Beneath the Streets; A Song of Male Sacrifice:

Blue light spasm lowres

Illustration: «Blue Light Spasm», 2019, Moiret Allegiere

Beneath the streets of our civilization lie the burnt and mangled corpses of men. Centuries of rotten carcasses piled beneath our feet, upon whose skulls we trample and whose broken ribs forever carry the brute weight of our desired rampage towards the sunset.

In the midst of our rivers and our sewers flow the blood of men, coursing through our quick-and-easy lives as the pulse beats in our chests and juggle in our jugulars, cut deeply into our shared destiny and yet snap-chatted into complete and utter oblivion.

The smell of sweat mingled with the smell of molten metal; volcanic eruptions of steel-farms-and-mills tingling the spine of our calculated wreckage of the scenery—apocalyptic graveyards grey and industrial in streets naked and unafraid, unashamed.

Rising like the heaving chest of an asthmatic; black oozing smoke from coal-fires or explosions in mines underneath the feet of our history analysed by puritans in wretched excess—now forgotten, now pushed away as damage done to nature more than men.

Or perplexingly perceived to be damage done by men upon the face of earth; scars cut into her beating heart by the uncaring hands and terrorist actions of men wielding knives sharpened to pick-axe-points to dominate and destroy, to exterminate and terminate.

Drawn as damage done by pure malice, by ideological disinterest in the ecosystem and its careful symbiosis with the floral fauns of ages past; prophetic visions not of mechanical necessity but of the three X’s – Explore, Expand, Exterminate, building not on hope but upon hate.

And all the corpses maligned and magnified that line our streets and pampered pockets died in vain and—in some strangers eye—a pragmatic parasite to be displayed as archaic tools of oppression for doing what they had to do, not what they wanted to do…

…and all the blood pumped to and fro our synthetic urban symbiosis, picturing the city as an organism, heart pounding, carrying vessels to and fro to do the work and duty that need be done; heroes hidden in the everyday soot and grime of displaced malcontent…

…and all the dead and all the dying whose hearts and souls were lost in permanent war, worn down and torn asunder by outside forces in chivalrous regalia marching to defend and to protect their very own ifs and buts and homes and hopes and dreams…

…all our eyes turned away from the crucified and martyred millions who died and are still dying for ideals and for ideas which they did not understand or maybe even share, but whose heartbeats beat for all and one all at once; who was called to sacrifice for some wicked strangers dream…

…all our eyes turned away from the loss of innocence and loss of life and glimmer in the eyes of those who fell in line and fell into entrapment permanent within the grey brick walls of soul-sucking industry for their lives and the lives of their family in near-yet-forgotten history…

…all our eyes turned away from soul-crushing sacrifice done by men whose wish and will were for others to be better off in the future than he; whose calloused hands and blackened lungs illuminated by the fires and spasms of industry paved the road upon which we walk carelessly…

…for all who fell into the flames of indentured servitude, who made their mark upon the world and who were forgotten and unsung – we turn our eyes away and shake our heads in dutiful neglect to forget and sing a different song to different tunes…

…for all whose arms and legs and backs were beat and broken in picket lines naught but a century ago, who cut the dried umbilical cord of industrial infancy to raise the standards indefinite are now cut and dried in the scorching sun of vain and vacuous whining…

…for all whose tedious toil in the grubby mud and soil whose song should be sung and celebrated are left to die in the annals of history as burdensome and oppressive tyrants; patriarchs of unchecked privilege existing at the cost of the suffering of others…

others whose toil and blood and meagre existence were hampered not by him but by the society in which they co-existed in dire circumstance and need, burnt by the scorching rain of dehumanized elitism in serfdom mimicked and mirrored in the days as the days were then…

…we sing of him and they and them as de facto Machiavellian tyrants, wielding uncensored power with machinelike efficiency, heaping scorn and ridicule upon the memory of past-time struggles where times were hard for all and one, not merely for her…

…we sing of him and they and them as all their struggles are all but forgotten in the moonlit glow of easy times birthed by his struggles and careless self-sacrifice done in the daring glow of the hope that is the new daze of new days dawning in the unforeseeable future…

…we sing of him and they and them as simplified black/white explorations of history viewed through binocular lenses cracked and covered in soot by a generation – give or take – of easy living relative to the past whose presence we have dutifully decided to forget and revise…

…we sing of him and they and them as were he and they and them enemies of the women and children for whom blood were spilt for the sake of them and of future generations; for whom backs were bent and bones were broken on the road to better living…

…we sing of him and they and them as if they matter none in the building of our easy day-daze societies, where we now find ourselves lost dancing in the silver light spat upon us by the moon under whose streaks of silver we have fallen into thankless, dubious, immediate lives…

…we sing of him and they and them as relics of some former era of male supremacy under whose boot and heels all who were not men were crushed and smothered into relentless compliance with his governing will and steel-tipped iron glove of rape…

…we sing of this and of that, remembering little and knowing even less, permanently googling the eye of the beholder as though the eye of the beholder matter more than the beholden who wore the rags of deep despair and desperate danger to save others at the cost of himself…

…we sing of this and mumble about that, understanding little, and caring even less, about the men upon whose shoulders we grandstand to amplify our virtue by caring about everyone but him and his life, his sacrifice and premature industrial accident or war-planned death…

…we sing of this and celebrate that and forget – in our relative ease of living, in our somewhat simple lives – the many centuries of dead and broken men below our feet where we walk with ease, carrying Instagram-models in our pockets and thinking no further than our memes…

…we celebrate this and sing of that, as all our shared struggles and all our historical nuance and difficulty and nuanced difficulty is flaccidly flashed into unblinking social-media existence dragging on into our self determined societal suicidal samba…

…we forget this, as we shame that which we should remember with reverence and respect; our water still poured from sinks by the blood of men, our pocket computers built upon the rotting corpse-hands of those men who died for our lives, whose lives and memories we now shame.

Beneath the streets of our civilization lie the burnt and mangled corpses of men. Centuries of rotten carcasses piled beneath our feet, upon whose skulls we trample and whose broken ribs forever carry the brute weight of our desired rampage towards the sunset.

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 – Moiret Allegiere, 27.07.2019

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The Cult of Feminism Proper; a secular religion with all the bells and whistles of a dimly lit lighthouse:

When the musics over lowres

Illustration: «When the Music’s over», 2019, Moiret Allegiere

 

Have you accepted Dworkin into your heart and soul?”, she says, brushing a strand of hair dyed the colour of danger away from her eyes as she longingly sucks on her cigarette.

It’s all here, in the scriptures,” she continues, blowing a cloud of acrid blue-tinged smoke from her lips, half parted, cracked and vibrating with some strange inner restlessness almost, but not quite, mimicking nervousness, “embracing the light of feminism will release you from all your woes and worries. In finding Sacred Dworkin and Feminism, I also understood and found my place in this world.”

She fumbles around in her purse for a while, cigarette resting solemnly in an ashtray meant to mimic a pair of labia lips. Gazing around her room, I see, amidst the chaos and turmoil of empty bottles and strange exotic teas, posters hanging on the walls reminding her solemnly, with big bold words, that she is, in fact, a slave and a victim of circumstances beyond her control. In a strange and prophetic manner, these same posters miraculously manage to claim strength; a powerful and exemplary powerlessness; strength through weakness.

I was lost, you see. But now I am found.” She reappears from her purse and hands me a bundle of pamphlets, very similar to the posters in design and – I assume – in message. “It’s strange, how obvious it all is when someone just points it out to you. It’s not me, you see, it is the thrice-cursed Patriarchy pushing and prodding me, forcing me into bad decisions that have impacted my life in this most horrible manner.” Here, she closes her eyes and, with much reverence, makes the sign of the Holy Womb in the air. “My circumstance is not of my making. Girl howdy, was I happy when I figured that one out. Now I spend my days spreading the gospel and the teachings to any whom I encounter.”

Against such conviction one would be hard pressed to argue, I think, as I sip the bitter tea and ponder what the hell I am doing here in the first place. Some strange force compelled me into this darkly lit room, yet I can scarce understand it. It is not her room – that much is for certain – there is a certain air of… headquarters… floating around in here, scents of hustling and bustling… evidence of meetings… stains of strange liquids on the tablecloth and on the carpet… a sacrificial altar of sorts placed in a corner… soiled tampons strewn about the place… a strong smell of sweat… of body odour… a gust of decay… walls crumbling… broken windows mended with sanitary napkins… bloodstained dinner plates… S.C.U.M manifestos printed for cheap mass-consumption… gloom and doom… a meaningless search for meaning… a strong sensation of teenage activism… simplistic and naive… political know-it-all-ism… dogmatic explorations made to explain it all… religious undertones… pinned to the wall… crucified martyrdom… a lonely acceptance of vile submission… crumbling walls… crumbling narratives… clinging to myths as though they were true…

I thank her for the tea, grab the pamphlets and solemnly declare my intention to read them as I make ready to leave before more inhabitants of this foul cesspit arrive. She looks at me with eyes that do not see me, with eyes that see right through my skull and sees goodness knows what in my place: “You had better read them, fuckface!” Her whole demeanour changed in an instance. Where once was a sort-of, kind-of, distanced friendliness there is now only dishevelled madness. I assume she understood my intentions not to read the pamphlets. I assume the holy ghost of Dworkin inhabited her body for a split-second. I assume religious madness in place of reason. I assume many things, as I stumble backwards towards the door, never once losing eye-contact lest she stabs me in the back in a religious frenzy, driven by the certainty of her convictions and the quest for salvation, driven by a fanatical desire to cleanse the world of the unclean, unsaved, the ones who are not baptized in period-blood… the ones who have not accepted the light; the Dworkin, the Vulva and the Holy Womb.

