Do not lose yourself in despair

Freehand fancies A3 lowres

Illustration: «Freehand Fancies», A3, 2019, Moiret Allegiere


Let me preface this ramble with a short announcement: I opened a shop through Redbubble. As one would expect, I aim to push this a bit over the coming weeks. Should you ever wish to wear my luscious assaults on fine art on your clothing, or hang it on your wall for all to marvel at your fantastically good taste, follow the link to the shop. More designs are coming soon.



Do not lose yourself in despair, in childhood play-pretend suicides where dreams fell through luminous cracks in the floor and walls and roof; or in ancient remnants of past Halloween, hidden away beneath some dusty sheets of some old dusty bed, or in morbid drawn-out fights over the curtains like some old grumpy fart, shamed and shunned by some mystic’s frantic nightmare showing furious future-scapes.

Do not lose yourself in despair, forcing you to disassemble playful creative forces for some fuckwit genius’s genuine idea of how and what and where and when is true and proper art and true and proper artistic endeavours on the path to future galleries surrounded by piss in bottles and shit-stained sheets, laboured over by some pretentious douche-nozzle with more garble than sense and more gaggle than talent.

Do not lose yourself in despair, in an eternal opiate-haze between bottles brightly shining and shunned by the roaring hiss of angry needles, venomous and vile, offering sympathetic salvation from the numbing of your soul and sanity; lost in the salivating grasp of her diluted arms.

Do not lose yourself.

Do not lose yourself in despair, finding solace in cold comic-book style rampages, ravaging through concrete-jungles with a war-cry rising from your chest and throat, saviour, saint and messiah in new-found post-graduate violence, silenced by mutual decision on the path to post-conscription, ruined by the forces of the wailing horde and might of the waning, fluctuating night.

Do not lose yourself in despair, marching backwards through time in your minds eye, searching ever and always for that one path to take you back to the past. A past in whose embrace you felt as though you belonged or might have had a purpose or might have had a future, future turning to the present, the present being veiled and clouded by a mythological mist claiming you yourself to be the faulty wire of the great grey mass of worms that is society, now up in arms for imagined grievance, punctuated by miniscule problems shouted fanatically in your face and ears and eyes and festering on your throat and tongue.

Do not lose yourself in despair. Nor to demands for labour-intensity clouding judgement and clouding mind and matter both; to become a slave for someone else’s varied wishes for a future shared in separate encounters; a monotheistic burgeoning religion proclaiming you to be at fault for doing all that you are told to do, and yet never doing good enough, being good enough, being deemed good enough to win some respect and gratitude from the domineering cargo-cult whose vision is clouded by superstition, demanding divine intervention in your life.

Do not lose yourself in despair, to falter and to fail and then to fall from precognitive visions of the future based on knowledge from past experience that it won’t work, so why bother? In being told, time and again, that your matters matter not to those whose matters matter; whose material matters matter more than your emotional desires and needs for understanding, a raised middle-finger and a guffawing laughter in mockery and contempt is all the reply you should deliver to the maniac brigade; carriers of the perpetual pussy-pass, who dare demand you worship at their altar and at their beck and call jump in to sing their praise and aid in their fight for them and them alone.

Do not lose your Self.

Do not lose your Self in permanent solitary confinement; the isolation manufactured for convenience, to keep safe and sane and sacred that which should not be touched.

Self-worth denied by the wrath of the vampire-legion, whose main mission is to suck all the joy from life and remind you over and over of your lack of worth, to shame you incessantly, perpetually, constantly, for crimes of the soul and spirit, for crimes of your minds eye seen in their blinded minds eye, creating calls for constant self flagellation and mental castration for desires deemed brutish, primitive and flawed, demonic, primal, violent.

Self-worth stolen by old scarecrow time, time and again, pecking at your sense of self in classrooms over-run by ideology and knowledge filtered through a thin mesh of grievance-ritual, displacing history and laying the burden of its displacement on your shoulders, frail and fractured by the grinding of the tide and time and sands of time, flowing gibberish from mouths of offended this-or-that who decided you should be a scapegoat tied to the whipping-post in the town-square, a king of fools, the blind in the land of the one-eyed, the apocalypse made manifest in flesh.

What is the loss of one man for the betterment of all?


That is the risk they are willing to take: your life on the line for their self-aggrandizement, the pushing down and punishing of one for the betterment of those who are decided to be the all.

Do not lose your Self to the vibrational fancies of their will and wish; the demands for superstitious beliefs to better your standing based on the standards they have placed upon you; standards that can never be met or matched.

The goalposts are constantly moving. Appeasement is impossible; more rubbish will be manufactured. Prophetic visions of the future tell it to be so; the truth fantastic lying at the feet of those who have no truth but the never-ending barrage of hostility. Rage and wrath and ruin. Dancing to a tune that never ends, an eternal free-jazz improvisation over whose long-winded notes and tunes poetry is read in tongues by some fell beast who has no goal but to fight, to fracture, to fragment and to freak-out over an unseen line drawn in the asphalt and on the pavement before the gates of hell. The hounds of war are unleashed. First in silence, now with growls and barks and snarls. No more lurking in the shadows, poking here and there and everywhere with surgical precision from some whose positions are waved away as the position of a radical few.




