She claims me to be filthy

Ill: «Guilty», A4, Moiret Allegiere, 2018

 

She claims me to be filthy. Words like hers cut through flesh and bone and then follows through by grinding straight down to blood and stone. Struck blind by calligraphy-stillness, radiant concentration evaporates from her mouth, quivering monotheistically. Believe,she says, as she claims me to be filthy. Words rising from the gutter, reaching straight into the sun, fragrant dew settles cold-like and still on my forehead as I find myself labouring under the unaltered presumption of guilt. Crawling, creeping, yearning, the ooze of condemnation and damnation creeps in, closer now, closer still, towards the end. She says that I am filthy, clinging wildly to aerial telepathy; weird, unplugged daytime television psychopathy. Myriads of canned laughter and fragile upbeat hysteria, a cacophony of ravaging screeches. Her words are words, and so truth is spoken: hammer down, beat by beat, sledgehammer, cold whammer, straight to the slammer. Hoho. Bam. Bam. Muscles ache, mind melt, then break out into frantic spasms; odd feverish sacrificial rituals unfold behind my closed eyes. Assisted in her words and deeds by frenzied media outlets building up undefined ferocity in public eyes, bloodshot and close to catatonic. She claims me to be filthy.

She claims me to be guilty. Never have I ever heard words with such incredible power. Unbelievable, downright inconceivable in their unchallenged might! Her malignant madness made manifest through her manic, mischievous magicians words, would see all and one bow down and accept her unfounded words as absolute truth. No doubt. No need to pause and consider. No doubt. Wondrous world, how sweet thou art. How innocent and flowerlike, how like a willow whipped by the wind. How her delicate petals have whilted. Should I compare thee to a… long fingernails like claws dug deep into my brain, escaping yet the clutches of paranoid delusion, but only just. Grasping, no, clinging to a juvenile past of forgotten fancies, flushed down the drain and drawn exhaustively from the dying of the light. A ferocious claim of bygone guilt dragged up from the deep recesses of time immemorial. A past galloping, passing by, bygone days, forgotten eras of the here-and-now where here-and-now mattered and clumsy teen angst passed as charmed offense, given, not taken. Memories fail, come time. She claims me to be guilty.

Frightened and whipped mercilessly in the town square for all to see, I float away on the certainty of my innocence. Strange discourse, strange words, stranger sentences still grip my throat, squeezing, squeezing, choking. I have become unknown, undecided, unwanted, leper-like and shunned. Smell of print and tabloid-press, absurd unproven claims demand the headlines, claim the discourse, claim the papers printed on demand to feed the raging manic mobs, the hate, the smug selfrighteousness of society gripped by moral outrage, clinging to aerial telepathy, the psychic insights told it so: «He is guilty». There, in the spotlights: my name and face plastered on every wall in a wide world where there are only ever walls, to bash ones head against. Ready for judgements harsh, unthinking, unblinking. She claims me to be guilty. And so we feed the wolves, throw my name to the beasts and see them tear it limb from limb in bloodsports historical and histrionic. Enter the arena, enter the gladiators. We who are about to die, salute you… No trial, no verdict. Guilty by guilt assumed and by gender made. Guilty by nothing but her transcendent magicians words and squirmy, snakelike form, presented in drooling tear-like manners; woe is me. Goddamn, goddamn, where did it all go? Strung up in trees and lynched by frenzied pitchfork wielding maniacs unable to complete basic sentences due to their bloodlust-roars interrupting their anxious mental processes. «YOU UNCULTURED SWINE!» Anger feeds the hordes, anger selfrighteous and dubious at best. Enter barbarian hordes at mid-level societes forlorn and lost in the fight to do perceived right, to fulfill the need for perceived justice. Forgetting, in the heat of the fragmented moment of untettered lunacy, the undeniable rights of the accused. To be kept anonymous, to be considered innocent until proven otherwise. To be awarded basic humanity, a shred of common decency. Frightened now, so frightened. Be subservient. Be calm. Be focused. Don`t lose your cool. Don`t lose your… anything. Stay calm, collected, concentrated. Anything can be used against you, will be used against you, will become a knife to slit your throat with. Your own anger is immaterial when measured against the furious anger of the unquestioning and unquestioned hordes. You have no right to be angry, get upset, show emotion of any kind. Emotion is their right, not yours. Float away on hollow prayers and drowning wishes, spreadeagled and crucified long before truth and justice done and potential sentence served. And yet, and yet, I am innocent. I claim. I know. Might as well piss my words into the wishy-washy wind of the abysmal void. The court of public opinion deemed it so: guilty. Looming over me, shadows and blood, dust and bones. `cause the presses told it so, presented it so. No anonymity, no safetynet, no nothing. They claim me to be guilty.