*

We search for meaning and we think we find the answer.

These lives of ours is a great stumble and tumble towards the grave; a great wide chasm between birth and death that has to be filled with something. The eternal search for meaning is a confounding spectacle of weirdness. The meaning of life, I think, is not found. Nor is it meant to be found. It is permanently sought; life being more about the journey than any conclusion. Considering that the conclusion to life is death, which, in itself, makes little meaning, little sense, little of anything, there is little reason to keep searching for an answer to this age-old question. So pass the time with tiny tipsy trivialities instead, point to this and point to that to define and to explain something that is above and beyond explanation; always burying the fear of death and meaninglessness beneath layers of problems created to build an illusion of answers and of meaning. Then claim you have found the answer; that you have found meaning in that which is absurd and meaningless.

Life.

Consciousness.

Meaning.

Seeking answers in the meaningless is, quite literally, meaningless.

This is, obviously, not to say that one can not have meaning, goals and things of that nature in ones own life. Of course one can. To claim, however, that there is some overarching answer to the massive spectacle of life that is easily broken down into black/white good/evil and so forth and so on builds a fantasy upon which one can do little but point fingers and proclaim that all must live as oneself does and believe and act accordingly.

Humanity are, to my insomniac eyes, exemplary and fantastic in this regard, in this grand quest for answers where there is no meaning. For we are blessed with consciousness and curious curiosity, with an urge to seek and to explain the why, the what, the wherefore and whereto.

I consider this inquisitiveness, this curiosity to be one of the greatest traits of humanity. Don’t get me wrong.

The problem lies not in the ones who seek, but in the ones who claim to have the answer and, as such, the solution beyond any flicker of a doubt. People of that nature are so often blinded by their belief to such an extent that they do not consider other points of view. Minds that are shut down, that are closed forever to outside influence because they claim to have the one and only answer. As such, there is no need for further questions. In particular when their own convictions and beliefs are questioned. This is fanaticism 101. And a strong and determined stumble towards doom.

I am not the first, nor will I be the last, to make strong comparisons between religion and the victim-cult that is feminism. Other people, far more brilliant and insightful than myself, have made this claim already.

…And it is easy to see why.

Now, I would like to make it perfectly clear that this is not an attack on religion on my part. My issue lies not in what people personally believe. Nor does it lie with religion. My issue lies with people who demand that everyone who does not believe as they believe, who does not believe as fervently and blindly as they believe, must be forced to believe as they believe.

It all boils down to belief, as nothing these people state can be proven. And when disproven they still cling to their beliefs as though their beliefs are the only thing that brings any meaning or joy to their lives. As though their entire world would tumble and crumble were they to change their views. Or even question their views. In part, I suppose, this is because their entire identity is built around this one label, this one world-view in which the world is built upon smouldering ruins, ash and dust.

The bothering part of this way of thinking comes when people are so driven by their blindness that they aim to impose – with force – their meaning upon others. That they chose, willingly, to assault, harangue, harass and otherwise bully people into compliance, into conforming to their meaning, their path, their God and chosen destiny as though there is no other variables, no other path, no other meaning to be sought. People who claim to have all the answers are wilfully blind and should be stripped of their titles and their pride. They should be re-located to pig-farms or something of that nature, to leave the podium open to people who are humble enough to admit that they do not know with certainty, but they have an idea and would you please consider it, thank you very much.

Feminism is a secular religion.

It has its own canon of anointed saints. It has its own dogmas and rules and regulations. Its own scriptures and weird effigies. It has myths that will not die, despite being debunked time and again, despite being proven to be wrong. It is built around the belief that women are the chosen tribe, and that men are both God and the Devil; the ones responsible for all the evils of the world as well as being the ones meant to fix it all.

Women, in the eyes of feminism, are good for nothing but being slaves, permanently downtrodden and oppressed no matter what they do. And no matter what is done to ease the path women as a group walk through life, feminism will mumble and grumble and complain that it is not good enough. Because how could it be?

How can anything be good enough for the chosen tribe?

They are, after all, the chosen, and so they deserve anything, no matter how ridiculous. And it is men that must do for them, as men are God and the Devil. Women are but mere humans – an elevated tribe of humanity, perhaps, but human beings after all, no more capable or culpable than ants in an anthill. Whereas men are capable of all, and so must use this capability to ease the path women have to walk, poor wretches that they are. Women are, by the insistence of feminism, naught but humble servants, capable only of submitting to the actions of wicked men, hidden behind the obscenely obtuse God-Devil dichotomy that is the “patriarchy”. God works in mysterious ways, and so, even when doing good, it could be considered bad. And the Devil is a tempting and alluring son-of-a-bitch, and his temptations are difficult to resist for anyone, man or woman.

One need look no further than the words and deeds of feminism when faced with a woman so bold as to proclaim that she is in fact not oppressed, nor does she fear or detest men as a whole, to see the beast unveiled. They reach firmly and deeply into their bag of tricks to explain to her why she is wrong, that she is in fact oppressed and can not do what men can do, can not reach the heights that men reach for being held down for her gender and naught but her gender, so help me Dworkin! If she does not consider herself oppressed, feminism will do all that they can to make sure that she sees herself as oppressed. Even disregarding her lived experience, despite the importance feminism places upon lived experience, to disprove her. For feminism holds the answer.

And the answer to their wretched lives and inner turmoil is that they are not responsible for it. They carry the brunt and the burden of womanhood, which must be celebrated and detested in equal measure; which must be hoisted high above the gloomy reality of the world and must see no evil, hear no evil, feel no evil; which can do no evil, speak no evil and so forth and so on. It is the patriarchy making her believe she is not oppressed; that her choices and actions are her own and not those of the patriarchy. If she would only welcome the light of feminism into her heart and soul, she would see how oppressed she is. Her eyes will open to the realities of her slave-existence, and she will recoil in horror and let them baptize her in period-blood and see herself as one of the chosen tribe, put on earth to suffer such hardships at the hands of the patriarchy that she actually believe that her choices are her own and not driven by the nebulous hands of the Patriarchy, all-knowing, all-seeing, all-devouring that it is.

The devil made her do it, in other words.

And to repent for her sins, she must accept into her heart the shining light of feminism.

She must eat the cracker of communion baked with vaginal yeast; drink the period-blood of their saviour presented her and celebrate her vagina and her vulva and her womb as her own divinity and divine grace; her only saving grace, in fact.

Hell; they even have pussy-hats; a curiously non-obscene obscenity to wear as symbols of their tribe and truth and path and what-have-you. Just as a whole host of other religions wear headgear as a signifier of their faith.

Setting this female-centric and culturally dominant secular religion alongside the gynocentrism in our species – the biological reality that women are more important than men are for the continuation of the species – and you have yourself a secular religion driven as much by the primitive reptilian brain as it is by popular vote; that one must protect women – and children – above all, if this whole meaningless drivel of existence is to be driven forward. In protecting women the way that we tend to do, we accept and tolerate far more venom and vile and spite and wickedness from women than we do from men.

Feminism even goes so far as to insist that it is the other way around!

Because they do not live in reality, but in myths, legends, fairy-tales and fantasies. So, when feminism and its cohorts claim that men are all evil, all contributors to the nonsensical “rape-culture”, all guilty of oppressing women, we cave in and we apologize and we crawl on our bellies to beg forgiveness and swear to do all that we can to alleviate the burden of women. For a chance of procreation. Even if that means blatantly discriminating against men; even if that means blatantly hating and shaming all men for being men; even if that means placing all responsibilities on men for everything bad. And stripping men of the honour for anything good.

We do this, instead of calling it out for the bigoted, nonsensical, hateful and dishonest screech, vomit and noxious waste that it is. Because this society just hates women so-so-so much that we bow our heads and necks in silent submission and acceptance and allow this, that and the other from women which we would not tolerate from men. Because this society so hates women that we have allowed the female-centric cult of feminism to dominate the cultural narrative for the past sixty years or so; demanding all men apologize profusely and pave the road in front of women with rose-petals, gold and diamonds of the rarest and bloodiest sort.

