, so escaping them is damn near impossible to do.

And I didn’t.


Basic feminism was imprinted in me from an early age and I didn’t get rid of most of it until I was well into my 20’s. I didn’t care, it didn’t concern me and I didn’t have time to get into it.

This version of «equality» was just common knowledge right?


Wrong. So very wrong.

Most people would stake their life on their belief in equality, but are told that it means squat if you don’t say you are a feminist. So they consider themselves feminists. Of course. And I don’t blame them.

This, and so much more, is what is being challenged in «My Generation Killed Rock and Roll».

Moiret Allegiere collected a nice chunk of his poetically written blog entries to compile this book of harsh realities that challenges what we believe to be the truth.

He opens our eyes to a much darker world where our fathers, brothers, sons and spouses have to fight for survival.


Moiret draws from his own experiences as well as commenting on a select few of the big events in 2019. He does so with intelligence, courage and a fresh look. An angle our society rarely present us with.

But now, please get to the meat of this book! Go on to enjoy what this Juggler of Words, the Bearded Bard, Your Humble Host has to offer you.




– Mrs. Allegiere

  • Moiret Allegiere, 05.06.2020
  • Please like, share and subscribe

My Generation Killed Rock «n» Roll:
Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B089DHKBQB
Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B089M59JXF

Lonely Trainstation Blues – Poetry for the Lost Boys, Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07ZB6K2JX
Lonely Trainstation Blues – Poetry for the Lost Boys, Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1692495518

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

Other links:
Redbubble shop: https://www.redbubble.com/people/Moiret/shop
Blog: https://moiretallegiere.wordpress.com/
YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC3IaCxAXE3pQd7PCdvHoaaA
Bitchute: https://www.bitchute.com/channel/EvbGZyTZSraY/
twatter: https://twitter.com/MAllegiere
Gab: https://gab.com/Moiret_Allegiere
Minds: https://www.minds.com/Moiret
Flickr: https://www.flickr.com/people/152465815@N04/

Lonely Train-station Blues #4: God is

(From my collection of poetry, «Lonely Train-Station Blues», which can be bought by following the link below)

The spiritual path is a knuckle-sandwich, a blunt force smackdown in the middle of a crowded street.

It is the ugliness of catatonic despair slapped haphazardly upon your beating heart and at the same time lost in the beat of your heart.

It is the realm of the slow trains coming, trading loneliness for solace in solitude, trading dreams for reality, sleep for waking.

It is the beauty of the beat-down of all that once was known and that yet stood still, unknown.

It is the raging storm without and within going strong and going on still, in whose eyes and mildew-thighs one can find calm.

  • Please like, share and subscribe
  • Moiret Allegiere, 01.06.2020

Lonely Trainstation Blues – Poetry for the Lost Boys, Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07ZB6K2JX
Lonely Trainstation Blues – Poetry for the Lost Boys, Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1692495518

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

Other links:
Redbubble shop: https://www.redbubble.com/people/Moiret/shop
Blog: https://moiretallegiere.wordpress.com/
YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC3IaCxAXE3pQd7PCdvHoaaA
Bitchute: https://www.bitchute.com/channel/EvbGZyTZSraY/
twatter: https://twitter.com/MAllegiere
Gab: https://gab.com/Moiret_Allegiere
Minds: https://www.minds.com/Moiret
Flickr: https://www.flickr.com/people/152465815@N04/

Lonely Train-station Blues #3: Vacuum

(This is from my collection of poetry «Lonely Train-station Blues». It can be purchased by following the links below.)

Vacuum in
vacuum spread.

Together and
separate, vacuum
spreads in
vacuum ,
sealed and insulated,
indoctrinated and
in throves.

Spread in vacuum
vacuum values,
virtual supremacism
in hindsight.

Blind immaculate misconception
misconstruing niceties
hidden in
folds of valium-vacuum
as Benzo-Buddha arises
in this hazed mind,
hosed and enlightened.