It is not a radical few. It is the rotten, beating heart of the new religion; the ideology completed. The destruction of all and one and one and all from new-found everything, anywhere, everywhere, a star-studded brilliance shining and shimmering in minds bent in on themselves to see only what they wish to see, hear only what they wish to hear, know only what they wish to know. The solipsist mania; narcissist drivel made purgatorial society; promiscuous puritanism, wishes to appease the Goddess divine, whose stature and statue all shall love and all shall fear and all shall despair but those who are clean enough and good enough; who have lost their self enough to become one with her shape and force and will and whim and majestic notions and views of self.

Do not allow yourself to be crushed beneath the weight of this new-found religion, this dominant ideology which must never be questioned. Demands for censorship of opposing views is the final strike of the hammer, judgement passed by a judge grimacing in delight, the final crushing blow from a Self demented and torn apart from lack of something they will never know: to be fulfilled.

To be fulfilled is to understand that life is neither good nor bad, but both. That most everything is grey; simultaneously black and white, a cycle of both to be challenged and conquered and survived, taking the good with the bad and the bad with the good, standing in the midst of the storm and marvelling at how beautiful the lightning looks.

To be fulfilled is to understand yourself, to see yourself as a being capable of both infinite compassion and infinite cruelty, but to decide on knowing, understanding and controlling the shadow and the light. The world and the life and the self will never be freed from evil, from big or from small issues.

We lack nuance.

We lack the ability to see that the Devil is in the details. We do not see the details on account of being distracted all the time from the forces claiming to fight the good fight for one and all, showing only the superficial qualities of their divine ideology, never acknowledging the devil in their midst whose sole purpose is to divide and to conquer; to crush underfoot all who dare point to the Devil and say that, hey, now, wait a minute: surely there is someone running around there with horns and a pitchfork, poking here and there and laughing viciously and maliciously.

These petulant demands of these overgrown children should not be listened to. They should be met with a barrage of laughter, loud and beautiful. A wall of backs turning away and leaving, not giving a fuck any-more and leaving them to die on the sick-bed they made for themselves.

Did they want a gender-war? Fuck that noise, fuck that nonsense, fuck that gibberish. I’ve got shit to do. The path of non-violent resistance do smell of daffodils and roses, man – and don’t forget that.

Strewn on the path towards self-worth is the knowledge that hope is not lost.

I thought, as the silly “day without women” took hold – the women there and then being so privileged – and so blind to their privilege – that they could take a day away from work to protest some imagined ills and grievance fuelled by the vampire legions of the doomed undead: imagine a day without men. If all men everywhere just up and left. What would happen, do you think?

Imagine men finding worth in their self. Not searching for worth in what they do, but in who they are, thinking: this mess ain’t worth it.

Through this overwhelming sense of despair, this sensation of dread and doom and gloom, we can see a light shining – ever so slightly – at the end of the road. Some fire on the hearth, smell of burning wood and good wine. Old wood to burn, old books to read, old friends to love and old wine to drink. A hope for rest at the end of the journey, at the end of the day when night comes crawling in and realization dawns that all is well that ends well. It will end well, the moment men find their worth and stop being the permanent work-horse, the busy body pushing that rock up the hill too see it tumble down again, to be repeated again and again.

The sooner we laugh, turn around and refuse to participate in this stupid little game any longer, the sooner our worth will be made evident.

Men’s lack of worth in society has been pushed as a truth for decades; men’s inherent lack of morality and decency through manipulation becoming established truth.

Well, then, you don’t know what you’ve got until it’s gone.

Now look and see what happens when you push and prod and poke, when you burn and scar and break something until it’s gone.

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 – Moiret Allegiere, 22.05.2019


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Feminist MP Layla Moran admits to being the latest female perpetrator of domestic violence in Parliament — hequal

In September 2016 we reported on how Labour’s Domestic violence spokesperson Sarah Champion MP had received a police caution as a result of her domestic violence against her husband. Astonishingly, Champion kept her job (she certainly has some hands-on experience in the field!) and was widely praised by her feminist colleagues for talking about her […]

via Feminist MP Layla Moran admits to being the latest female perpetrator of domestic violence in Parliament — hequal

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An historic and much overdue ruling came out of Wales recently where the Equality and Human Rights Commission ruled the Safer Wales run Dyn Project should cease in discriminating against male victims of domestic violence. The «helpline» had previously screened male callers in order to determine whether they were perpetrators, thus refusing to believe them. No such screening of of female callers by similar taxpayer funded services took place, thus demonstrating undeniable sexism against men.

dv couple-312286_960_720

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The hypocrisy of feminists who throw their «believe…

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