And it is never good enough.

And the nonsensical screech never ends.

For now, the lines in front of women’s toilets are too long. And this is the fault of men. Blame men, then, blame the patriarchy, instead of spending less time on the toilet.

For now, the air-conditioning in office spaces are too cold for women, and this is the fault of men. Despite women’s dress-codes in these places allowing for far lighter and cooler clothing than the dress-codes do for men.

For now, in case of divorce, a proposed default 50/50 shared parenting is somehow a step back for women. This despite feminism claiming that mothers are the default winners of custody because of patriarchy hating women.

For now, women should not have to suffer imprisonment if they have committed heinous crimes. Men should still have to suffer this, of course.

For now, any accusation of rape must be believed at once and not investigated, thus removing the presumption of innocence, removing the need for evidence, removing due process.

For now, as it always have been, men are the only ones capable of domestic violence and as such men who are victims of domestic violence at the hands of women need no support and are given no support nor belief. This despite evidence quite clearly to the contrary presented time and again.

For now, women can not rape men.

For now, women are more often victims of violence than men are, despite the opposite being true.

And on.

And on.

And on.

And still they yammer on, lost endlessly within this perplexing maze of their own design, dimly lit clitoral corridors of self-assured weakness, frailty, insecurity and lack of personal agency clothed, for some peculiar and unbelievable reason, as strength in adversity! Feminism handcrafted a monstrous being; a beast of the apocalypse, hidden behind the ever-changing concept of equality.

And that is then: equal to whom, and equal how? For true equality in how our societies both view and treat the genders would most definitely be a step down for women. Feminism built this world in which they honestly believe that men are treated superior to women; they propose solutions to problems they themselves dreamt up in silent bedsits and boudoirs, egged on by a sensation that Me myself and I have suffered this, and someone else – namely men, namely God, namely the Devil, namely the patriarchy – must be to blame. Then demanding privilege – in the truest sense of the word, being: “private law” – for them being women and that is all there is to it.

Gripped by the religious fervour and blind submission to faith that one can only find in the most frightfully self-assured believers in myths and legends, in unproven and disproven claims that still persist, they still persist in claiming to hold the answer. And that answer is quite simple: we must do all we can to help women. With the other side of the coin of course stating that we need not help men. For men are both God and the Devil, not the chosen tribe, not even human. And in the midst of it all, in all the chaos and spectacle and noise and confusion, the question and the quest are both forgotten to those who claim to have the answer.

 – Moiret Allegiere, 29.06.2019

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A Me Too Dance Macabre:

God is in the morning coffee lowres

Illustration: «God is in the morning coffee», Moiret Allegiere, 2019

 

Feel that hard-and-fast rapid pounding of your heart. Skip the occasional beat. Easing into panic. Survival-instinct gently tapping at the base of your skull; reptilian brain taking control. Body is now moving on instinct, habitual, old, primal, unthinking, unfeeling, uncaring, acting on pure unfiltered reflex, on gag-reflex.

Uncontrollable.

Untameable.

Outside, the winds are howling. A blizzard building up. The storm is at your door. Frigid winds rattling the windows and tap-tap-tapping at your shelter. Mingled with the howling of the winds are a howling of the wolves. Some mad will, some divine force, is at play. The gods are angry. Raging. Judgement day is upon you. Upon us all. It is the rapture.

It is not the wrath of some usually benevolent God rightly scorned by some pagan idol raised in mockery and affront. It is the wrath and ruin of the old Gods, more human than human. Gods whose form and shape and questionable morality is one not to be trifled with. It is the divine will and wrath of the one who is known as I am; the unquestioned and unchallenged authority under whose gaze you damned well better fall to your knees and pray forgiveness for your sins lest you shall be cast into the fires of hell, eternally damned, your name and the name of your family besmirched for all eternity.

The wolves are hungry, ravenous. They can smell blood and fear and sweat on the howling winds. Thriving on terror and the will and word of the pantheon of ancient Gods, they seek their prey with severe determination. The pack lacking in morality and in thought, lacking in all but the most basic of urges: to survive. Their survival hinges on the pack and on the word and will of the old Gods; the dominant figures in their severely limited understanding of the world.

Should they stray from the pack and beaten path, the pack will turn their bloodshot eyes and hungry jaws at them. All of one mind, driven by the same desires; to rend, to rip, to tear asunder all who oppose the will of the Gods, lest they be cast from the flock, losing the ability to survive in this harsh nuclear winter of nonsensical commands radiating from the insane pantheon of Gods; the ladies divine.

On the wind and in the howls, one can hear words softly whispered. Clouded and veiled beneath the mania and madness. There should, I think and I suppose, be little doubt as to what those words are. A slight whisper, dramatic and judgemental, the forced victimhood narrative of the ruptured divinely divided: “hashtag me too”.

The passing of judgement from the choir of divine hysteria, from the Gods fantastic, pounded into the collective mind of the pack. Rusted nails penetrating skulls. Digging deep. A beautiful lobotomy, a wondrous emptying of the soul and of the reason. Now they smell and see and understand in their hunger and in their thirst only blood. It is a quest seeking divine vengeance for perceived and manufactured ills and trespasses, vengeance so driven by imbecilic notions of moral superiority and mob-mentality that no law nor letter of the law shall halt the march of justice legionnaire. That no consequences of their actions shall be taken into account. And all will be, and shall be, and must be part of the pack.

Stray not, divide not.

Join.

Strength in numbers.

All must join, or all must despair.

All must join when bid to dance the me too dance macabre.

Magnificently, in a trance, all must dance to its rhythm and its voice; all must pound the ground to mud beneath their feet and follow the alluring squeal of the tuneless fiddle playing the death of justice waltz. To end the barbarism, the uncivilized violence of men and of their muckraking sexuality. All must move to the ferocious beat together with the pack, all must dance and feel and feed the fanatical fire and hallucinogenic trance that is the me too dance macabre.

In its wake, the pack and storm and howl and trance leaves behind a trail of broken homes and broken men. A call for immediate judgement passed, for unquestioned belief of nothing but a word, a sentence, a syllable expressed with no need or demand for evidence. A call for absolute blind submission to the word and nothing but the word from the old Gods. For the pack. To the pack. For the Gods divine. Believe the word and not the evidence. Evidence is a trifle, an object getting in the way of ravaging and pillaging and wholesale slaughter.

This is mob-justice born from an absurd belief that women never lie.

Women, you see, are not human beings.

Come closer to the fire and I shall tell you all about it.

Women, you have to understand, are above the likes of men. They have ascended to the next step of human evolution; morality elevated above such trivial human behaviours as lies and slander and similar petty nastiness. Far removed from the lowliness of vengeance and cheap-and-nasty power-grabs. This is the domain of men, you see, an as of-yet wholly unawakened and primitive gender still caught in the primal state of the apes from whose loins they once sprung.

It is a witch-hunt not far removed from the middle ages. The lynch-mob lurching behind the corner-store dumpster, pitchfork-wielding maniacs with nooses pre-tied and assembled, ready to string some poor bastard up for the good of the pack, to cleanse the air of these horrid affairs brought down from the devil and the untermensch both, working in perfect synchrony, in perfect harmony.

*

This ramble is a belated attack on the me too movement. The worst storm is over; the immediate rush of self-righteous moral grandstanding have faded to a slight whisper and tremble in the reeds. Of this I am aware.

The wolves are still lurking around, though, as the legacy of the movement lives on and thrives. The remnants of the movement; of the divine will and divisiveness of the Gods lie on the ground, radiating ear-shattering hatred and stupidity to all who come in contact with its beat and rhythm; to all who braved the dance macabre of this movement.

Complete belief and submission to the word and whisper of a woman.

And not of a man.

For men who have experienced sexual harassment and assault need not apply. That was made clear in the very beginning of the days of judgement; made evident by the blood-lusting pack howling that this movement was only for women. In so doing they purposefully erased any voices countering the narrative of toxic men and fragile women so that the public’s perception of the movement and what it is supposedly based on lies squarely betwixt their paper-tissue thighs and flushed and flustered bosoms, heaving in fragile anticipation with every hyperventilated expression of disgust.

The narrative then pushing, prodding and poking the idea that this is something only women experience and only men perpetrate. Which is what the public at large sees. Because that was all they were allowed to see by the divine will hiding behind the lynch-mob and their hive-mind displays of noble virtue.

The claws and jaws and sneers and snarls of the pack and of the lynch-mob ignoring centuries of justice and the evolution of justice wherein innocence is assumed and guilt must be proven beyond a shadow of a doubt. By painting this as some manner of attack on women. That a woman should not be believed on a word and nothing but a word is discriminatory against women, because of reasons having to do with the virtue of vulva and vagina, the honesty emanating from every pore and womb of sanctified womanhood.