Peculiar deeds and
misdeeds
seen as such in
vacuum-values
valued vigorously
with no minds
and little matter,

as long as
noone says anything
in vacuum
folds of
folky vacuum,
we grab coronations
or disparaties of
coronations
to construct
social equality
vacuum-wise.

In vacuum everyone
is equally
miserable and in
vacuum and under
the same sun:
vacuous and vague
exposing
nonbinary reality
misconstrued as
factual evidence

oh,
do
behave.

  • Please like, share and subscribe
  • Moiret Allegiere, 25.05.2020

Lonely Trainstation Blues – Poetry for the Lost Boys, Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07ZB6K2JX
Lonely Trainstation Blues – Poetry for the Lost Boys, Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1692495518

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

Other links:
Redbubble shop: https://www.redbubble.com/people/Moiret/shop
Blog: https://moiretallegiere.wordpress.com/
YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC3IaCxAXE3pQd7PCdvHoaaA
Bitchute: https://www.bitchute.com/channel/EvbGZyTZSraY/
twatter: https://twitter.com/MAllegiere
Gab: https://gab.com/Moiret_Allegiere
Minds: https://www.minds.com/Moiret
Flickr: https://www.flickr.com/people/152465815@N04/

Lonely Train-station Blues #2: Sleep

(As promised; part 2 of my collection of poetry «Lonely Train-station blues – poetry for the lost boys». The collection can be bought by following the links below.)

Raise the chains
towards death.

We cling to
immortality
rampant in
immorality,

believing strange
notions
decaying
in streets and
in gutters
believing
in sleep
long

and

arduous.

A process of
permanent
dissolution
and disillusion,

Building train-stations
in which
to grieve
the passage of time
black-footed
sure-footed

and lost

within these
withering ruins
of time,
where we
choose
to sing and
dance
and not to live
and not let live

as we raised
the chains
and waved at
death as
though
death would
never come
for
us.

Sheltered
in time
long forgotten and
blown away
from minds
blown away
excessively
poignantly
in pregnant
silence
about to burst
and give birth

to us.

At the moment
of death,
at the peak
of existence,

to us.

At the tail-end
of fear

at the beginning
of despair

to us

who laughed
where once
we wept

who sang
where once
we lived

who died
where once
we knew.

  • Please like, share and subscribe
  • Moiret Allegiere, 18.05.2020

Lonely Trainstation Blues – Poetry for the Lost Boys, Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07ZB6K2JX
Lonely Trainstation Blues – Poetry for the Lost Boys, Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1692495518

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

Other links:
Redbubble shop: https://www.redbubble.com/people/Moiret/shop
Blog: https://moiretallegiere.wordpress.com/
YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC3IaCxAXE3pQd7PCdvHoaaA
Bitchute: https://www.bitchute.com/channel/EvbGZyTZSraY/
twatter: https://twitter.com/MAllegiere
Gab: https://gab.com/Moiret_Allegiere
Minds: https://www.minds.com/Moiret
Flickr: https://www.flickr.com/people/152465815@N04/

Coming Soon: My Generation Killed Rock «n» Roll

Well, shit, I went and did it again!

Coming soon; another collection of contrarian ramblings. Most of the blog-posts of 2019; our previous current year. Cleaned them up some and threw them at paper, in the hope that they will stick. It will be available as a paperback and for Kindle. Titled “My Generation Killed Rock ‘n’ Roll”, because we kinda, sorta did. Besides, it’s a great fucking title – even if I do say so myself.

Missing from this collection, apart from a few ramblings which I thought were a bit repetitive, is the whole “Why I am an Anti-feminist” spectacle. They were so plentiful that they deserve their own volume, which will be coming out at some later date. Just gotta find the time to edit, re-write and so and such. Were I to put them in this volume, it would have been an enormous amount of pages. Keeping the “Why I am an Anti-feminist” series out of it, it is still at a whooping 425 pages. It was a productive year, if nothing else. Hopefully, it will prove itself to be quality as well as quantity.

Due to the brewsky bug, everything has been postponed. “My Generation Killed Rock ‘n’ Roll” was supposed to be published in March. But, oh, well – shit happens.