They claim me to be guilty. Hungry wolves unleashed. Fangs glinting in the light of this eternal wolves moon. Howling outside my doors, the choir infernal towards damnation calls. Hoofprints in the snow. Drooling madness and calls for punishment, calls for my head, detained, then smashed, then destroyed. Trample, trample, skull and bones, death and destruction, assassination of character, of personhood and humanity. I have become none, have become noone, have become persona non grata ungratified. Still on the wind: laughtracks galore. Canned laughter turning to spinechilling howls. An entire world told what to think by biased presentations, even now clinging to aerial telepathy. Over and over. On and on. Do not presume, for one moment, that you will be allowed anonymity. Do not assume, for one moment, that you will be considered innocent until proven otherwise. The blood seeps into the ground, the wolves lap it up, then pray for more, more, even more. And here we go, rollercoaster rides, the signalling come, the virtue done, holier than thou and clean, on earth as it is in heaven. So clean, so clean as to be elevated to sainthood and later godhood. They know me to be guilty long before a trial, long before a sentence, long before I get to present my case. Barricade the doors, shut the windows, close the curtains, dim all lights, disappear, do not appear, do not call out for them to hear. They will not listen. They will not see. They refuse. You will not speak. They refuse. The world is faulty calamity, weird whines and howls. In the heat of the moment, at the pitch of the note, we forgot due process, the presumption of innocence, the right to not be locked in the laughing stock and pelted with rotten fruit. At the turning of the page, we forgot to think and so we skipped three pages, or more, glued together by drool and righteous dribble. Jumping straight to the conclusion, no further evidence needed, your honour. Filthy, guilty. And yet, there we go and here we are: there is no sense of right no more, merely justice legionaire, plentiful, hysterical. My name is broken, ruined, raptured, ravaged, long before any reason came out to play in gardens green and lush. My bones are fractured, eyes gouged out and tongue ripped out of my mouth by thongs burning with the flame of maladjusted societal upheaval. She claims. And so it must be true. No bouncing back, no coming back. Life is ended, done and dusted. `cause she claims me to be filthy, and they claim me to be guilty. The courts of public opinion, driven by the whips of their ascended god-emperor mediamasters, decadent and above criticism, have deemed me guilty and thusly raped my name with barbwire-dildos cut from treelike cacti.

Bedridden. Anxious. Shaking. I think I`ve lost weight. Haven`t slept for eighteen months. Colder than hell. The walls are closing in. Her words still ring through loudspeakers, maniac presence, crazy eyes and doctored voice. Still there, in waking, still there in sleeping. The circle is closing in. There is no escape. There is nothing left. She claims me to be guilty, fatigued, drained of colour and drained of love and life and love for life. My name still howled at the coming of the harvest moon. Drag me to the altar, drive the knife into my heart. No matter to go, no where to go, now where to go? This endless loop, a M.C. Escher drawing of a hangmans noose. The wild and weird and wacky adventures of evidence unseen. Somehow hidden, somehow forgotten, somehow not considered. I cling to warm memories, the ebb and tide of time and life. Lost. Just another lost boy. Old lost boy. Aerial telepathy. Seeing mouths move, hearing noises, weird guttural groans in lew of words. Understanding nothing. Babble, rabble, dust and cobwebs. Babble, rabble, claims and snakes. Arms and legs shackled. Stuck to the floor – Words flow, words shine, words trickle down and trickle up. Holy hell; what a circus, what a grandiose display of power unmoved, untouched, unquenchable, unchallenged! What a gigantic farce. And still, she claims me to be filthy, guilty. They claim me to be guilty, filthy. Crime. Punishment. Meet our demands. Bring us our sacrifice. All meaning is lost in the vortex. Longing for justice, but what kind? Mob justice. No other kind.

Here we go. Courts in session. One, two, three, four. Come at me. Coming at me. Skull smashed. Coming at me still. Eyes droopy, gaze unfocused. Bags under my eyes. Aged seventeen years in a week. Wasting away. Skin gone pale, translucent even. I`ve turned into a shadow and a shade, a whisper on the wind. Have become unseen, unheard, invisible. Evidence presented, evidence without question. No doubt. No guilt. Beyond the wildest shadow of a doubt: there is no guilt. There is no truth to this, that I am filthy, nor that I am guilty. There is nothing further to be said, nothing more that needs to be said. Free to go. They deem me to be clean, they deem me to be innocent. Cleared of any and all charges. Leave this room. Hammer down. Hammer down. Echoing, reverbarating through my body, shining through my bones and aching muscles. Uplifted. Elevated. Ascended. Clean, clean and so free, free! Laughter forms, but turns to weeping. Cold body, hands, arms, feet, legs, cold and numb. Feeling elated. Grand. I am cleared. My name is cleared. I claim her to be filthy. I claim her to be guilty. Justice shall be served.