For women never lie. Apparently. To state that women lie, just as men lie, is contrary to equal treatment of the genders. For we live in the post-apocalyptic clown-world reality; a poorly executed psilocybin trip in the hollowed-out cranium of someone who is clinically insane.

For what reasons should women lie about sexual assaults, or harassment or trespasses on their honour?

Considering the social nature of humanity, it is not too far-fetched to think that merely being included in the pack and mob and rage and wrath of the dominant movement should suffice; to not be on the outside of the flock, but in the midst of its warmth and strength and mutually assured survival through strength in numbers. Humanity is so easily ensnared by the howl of the pack, by the popular movements. So easily corrupted by the whim and will of the mob that we tend to lose our minds and our ability to critically analyse something the moment the mob takes precedence and festers in our minds and grows in our spines. One does not wish to be cast out. So submit. So belong. So be a good little boy or girl and do and say as the pack do and say.

…Or it might be the social brownie-points and scores of empathy wheeled their way from claiming to have experienced some ill or other. As the dominant narrative of our day is one of men being bad, men are easy victims for selfish twat-waffles who see no qualms in destroying someone’s reputation, life and livelihood to strengthen their own.

…or it might simply be regretting a sexual encounter.

…Or it might be revenge. Or it might be wishing promotion. Or it might be to win custody of children in a divorce case. It might be any number of reasons, easily seen and found the moment one actually considers that women are human beings and not some angelic creatures of pure innocence sent to save the world from the likes of men.

In being human beings, women are just as capable as men are of doing bad merely for doing bad, for damaging and hurting and maiming and ruining. Women have the capacity, just as men have the capacity, to utilize whatever tool is at their disposal to get their way, to get their vengeance, to gain this, that or the other.

I don’t think it wise to underestimate the ability of humanity to abuse a position of power.

The ability to have someone destroyed merely on a word, on an unfounded accusation, is undoubtedly wielding a tremendous amount of power. Considering that everyone and their grandmas rush in to the accusers defence no matter what they say, no matter how dubious their accusations are… well, that has got to give some incredible sensation of power, of being morally just, some incredible surge of dopamine.

In this dawning of our collective psychosis, where immediate gratification is the name of the game, the populace is addicted to constant gratification. It is the new drug-of-choice for a society who has lost its way.

This gratification, then, fuelled by social acceptance through social media and the power of the mob-mind, the hive-mind, the wanting-so-badly-to-belong-and-be-accepted-that-nothing-else-matters-mind undoubtedly has the power to make it so that nothing else matter. The addiction must be fed. The wolves must have their pound of flesh; the Gods must have their sacrifice on the altar of social acceptance. And all values be damned. All notions of justice be gone, the blood-sacrifice be done, for ever and ever. Amen. And the ostracised and fractured collective of men must pay the price.

Again.

The wolves have got their pound of flesh. And then some. It would be easy to post a list of men whose lives have been ruined merely by an unfounded accusation of sexual misconduct. It would also be easy to post a list, naming and shaming some of the prominent women of the me too movement who, as events have unfolded, have been accused of sexual misconduct themselves. You will forgive me for giggling a bit and mumbling something about psychological projection and hypocrisy while I sharpen my pitchfork and light my torch, I hope. I have put some links down below. Please take a look.

I would like to focus on one recent case in particular. It is fairly new, and it is absolutely tragic. To my mind, this shows how incredibly quickly judgement is passed. And how unthinking our society has become, how uncaring and unfeeling it is where men are concerned. It shows how quick people are to lose their heads and minds and marbles if a woman says that a man has done something, anything, to insult her honour. Medieval chivalry is on display again. We dance the same dance we have always danced, the same tune is played. And yet – we do not recognize it and we do not change the tune. We do not see it for what it is. For we are blinded by the deification of women and the demonizing of men.

Michael Fife, a 62 year old man, was killed. His life was snuffed in an instant. Based on nothing but the word of a sixteen year old girl. This girl, whose identity of course is kept safe and secure under lock and key for the ills it would cause her were it to be revealed, told her seventeen year old brother – whose identity is also kept secret – that Fife had sexually assaulted her on a bus.

Her brother, donning the chivalrous armour of good and proper knights of old, rushed in to defend her honour. How did he defend her honour? By lying in wait at the bus-stop to attack this man who had, allegedly, imposed upon her honour. By her word and will and whim alone. And so he tackled this beastly man to the ground, knocking him out. He then fled the scene, like the brave, courageous and cowardly defender of his sister’s virtue that he undoubtedly is. What a god-damned shame that the surveillance video captured on the bus shows Fife merely walking by this girl. Nothing happened.

Just some random stranger, now dead. A horrible man so delusional as to believe that he is free to inhabit the same space as a woman; to walk past a woman on the bus.

No cause for concern here. Women don’t do no bad, you know. Women never lie about these things. You must believe women. Which is exactly what her brother did. Beyond a shadow of a doubt, he believed her. And in so doing, ruined his own life by killing an innocent man.

By merely claiming that someone had sexually assaulted her, this girl is now wholly responsible for ruining two lives. One must live with the fact that he has killed an innocent stranger, and take the punishment for it. Another is dead. Dead. There is no bouncing back from that.

And for what? For kicks, for shits and giggles? For power, for might, for feeling influential? For wanting to be part of the latest societal hysteria; to join the mob and the pack? For what is this man dead and her brother doomed? It is absolutely tragic.

Without a doubt, the brother needs to face consequences for his actions. I can not help but fear, however, that his punishment will be far more severe than that of his sister. Even when none of this would – presumably – have happened, had she not lied in the first place. This is her using violence by proxy. Claiming something happened that never happened, and then this stupid sod of a brother rushing in to take revenge on part of his sister, whose sanctity and purity and honour was now despoiled for being… what exactly? Assaulted, groped, brushed at by a stranger walking past her? Did he simply look at her in a manner she did not like?

For the life of me, I can not understand this complete disregard shown for truth; this complete lack of respect and compassion shown to a fellow human being. I can not fathom the depths of soul-less egotism needed to show this level of disdain for someone else’s life, personhood and character. This goes for both the brother and the sister in this scenario. I assume and suppose that the brother did not mean to kill the poor man. But what the hell does one expect when slamming the head of a 62 year old man into the ground? He was picked at random. Picked to die. For no reason what-so-ever. Let that sink in for a moment.

Not one of these teens stopped for a moment to think and to consider their actions. Or the consequences of their actions. Not one of them thinking that they may be doing wrong. It is such a tragic fucking story, and the weight and brunt and cause of this tragedy lies completely at the chest and shoulders of the girl, without whose selfish stupidity none of this would have happened.

I am reminded of the Mark Pearson case, linked below. At some point, I wish to write on his case as well. That case is a study of absolute absurdity. So absurd, in fact, that one would not be at fault for having a hard time believing it actually happened. But it did. It is absolutely Kafka-esque.

Despite of this, despite of numerous similar cases, despite this gut-reaction from all bloody society to anything a woman whispers, says, or whimpers where some sexual trespass is concerned… feminism dares to make the claim that we live in a rape-culture where rape of women is celebrated; where rape of women is not taken seriously as a crime. The evidence to the contrary is clear for all to see in the death and destruction of men whose name and life is ruined by nothing but baseless accusations; by nothing but the word of a woman.

In our societies, rape of a woman is the most heinous crime one could commit. Overshadowed, perhaps, only by murder. If the murdered is a woman.

Even if cleared of any and all charges. Even when completely redeemed, the lives of these men who are falsely accused is ruined. Their reputation is gone. Dragged through the mud, to be passed on to the judging hands of society, of the pack and anthill, the swing of things, the lynchers. This is a society that does not forget. News spread so quickly. And the outrage-machine is even quicker. Few receive, or believe, the follow-up news that tell of their innocence. The lack of anonymity for those who are accused makes it so that vigilante justice is doled out, even after found to be innocent. And the paper-trail, the digital trail, the accusation will always be there, for all the world to see.

A proposed solution to this is simple and twofold:

1) guaranteed complete anonymity for anyone accused of anything. I assume this will be objected to by feminism, who objects to just about anything if there is a scent of justice there for anyone not female. Forgetting, of course, in the heat of the moment, that this means female perpetrators are also guaranteed anonymity.

2) making false accusations of rape a punishable offence in-and-off itself, carrying sentences similar to the sentence the innocent accused would have gotten, were they to be found innocent. Of course, this also carries with it the idea that accusing someone of something on social media would also be out of the question. Let us hope that it will.

One wonders, then, if actually having to face consequences for their actions would make these women who falsely accuse men of sexual something-or-other think twice before doing so? Because, as it stands, there is no punishment for doing so. No punishment, that is, for anything but wasting police time and resources. For of course: what matters is not that some innocent man has been ruined for life. What matters is the precious resources wasted by the police.

The lives of men don’t matter.

The resources of the state do matter.