I could sit here all day, blowing smoke up my own arse and stroking my own ego in an effort to convince you to hand over your hard-earned cash for this chronicle of chaos. But I won’t. Rather, I’ll let someone else convince you (and stroke my ego for me). Listen to what this glorious triumvirate of deplorables have to say about the tome:

«No one chronicles with more tenderness and lyricism the contemporary conditions of men’s lives.»

– Janice Fiamengo, Professor of English (retired), University of Ottawa

«From the seductive opening lines to its final, unsettling conclusions, Moiret Allegiere’s, “My Generation Killed Rock N Roll,” is the gripping biography of a society living in the abyss of an ideological curse. It’s a page turning revelation of a book, punching at our sacred delusions with brass knuckles and tearing down the last of our pretty lies. It’s a brilliant, blockbuster effort that reminds me why Moiret Allegiere is my standalone favorite writer on men’s issues.»

– Paul Elam

My favorite men’s issues writer has done it again. Have you ever dreamed of wearing x-ray glasses? Allegiere takes apart the cultural hatred towards men in such a clear and effortless manner that is exactly what it feels like. You get to see right through the bullshit. He has a profound grasp on how the parts fit together and this book shares that in a unique and accessible fashion.

Reading My Generation Killed Rock and Roll will give you an extended and deep view into our cultural madness. Insightful, wonderfully offensive, clear… and did I mention he is really funny? My Generation Killed rock n roll consolidates the many ways our culture spouts its anti male venom. Highly recommended.

– Tom Golden

Hopefully, that’ll convince you to throw money at my book and, in so doing, support both the channels and the blog in a not insignificant way.

  • Please like, share and subscribe
  • Moiret Allegiere, 17.05.2020

Lonely Trainstation Blues – Poetry for the Lost Boys, Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07ZB6K2JX
Lonely Trainstation Blues – Poetry for the Lost Boys, Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1692495518

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

Other links:
Redbubble shop: https://www.redbubble.com/people/Moiret/shop
Blog: https://moiretallegiere.wordpress.com/
YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC3IaCxAXE3pQd7PCdvHoaaA
Bitchute: https://www.bitchute.com/channel/EvbGZyTZSraY/
twatter: https://twitter.com/MAllegiere
Gab: https://gab.com/Moiret_Allegiere
Minds: https://www.minds.com/Moiret
Flickr: https://www.flickr.com/people/152465815@N04/

Lonely Train-Station Blues #1: With This Writing

(As promised, I will be uploading my collection of poetry «Lonely Train-station blues», bit by bit and piece by piece, every Monday until it is done.)

I am writing this with immense pain
in my nuclear brain cavity
thoughts numbed by existential dread
in ungained high-strung muscletension.

I am writing this with fogged down
nuclear winter thoughts
a cotton-laced mind punctured by
knitting needles absolved of sin.

With this writing I am dumbstruck
cords wrapped round my neck
with skin dry as salted leather
white as churchbell-thuds.

With this writing I am ghostlike
apparations sprung from eyes like water
overcome with cold war despair
I shall seek your smile again.

Writing this I come undone unravelled
thoughts explode from maggots
tunneling through my fractured flesh
in laserblind poetic justice.

Writing this I find my reason
pain eludes the sharpedged pen
fingers race upon the parchment
I shall seek your smile again .

Lonely Trainstation Blues – Poetry for the Lost Boys, Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07ZB6K2JX
Lonely Trainstation Blues – Poetry for the Lost Boys, Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1692495518

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

Other links:
Redbubble shop: https://www.redbubble.com/people/Moiret/shop
Blog: https://moiretallegiere.wordpress.com/
YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC3IaCxAXE3pQd7PCdvHoaaA
Bitchute: https://www.bitchute.com/channel/EvbGZyTZSraY/
twatter: https://twitter.com/MAllegiere
Gab: https://gab.com/Moiret_Allegiere
Minds: https://www.minds.com/Moiret
Flickr: https://www.flickr.com/people/152465815@N04/