They claim me to be guilty still. They nail themselves to the selfsame aerial telepathy, unaccepting of the unaltered truth. Once a victim; once a sacrifice. This never changes. Life is over still, even when I am cleared and the slate whiped clean. There is no doubt, no doubt at all. My evidence to the contrary of her claims where perfect, flawless, diamond-like and vibrant. She lied. She lies still. In the back of my head, a mass of filth, cancerous and gibbering, spreads. As it does through the pack, a pack of wild wolves still howling for blood beneath the harvest moon. They claim me to be guilty still, and I will never be completely clean. She claims me to be filthy still, and remains never to be guilty herself. Justice will never be served in the grim and stonefaced apocalypse of life no longer lived. They claim me to be guilty. They have all but killed me.

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Let Boys Play

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.

Remembrance

Nothing substantial in writing today. Just some few words to accompany a drawing: With Remembrance day behind us, and international mens day coming up, I think we should all take some time to ponder and reflect on sacrifice and loss, and what that sacrifice and loss has bought us. At such a high price and in such grand numbers.

They will not divide us

 

«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

 

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

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.

Dulled senses, dulled sense

 

All our senses and all our sense have been dulled by toothless swine. If we succumb to our laughter, we are led to the gallows and hung with a noose of ADHD-drugs wrapped tightly around our whiplashed necks. A straightforward lynching in the classrooms. Grand halls reek of foul abuse. The cancer is spreading. We`ve all got it by now, you know, oh boy.

We have skin as thin as paper wrapped over muscles unflinching and unfeeling, jaws clenched by stress and neck and shoulders aching. The ache we feel in the age of conformity narrows our breath, our veins can no longer carry the oxygen to our brains, so that we can no longer think and as a result we can no longer speak. We are dull and numbed, fat and bored, lost in a society in which we are forgotten, cast away to lick the jackboots of our betters, our superiors. We were led astray by insane ideologies, we left our blankets and our sheets in the strange monochromatic haze of a dying TV-set. Laugh, they say. We laugh. Do not laugh, they say. We weep. And thank them for the opportunity to repent.

Voices flow from out of a subcollective consciousness, a dramatic reading of the communist manifesto. Acted out by actors caught in the beauty of the woo, the immediacy of selfrighteous madness, locked in the ivory towers of eternal victimhood. You, they say, are the devil made manifest. You, they say, are the oppressor and we have every right to hate you. We shall fight you from the comfort of our middle-class homes, from our beds and from our sofas, we will bitch and moan and label everyone evil, salty scum. Do not stray from the path. We are fucking better than you. For what is the working class, the blue-collar slobs, if not nazis, if not literally Hitler?

Carry on with your othering, you collective blob of crocodiletears, you harsh, unfeeling, solipsistic, narcissistic and naive hobgoblins. We`ve got work to do. But, of course, we are worse than you. Evil pigs living paycheck to paycheck, doing menial work and manual tasks which you deem yourself unworthy to do. You clog our veins with propaganda, piece by piece and bit by bit, we drink our coolaid by the kegger, and laugh and weep and cry and die in chairs built on dreams that dried up on our thighs. All this while you sit and shit and gloat and moan and screech and roar through the windows of your unfeeling, unsensing eyes, winging at the merest notion that we may suffer as well, that we do suffer and do suffer well.

A generation caught with minds bent completely in on themselves, unable to emphatize but able to other, and then to devalue and bombard this other with weird fucking notions that we are somehow priviliged and evil, that we are scum. You have infested us all with lies and slander and pure, unadulterated hate. All the while claiming victimhood and woe-is-me. Wiping away tears with one hand, and beating us into submission with the other. A grand plan. Was it, perhaps, your final solution? Not to kill all men as the twitter-mobs would have us believe, but devalue and destroy all men, to push us down and belittle us and make us grateful for it? Why, of course: killing us would mean that you would have to do the dirty work. Better to make us subhuman. Back to the Gulag. Build them ivory towers, boy, and build them well. You owe us, you know. Oh boy, oh man, oh how evil the airconditioning is. Oh man, oh man, never have I ever seen a cat as clever as magical miss pussyhat.

Their ilk suffer from full frontal rectal examination: they have their heads stuck so far up their own asses that they can only smell the world through their bellybuttons, and can only see the world through the laced veil of their own thinly spread farts. This ideology is a fart laced with brainaltering chemicals. Oh, no, woe is me and mine and my farts.

The cancer is spreading. Our boys are being drugged for the crime of being boys. «Sit quietly in the back, youngun, while I speak from a position of unquestioned authority about how evil you are». The stench of the farts is unimaginable way over here in the back of the classroom. I can hardly taste my own tongue, but I feel the blood rising in my throat, thirty years of cancer building up. Oh man, thirty years of repressed rage rising from my nimble fingers. Oh boy, oh man, oh grand wazoo of the skies: is there any reason to carry on? Is there any reason to brush the cobwebs from my teeth and the rust from my throat? We were magicians once. Now we are whipped into conformity. We are neither boys nor girls, we are purple penguins locked in the zoo, gassed into bewildered compliance, grey and dying standing in lines and in rows in cold despair staring at the white walls of academia where our future died in ballads worth pennies! Were anyone present to hear our songs dying on our tongues bewildered by what-the-hell-happened-now? Who will save us?

We will.