The most astonishing thing about false rape accusations is of course the lack of empathy and understanding shown to men who have suffered this. Whenever some accusation of rape has been shown to be false, the message delivered then is that this is a horrible trespass upon women who have actually been raped, making it more difficult for them to come forward with their actual rapes. Never-minding the men whose lives have been ruined completely based on the false accusation of some harpy or other.

Somehow, women have to be made out to be the real victims. Even when it is men who are the victims. Women have it worse. Especially when it is a man who has suffered. It seems very much as though someone has some vested interest in derailing the conversation. As though some powerful ideology need to come in and do damage-control so that they do not lose control over the narrative, forcing it back onto the well-trodden path that says that women have it worse, no matter what the situation is, no matter what the case-in-point is.

This is adding insult to injury. Or insult to perjury, if you wish. Some innocent man have been destroyed by some false accusation. And instead of his story being told; instead of him receiving empathy and understanding, he has to look and watch and gaze and see that his story is being washed away. He has to listen to how what he endured is something that hurts women as a group. Not him as an individual. Not men as a group. But women and women only.

Women have always been the primary victims of men being falsely accused of rape.

And society at large have not a lick of empathy for him, not a spittle of understanding for what he endured.

And always and forever, if he is lucky enough to survive the turmoil and tragedy of the false accusation until he is redeemed and proven innocent, the label of “rapist” will hang over him, following him, dangling over his neck, the sword of Damocles on a string so thin that it may break at any moment.

He has become a doomed man. For there will always be someone who does not believe in his innocence. There will always be someone who believes that women never lie about sexual assault, that women are so pure and innocent that their word is law and their soul and temperament golden.

There will always be someone lying in wait, howling in the shadows, cold and callous and driven by blood-lust extreme, bidding him to dance, once again, the me too dance macabre.

*

https://fox13now.com/2019/05/07/logan-man-dies-from-beating-after-being-accused-of-sexual-assault-on-a-cvtd-bus/

https://www.spiked-online.com/2018/08/03/the-metoo-suicides/

https://www.nbcnews.com/storyline/sexual-misconduct/metoo-advocate-california-lawmaker-accused-sexual-misconduct-n846421

http://fortune.com/2018/02/09/cristina-garcia-metoo-sexual-harassment/

https://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/uknews/crime/12146274/Prosecutors-slowed-down-CCTV-in-case-of-commuter-cleared-of-bizarre-sex-assault-on-actress.html

https://ew.com/movies/2018/08/19/harvey-weinstein-accuser-asia-argento-paid-off-actor-sexual-misconduct-repor/

 

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– Moiret Allegiere, 01.06.2019

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Let Boys Play

Monsters and Gods A3 lowres

Ill: «Monsters and Gods», A3, 2018, Moiret Allegiere.

 

Let boys play.

Let them play in the mud, roll down the hills, fall and scratch their knees. Let boys play. Let them expend their energy, expand their imaginations, learn the ways of the world through practical applications of childhoods whimsy and wonder, wide awake, on the right path.

Let boys play.

Let them play as only they know how. They`ll figure it out. Through play and rough-and-tumble tumbling, they`ll figure it out. They`ll learn the boundaries and they`ll learn empathy, they`ll learn to read confusing social situations and they`ll learn to interact accordingly.

Let boys play.

Do not deny them their boundless energies and furiously burning curiosity. Do not deny them their natural state of being; their state of learning through doing, and through doing learning how to be, how to live, how to breathe and how to navigate the slumbering wormhole that is the world.

Let boys play.

Let them express themselves completely, utterly and magnificently. Let them chase their dragons through the woods of shared childhood-fantasies in packs, feral and strange and glorious. Let them trample the ground to mud in magical initiation-rituals, dancing fantastically wild and free!

Let boys play.

Do not whip them into woeful submission with drugs designed to numb the spirit and the senses. Allow them their natural shaman-state of visionary journeys through fantasies fantastic in their majestically shared exploration of their bodies and their minds.

Let boys play.

Do not smother them with an overabundance of misguided rules and regulations, designed in no small way to make them sit and make them still and deny them movement extraordinaire. Do not nail their youthful exhuberance to washed-out blackboards in search of meaning meaningless.

Let boys play.

Let them purge their bodies of energies defined by boyish fancies; to spend and to exhaust and then recharge in dull and boring classrooms until the next recess comes around and the process repeats and then repeats again in a loop and a circle, functional and fantastic.

Let boys play.

Let boys play, and they will learn how to navigate the world instead of burning out and wasting away due to misguided notions that boys are inherently defective and need to be tamed, subdued and controlled. Teach them that they are good, and all good things will follow.

Let boys play.

Do not tell them that they are rapists in waiting; unapologetic sociopaths in need of re-programming and worldwide chemical castrations. Do not allow them to believe that they are bad, that the very core of their being is rotten and toxic. Tell them that their masculinity is good, pure, clean.

Let boys play.

Boundless, deeply rooted imagination instead of state-enforced tranquility and trepidation. Let boys play, free and open and honest, and there are no limits to the gods they will meet or the monsters they will slay, in boyhood carefree and expansive or in manhood, careful and all-embracing.

Let boys play.

They will not divide us

Sjølvmord lowres

 

«He will not divide us!», say the ones who aim to divide us; a movement stretching further than the grand ol` US of A. A global globular movement of closed minds incapable of asking questions, incapable of thinking inwards. Instead: projecting their insecurities outwards, blaming the rest of the world and demanding others change instead of them. Introspection dying at our feet. No reason to admit to fault within. All fault and every flaw lies with someone else, something else, somewhere else. Push the blame away.

«He will not divide us!», they chant in circles unbroken, solipsistic and so eternally conforming. Breaking the world into the pitter-patter of labels astronomical in their divisiveness. I identify as this and therefore am more or less priviliged than you, who identify as this and that. A fell swoop to break the structure, the very fabric of humanity itself into subcategories so absurdly small that the only conceivable end result is for them to eat themselves from within. The poison feast has begun. Ouroboros lost, Ouroboros reclaimed. Divine divisiveness.

There is a worm growing inside the monorail minds of this monotonous gibbering mass, a worm aiming to drool painted words of disconnect onto the canvas of the world. Words that, at first glance, sound enchanting and profound as all hell. Postmodern lingo to combat radical expressions of ideas. Wordsalads used to mask the nonsensical calamity of the ideas hidden within. Sure, it sounds intelligent, it sounds smart, to use larger-than-life words who`s true meaning is so simple, so translucent, as to be ridiculed were the worms able to convey honesty in the structure of their sentences. Don`t ever expect a clear answer from the worm. The worm will mask the inability to answer honestly as profundity behind a paywall of magnificently painted nonsense-words. Hey—nonny-nonny-hey, hey-nonny-nonny-no. Paint it as religious relevations of grandiose truth, and then use the grandiosity of religiousity to deny others their opinions. Pitter-patter of concern and offense. Feels equals reals, yo. What a humdinger, what a goldslinger, what a mad state-of-the-art-affair. Why are people listening to this nonsense? How come us domesticated primates are so willing to deny expression of ideas based on someones subjective sense of offense? Grow a thicker skin. Learn this: not everyone will agree with you. And that is quite allright. Understand this as well: the rules of speech which you fight to implement will be used against you as well. It is only a matter of the brilliant flow of time. Before we know head or tail of anything, we are confined to concrete cells within our own minds, unable to say anything lest we offend anyone. Good morning Worm, your honour, I have not been thinking wrongly all morning, thank you very much.

«He will not divide us!» Break the world into pieces instead. Divide the undivided, divide and multiply by negatives. Unity in nonsense. Free speech is hatespeech. Nonsense is now sense, new sense. Communication dies as conformity to closedmindedness grows. An open mind is able to entertain and ponder ideas which run contrary to ones preconceived notions and opinions. The mature mind is empathetic and open, able to view the world from different vantagepoints, and in so doing broadening its understanding of the world, with all its madness, hellfire and glory! Ideas meet and blend and grow on the battlefields. Ideas grow from external input. Or die on a hill from their lack of output, input or reason.

An inqusitive mind used to be a badge of honour. Now it has become a mark of deep shame! To question the current cultural zeitgeist requires the testicular fortitude of martyrs past, and brings the rampaging mobs of pitchfork-wielding maniacs all the way to ones doorstep. Tolerance of everything turns around and becomes tolerance of nothing. Except, of course, the ideas spouted by random wordgenerators in dimly lit halls of cranially deficient academia. Conform, submit, or die. It is the age of lackademia. Question nothing, lest you be deemed a heretic, lest you be exiled, lest you be cast from society: blasphemer, blasphemer, blasphemer!

It is these cynical tactics that are the most bothering. The appeals to affect, not to reason. Emotions become truth, and therefore the shaming, the blaming, the fully charged ad hominem arguments are considered righteous arguments. Claims to hold the moral highground is enough to turn the world against a predetermined enemy of predetermined lesser moral standing. Twisting and turning words. Twisting and turning meaning. Objective facts hurts subjective feelings, and are as such deemed untrue. Burn the witch. She turned me into a newt. Everyone is a fascist. And you have to point them all out, drive them away to the fanfare of drums and weird vocal ullulations. Get thee away, scapegoat. Away from me, Satan; tempt me not! Punch a nazi. Easy said, easy done, when everyone is named a nazi.

Here`s the scary part: appeals to emotions work. Claiming ones enemy to be of lesser moral standing is more than enough to justify whatever tactics needed to silence ones enemy. «All white people are racist» justifies racism against white people. «All men are mysogynistic» justifies misandry extreme. And so forth, and so on. Because it feels so fucking good to be in the right, that one does not need to stop and think and consider if one even is in the right. It feels so good, so good that – oh god – oh god – I wish this dopamine surge would never stop, so justified in anger, so justified in violence, so justified in complete and utter mindless fucking hatred. Let it keep coming, let it keep coming, flowing through the nervous system like a current of electricity straight into the brainpan, zap, zap, nervous energy accumulating, all that anger, all that rage, all that hatred, calling out from the bottom of the feet all the way to the top of the head, hairs rising on arms and body shaking, trembling, pulsating with justified glee and weird, peculiar sensations of JUSTICE untainted and profound and deeper than the deepest fucking deep. Oh, it should never stop, oh GOD, it should never stop, onwards to the next fight, the next victim, the next subsection of humanity to label and taint with shame for circumstances beyond their control. For mere random chance. Oh, the dividing, oh the oppressors, oh the poor oppressed. Find a new cause, find something else, find someway else to grab power, to grab the moral highground. Quick now, quick, before the dopaminesurge ends, before this incredible feeling of being holier than thou ends! Is it not wonderful, to have someone to hate? Is it not fantastic to have ones hate justified every step of the way by the strange strange strange notion that they, not you, are the hateful ones? DARVO, motherfuckers, DARVO! Remember: justice is subject to emotion, not justice. Subsections of subsections, labels upon labels, it beckons, it beckons, it is so simple, so pure, so radiant, so good, so good, so goddamned good that it can never stop, never stop, and then, and then, and then we turn it on ourselves, and then we turn on eachother instead. Cells eating cells. Clicks eating clicks. There must always be an enemy, always be something to fight. War is peace. Freedom is slavery. Click-clack, tick-tock, here we go, towards our daily hour of hate.

It is the rhetoric of war: They will hurt our women. They will hurt our children. They will oppress us. They will divide and conquer us. Their men are degenerates, lacking in the moral department. Stand together. Band together. Group together and leave your individual selves at the door. We are a mob now, a rampaging mob, the eternal monstrosity of the collective, the us vs them, the true and the truth alike, all found here in the mob of non-divisive divisiveness. The barbarians are right outside our walls, and they will ravage our daughters and torture our sons and burn our morals to the ground. They will not divide us. We can not let them. They must be stopped, by any means necessary. Our men must take them out. Gear up. Protect your women and your children. You are the good men. They are not. Kill them. Kill them all, before they kill us. Do you not love your women and children?

Shamed into compliance.

We have forgotten how to breathe.

And so, civil discourse dies choking on its own blood in some godforsaken ditch. The notion of debate and discussion and – as a result – cooperation falls prey to the machines of war. Meeting in the middle, both sides reaching a mutually beneficient compromise, becomes a thesis so abstract that the world will soon forget it. There is only one side. And that side is always in the right. Morally justified and pure as the driven snow. Because it feels right. Everyone and everything else is at fault. Feelings trumps facts. Ad hominems trumps reasoned debate. Bursts of anger instead of calm debate. Nonsense spat in our faces as we die. You uncultured swine. Our decay has begun. Paradise lost. Paradise regained. A boot stomping on a human face forever.

Remembering rebellion

End of the night lowres

 

I remember, quite distinctly, lying on the gravelcoated roof of my elementary school and quaffing wine straight from the bottle. I must have been about fifteen years old, caught in that strange treshold between carefree boyhood and careful manhood. Young and filled with hopes, dreams and aspirations for the not too distant future. Somehow, I knew that I would set my mark upon the world in flaming letters a hundred feet tall. This knowledge was shared amongst our little group of friends, drinking and laughing merrily atop the roof: we would all put our marks upon this world of ours, in one way or another. We would prove ourselves worthy, talented, independent, strong and radiant; shining with some inner glow surpassing the warm glow of wine.

I remember it was early autumn. Not too cold, yet chilly. Another treshold. The changing of the seasons, the changing of the guards, the changing of our world. I remember vibrant stars in the sky, a glorious full moon. Dark streets illuminated only slightly by the cozy glow emanating from windows of warm homes, fortifying themselves against the onset of winter. A chilling wind blew over us. We warmed ourselves besides the glowing embers of booze and excited tales of the future. A future which both frightened and excited us; that strange confusion that shows itself so vibrantly and clearly in a adolescent mind still caught between maturity and immaturity. This was a time of contradictory feelings and imminent explosions of emotion. I can`t remember any particular conversations. Nothing clear. Disjointed words and sentences fill the inner chambers of my skull. I can only remember the clear theme at display: our circle was slowly breaking up, as we all set forth on our own paths towards whichever future was destined for us in further years of schooling.

We spoke about longing and we spoke about love and we spoke about remembrance and remembering. We spoke about never forgetting eachother or, more importantly, ourselves, in the strange fog rising from our not-too-distant future. A future shared, yet separate. We spoke about dreams and we spoke about hopes, about where our different muses would lead us on our paths towards salvation and ascension. Our little group fulfilled the roles of the outcasts; the rebels and the ragamuffins, the vandals and the barbarians, wreaking havoc on our small town over the past three years or so. And we knew – we all knew – that our phase of outward rebellion would change course and steer towards something other than numb rebellion as our minds and bodies changed course and steered towards something other and more substantial, something strange and unknown. This phase was blowing off steam. We knew. There was a sense of honour amongst us vandals, us visigoths and rogues, no matter how much alcohol we consumed, illegally aquired from liqourcabinets of knowing or unknowing parents. There was a strange knowledge that we were not bad people. That we were, all things considered, good people.

Of course, we conceded, our rebellion would stretch all the way towards our burgeoning adulthood, and beyond, into the stars and into the vast expanse of unknown deserts which the grim finale of adulthood contained. We would still be outcasts. We would still be rebels, rogues and vandals. We would lend our rebellious nature towards the constructive rather than the destructive, if only we could find the chance to do so. It was not there and then, however. It was so many years into the future that the mere notion that it would all slip away from our clammy hands in the blink of an eye seemed preposterous to us, ridiculous, unbelievable and fantastic. At this point in time, we were rebels without a cause, a archetype of troubled youths rebelling against the whatevers and what-woulds and what-shoulds. Against rules and regulations. Against the knowledge that our lifes were predetermined by our parents, by our teachers, by our fevered madmen that dared label themselves politicians and dared to think that they had any right to rule over us. It is easy, sitting on the cold rabble-roof of a dilapitated schoolbuilding, getting drunk and drowning in hopes and dreams, to fall prey to a underlying sensation of euphoria; a bodily euphoria that starts somewhere below the bellybutton and slowly works its way up toward the vocal-chords so that it eventually becomes a roar of joy and laughter and love as clear and clean as the first breath of crisp autumn air.

And we roared and laughed and bellowed to our hearts content that night, knowing that soon – very soon – we would become us. We would come into ourselves, into our own, that our lives were only just beginning, and whatever would happen could not happen soon enough. Oh yes! Oh, how great and grand and glorious. The future seemed fantabulous, supercalifragilistic, irridescent and as brilliant as the glazed-over eyes of an alcoholic reaching a odd moment of sobriety.

The night slipped away, and we slipped away alongside it, moving towards our homes and our beds, drunk and strange and incapable of logical thought and reason, overcome with celebratory impulses, shook to the core with the sensation of living, of life, exploding with the divine revelation of life. As we parted, we laughed. As we laughed, we parted.

And I came home. And I reached my bed. And I wept. And the weeping turned to unconsolable crying. My mouth, where a few specks of vomit still lingered on my tongue and in the corners, quivered and shook and I could not understand a thing of it. Now, my soul has always been tainted in no small way by the melancholy, and in hindsight there is no wonder why this long night would call me out to weep in such a overwhelming manner.

It was the breaking of my innocence, my descent into hell, which I celebrated that night. The crossing of the river Styx. The burden of adulthood lay heavy on my shoulders, and I was on my path towards the grand unknown. From relative order to complete chaos. It scared me. It shook me to my very core. It scares me still as I write these words in that peculiar woosy trancelike state I wind up in whenever I attempt to put my fingers to words and my words to finger coherent thoughts and meaning.

If I was wiser back then, I would have seen the cause of my melancholic nature and called it out for what it was. The crushing burden of the school lay upon me, even as I lay upon its roof and fractured bowels. Ten soon-to-be-done-with years locked in the halls of elementary school was weighing down on me, and the remnants of my distant future crossed over with my very close past that night, as I lay in bed, all alone, knowing that our little group of friends would split up and be tossed to the four winds faster than I could snap my fingers and call my own name out of the desert-mirage I saw closing in on me in my minds eye.

If I was wiser back then, I would have called the root cause of my now-aching body, tormented and torn by years of repression and denial, by years of hatred slung my way by pedagogy ruined by ideology and brainwashed indoctrination by name. I would have noticed the fork in the road, as it were, which stunted my development and stunted my rational responses and stunted my mind and kept it nailed to the molten core of the earth. And now I remember, reclaiming for the moment the form of my fifteen year old self, the awkward and sweaty clumsy confusion of puberty and late-night onset panic and anxiety. This night would come back to haunt me later in life. A grim spectre of confusion and profound introspection. The long, dark teatime of the soul.

It was not the breaking of our fellowship, nor the apocalyptic visions of impending adulthood which bothered me. Realization dawned some fifteen years later. We had been taught to believe lies and slander, spun truths and covert statistics. There, in our seats in hallowed classrooms in front of an altar of passive information, we had been told that boys were to blame. Our teachers – one in particular – told us, time and again, with no trepidation and no shame, that the girls were better than the boys in every aspect. Overt, unhidden, unashamed. Horrid schoolday after horrid schoolday, pisspoor schoolyear after pisspoor schoolyear. We, as boys, were told to believe in our own inferiority. The girls were more mature, more clever, smarter and better than us. And at the onset of puberty, as sexual education rolled in through the revolving doors of our indoctrination chambers, we were led to feel ashamed about our blossoming masculine sexuality, so simplistic and primitive as opposed to the feminine sexuality, of course. The feminine sexuality reached all the way to the heavens above, so complex and multifaceted that no man could understand, comprehend or fullfill it. Ours was the savage sexuality of mere beasts; a primal force to be contained lest we loose all control and started raping willy-nilly. Our sexuality mirrored chaos. The sexuality of the girls mirrored order. Brilliant and divine, so complex as to be sanctified as opposed to ours, which was so simplistic as to be vilified. Boys and men could not be counted on to curtail their urges, we were told. All our thoughts were only ever focused on sex. Odd, then, that we ever got anything else done. To grind us down into the dust, turn us into singleminded simpletons, this point was driven home with nails plunged deep into our cerebral cortex. It was shame. Pure and simple. A blackboard castration of blood and chalk. A full bodily sensation of shame and regret for every single hard-on ever brought to fruition.

I can count single instances of exposed bigotry. And I need more than two hands to do so. Every opportunity to bring the point of the boys and their lack of maturity home was used efficiently and eloquently by teachers hiding behind the experience offered pedagogues and adults alike: more experienced and knowledgeable than us, and therefore correct in every aspect of life. Shaming of masculinity hid behind every corner, and came roaring to the front. Our schooldays was an era of mockery and absurdity, a grand culling of inquisitive and energetic young boys and men. An entire gender dragged kicking and screaming from classrooms to courtrooms of public opinion; a generation of boys made to be ashamed of their gender. If I look at it closely through closed eyes, I can see the wave rushing towards me at great speed. A wave that gains size, gains momentum and comes crushing in at the shores of my neural pathways with severe destruction.

Masculinity has become original sin. A scapegoat on which to lay all the burdens, all the errors of the world. If we look back through the tides of history, it is clear that the burden of the evils of mankind have taken different forms and shapes. From the physical to the metaphysical, from Satan to the jews. We had torture and death of heretics and witches, jews and homosexuals, satanists and gypsies. All groups, all identities, made to carry the evils of the world. From one moral panic to the next, from one hated identity to the next. Leaving the spiritual realm as a society, we are forced to blame the material realm. And so the blame falls on men. And so the group which we are socially allowed and expected to vilify and destroy changes shape and changes form as the tides turn, a tale as old as time. Our society needs its bloodsacrifices, so that it can refrain from looking at its rotten core.

We had the satanic panic of the 80`s and 90`s, and now we have the male panic of the here-and-now, decades of indoctrination and tall tales, of skewed statistics and outright lies, to teach everyone to hate men and blame masculinity and shoot us down in the streets with learned words, learned sentences repeated ad infinitum. No matter how much it is debunked, no matter what proof and evidence and facts we provide, it is ignored and – yet again – vilified. And in the meantime, the suicides of men go up, up, up, addiction to drugs and booze, homelessness and loss of jobs and lack of education and lack of direction in life for men go up, up, up. We are told that there is only men at the top, so the men must be well off. Well, my friend, there are mostly men at the bottom as well. What does that tell us about how society views men? Expendable, disposable, forgotten and turned away. Men drop out of schools and out of work and out of society and out of life itself at rates which would be seen as alarming were it women. And noone cares. It is so strange, watching this madness unfold. It is weird beyond human comprehension to see men die, literally and figuratively by the thousands, by the tens-of-thousands, and still hear society at large tell us that it is only women who suffer.

We have become unable to care about men dying from drugs, homeless on the streets. Because some women struggle with the airconditioning in their cushy officejobs. Should we dare to talk about mens issues, we have to consider women as well. Should we talk about womens issues, it is only women. Nuance and cooperation is dead. Welcome to the age of onesidedness.

«Racist, sexist, anti-gay, MRA, go away!», they chant as a liturgy. Showing, no, proving to us that they know nothing about men and mens issues. Nothing at all. Instead of listening and trying to understand, they shout us down and claim that we are the bigoted and hateful ones. They fill the world full of lies, and they don`t fucking care. They spew nothing but what they have been indoctrinated to believe. Men are the scum of the earth, a crust of undesirable fatty tissue to be removed and forgotten, pushed away into dark corners, into oblivion. It is inconceivable to listen to the plight of boys and men. Or, for that matter, to let others listen to it. Frightened, the feminist hordes protest and disrupt every meeting, every conference where men dare say that not all is milk and honey in the land of men. Unless, of course, the conferences and meetings are viewed through the feminist lense. And they have the media and the establishment on their side. Simultaneously claiming, despite all evidence to the contrary, that they do not. Who is the real underdog, I wonder? Is it the ones that are allowed to speak everywhere, the one who dominates the discourse? Or is it the ones who are shouted down and denied a change to speak at every turn? I think we all know the answer to that one.

It is confusing. And downright frightening. It ain`t easy, being a man. It never has been. The newspapers publish article after article blaming, hating, demonizing men. As do the televisions. And we lap it up, licking the jackboot-stillettos of the tyrants. Just as we did in forgotten classrooms years back. Decades, even. No matter what we do, it is wrong. Or twisted and turned to become wrong and bad, viscious and mean. «Why can`t we hate men?» Signed, sealed, then published. This overt hatred would not be accepted were it any other group in society. Such is the ways of the world, the whims of the universe. Day in, day out. A underlying current of hatred, so commonplace that we no longer see it, that we barely register it at all. We do not perceive it as lies, but as truth. The indoctrination is complete, all the way from blue-eyed and naive schoolchildren to the very tops of our societies. Our heads have been filled with lies and with hatred, with contempt and hysteria. Every man is a potential rapist and an abuser of women. Twisting and turning, denial and wilfull blindness. Changing of words to fit an agenda. Changing of laws to fit an agenda. Men can not be raped by women, because the laws are written in just such a way. Sexism can only be experienced by women, because the dictionary is written that way. We ought to be scared shitless by this. Yet we walk and accept, with bowed heads, this new-speak rising from the grim spectre of feminism. We ought to reclaim our places of education, purge them of ideological indoctrination and bring them back to truth and reason. Let the feminists, with their agenda, say their 50 hail Dworkins and grab their pussyfixes. Boys need to be told that they are good. Boys deserve to be told that they, too, matter. That their lives and their experiences and their wellbeing is just as important as that of girls.

The mind boggles at the clear doublethink; simultaneously oppressed, and in domination of the media and of the discourse. But all is possible in the new-speak world. Double-plus-good, comrade. double-plus-plus-good good-think. I know, I know. Invoking the holy name of Orwell is used to death and beyond, but there is reason to do so. And will be for a good and long while, if we don`t change. And as all good change does, it begins from within. From the first ravages of the first weeping in bed at the age of fifteen, drunk and bewildered, to the later stages of grief after reaching adulthood with fear and anxieties. Change starts with oneself. And it takes an eternity to reach the turningpoint, the point where the kettle boils over and all the steam that was confined suddenly fills the room and changes ones perspective of the room. And as perspectives change from within, so does perspectives from without. The more we talk, the more we are heard. A slow change building up like an avalanche, to come, at last, crushing down and into the consciousness of society at large. We need to become fearless.

Seventeen years ago, I spent a night getting drunk on the roof of my old school. And the anxiety that gripped me that night is the same anxieties which grips me now, with a body twisted and malformed from crippling pain. It is the same path we have walked down, as a society, for decades and decades. A society in which men are viewed as unclean, filthy and dangerous. A world in which men are told, from an early age, to hate themselves and make amends for the sins of being men. By virtue of nothing but the random chance of our birth, we are the bad guys. I see myself, sitting on that same roof with that same bottle of wine years later, reaching yet another treshold, another change in my behaviours. Feeling that strange sensation of euphoria building up again, thinking, feeling and remembering rebellion.

Totalitarian tango

Ørken lowres

The streetlamps shine with umbrage while permanently offended sidewalks creak and croak. «Left foot, left foot, left foot, march!», a voice through smashed windows beckon. The weird and wired click-clack of jackboot-stilletoes echoes trough the dim night, as we are made to dance in pairs to the frightbat tunes of the totalitarian tango.

Our civilization is turning to dust in one fleeting fall from grace, enginereeed by ideologues with selfspun halos `round their moonfaced grins, made from cotton picked in slaveplantations by men with necks bent under the weight of someone elses projected thoughts. Here we go, picking cotton, picking a bit of cotton, listening to the mindboggling screech of the totalitarian tango.

As history comes full circle and we come to ourselves, we ought to reclaim what values we once had; we ought to value these grand memories, our buildingblocks, our beautiful ethics! We think, as we watch our values and our virtues and our moral integrity get rolled in the bog and labelled unclean, unfit for human consumption, that progression for the sake of regression is a grand stroke of divine inspiration, that it is a virtue equal to none, a virtue in and off itself, impossible to criticise, as we ourselves roll around in the filth, naked, whipped and bleeding, glancing at the icy rhytm of the totalitarian tango.

No matter the mind, and nevermind the matter! No matter the sane, nevermind the truth! In the glorious present of the stunning utopia, this call is not ours to call. Our phones have been left off the hook indefinite, and we are hung on the hook infinitely: guilty by association, guilty of thinking what this new breed of crybully authoritarians believe that we think. You think like this, you see, due to balls and white skin and normative sexuality. And don`t you forget it, you lowly bro, you pathetic inbred neckbeard basement-dweller, you hideous ogre, you! And miracles of miracleberries: they sign documented out-patients away, for to sing and then to dance and henceforth to bleed, to singe and to glance and to breathe in the six-string-shooter ballads of the totalitarian tango.

Our five-finger-dance is oppressive. Monkey see, monkey do. Our superior aristocracy, the new victimclass are working towards denying us our right to speak and assemble, under the pretence of them being victims of thissen-hissen and other such mumbo-jumbo. In the topsy-turvy world of upside-down land which these parasites inhabit, the powers that be deny us our opinions, our voices and our pain. `cause it offends, see. And offense is the worst, see. In our mouths they put their own bigotry, their own hatred and their own in-group preference, reasoning thusly: we think like this about them, therefore they must think like this about us. A hivemind-vacuum, a echochamber, nourished by eternal intellectual blockades, a shot of black tar heroin delivered straight into eyeballs, dry and crusty that tears the parchment from the walls. It calls us out to pray, the earth moulds us from the clay, the wind beckons us to play, we hear the sunshine turn the night to day. We should revolt. We submit instead, lest we be shamed yet again. Alone we stand, audited, glanced at, then dismissed, fodder for the cannons, food for the vultures, spat in the face: more broken men in line to do the totalitarian tango.

Do my eyes deceive me? I see a Bosch sketch of a society yet to come, gigantic hellscapes rising from the pineal gland, a fleeting whisper from ruby red lips cracking into a bloodstained smile, painted then tainted by mad, frenzied eyes, stung with crazy lies, with tonguetied chants, full of words and temper, signifying nothing! Eighteen more strokes of the clock, seven days to reach the glock, a beckoning to grab the golden cock as we march along to the beats of the drum; the beats of the hurr-durr. A recently legalized, nationwide, socially and state-sanctioned hatred, unaltered, unopposed. We are living in a total conversion mod of western society, see, a totalitarian farce, depraved and decadent, a lonely lunatics nightmare timeline: the totalitarian tango.

And we ought to be hanging from the piss-yellow light of the streetlamps come midnights eternal, roaring with laughter and howling at the slutwalk-moon at all the weird shit going down. We ought to not be listening to this absurdity. We should not yield to their ridiculous demands; the feminist hivemind speaking the language of the social justice intersectional rumba. Yet we yield and yet we cater to their every whim and flight of fancy, and yet we bend over backwards, then conform to their every nonsensical demand. The decades of shaming has reached peak efficiency, the malebashing nearing its climax. Orgasmic screams of the orgasmic divine: woman good, men bad. In the language which greets us at the feminist intersection of reason and madness: men are disposable, women are aristocracy. We should not dance. Leave the hivemind to their fainting couches and smelling salts. We should not dance, and yet we do, step by step, beat by beat, the totalitarian tango.

Here we see the streams of time follow the flow of hate with a call to arms raised in banners, raised in banners of fluctuating solidarity. Our politics have become absurdist theaters. Our absurdist theaters have become politics. Here come the politically correct lynchmobs. Watch them gather in the streets chasing down the witches and the heretics, the wrongthinkers, the thought-crime-afficianados whils`t vomiting a stream of consciousness-nonsense from lips painted the colour of hate, regurgitating what they have been thaught to say: tangofodder, do-gooder, moral busybodies watching what their neighbours do with binocular-efficiency and then insisting that their neighbours is watching what they do instead, deny and reverse victim order in the diamond light of the totalitarian tango.

Snowwhite was raped, and so was cinderella. Prince charming is a construct, a dominant male powerfantasy. The damsel in distress trope is misogyny extreme, yet he for she and help us, men. In a society wherein everyting is a social construct, gender in particular, there seems to be an obscene amount of focus on the faults of one gender, and the glory of the other, by biology say they, when the biological findings confirm their narrative structure, a narrative structure as fleeting as the warm smell of rotten eggs. even as they claim gender is a social construct. Don`t worry, mate, Big Sister got more than enough mental gymnastics rolling the rounds of the totalitarian tango.

Never you mind and never you worry, buddyboy, our claws will not remove your cock – or leastways parts of it – yet we may have to take your balls away. It is the testosterone, you see, which is the problem, see, and testosterone is made manifest in cumstains galore all across the face of mother earth. Testosterone is a burden, a murderweapon, a tool of the oppressive patriarchy, even if we also tell you that your masculinity is a social construct and nothing but, there is still testosterone posioning. We are all double-think and wondrous laughs as we prance and shoot our way through the grandiosity of the totalitarian tango.

Listen and believe to the harbingers of doom and gloom as the dust settles on the emotionless, wildly staring eyeballs of these sultry goddess-queens, as dead and dying silverstreams of cum from silverbacked gorillas worth more than you flows like a river from the cheeks of societies past. Let me hear your laugh, young boy, and chant along with the wave we are riding, the wave towards our ingenious yet indescribably horrible freedom. Freedom from offense: sew cushions and pillows underneath our arms so that we never have to experience anything even remotely resembling difficulty. Do not deny us our personhood by merely stating disagreements. Do our dance, tick-tock along with the jackboot-stillettoes, Do not offend, dear, do not offend. Also: dare not take offense to the hatred we spew, as we dance and weave and whine the totalitarian tango.

The night is ours, a proclamation. We are taking it back, a glorious calculation. Give the men a curfew, keep em all locked away in musty basements. Take away their hobbies and destroy all their spaces, deny the men their fun and their fancies, and let us sit and spin our cottontwined haloes `round our nimble figureheads, as we feast on the blood of the weak this week, oh god what a grandiose performance, oh my how incredibly brave and courageous and strong this perpetual victim is. Do not raise your voice: feminism is for men too! They are watering our beers with crocodiletears, as we accept and reform and reject everything but the totalitarian tango.

And moses spreads his cheeks and god spreads his lips and the evening spreads itself thin over the hurt and the pain as the lipstickpolished nails sing hymns of salvation, glory be, glory do, boo-fucking-hoo. Jane smacks jack for spreading his legs when he sits. Nothing but bright light and glazed eyes, nothing but twisted truths and pregnant lies waiting to burst as we see decadence perform fellatio on the erect notes of the totalitarian tango.

What we see in the horizon, what rises from the streets, what comes crawling from the prehistoric ooze is the complete control and domination of our thoughts and of our speech. Our freedoms are being stolen by the social justice hivemind, a beast of biblical prophecies brought forth, a glance into the past: Victorian morals posing as a progressive push forward, a furthering of the women-are-wonderful effect. Men are the beast, women are the gods. Men do all wrong, all the time. Women do no wrong, all the time. In the air, a whisper spreads: fare-thee-well, equality, enter now the totalitarian tango.