Peculiar Prescription Predicament (Or: I’ve got them ol’ Psychiatry-blues again, mama):

poppy red

All windows barred and shut and closed and covered. Silent swansongs from afar seek his ears and drool upon his knees and folded hands, folded now as if to pray, yet releasing only the golden voice of drowning whispers that might, on second glance, have been a scream of abstract epiphanies or rejected freak-ideas. Chewed, shot, regurgitated and shell-shocked, he lies there beneath ominous clouds of benzodiazepine-blue above, pining for release.

Masques line the walls of his single-celled organism living room cell, eyes that gaze and see nothing but blue-streaked shades of blues and the malevolence of benevolent pill-tyranny from shutter-bug masques and cliques that never once revealed their own face or true shape, yet claimed allegiance to the holy lost tradition of past healers mystical path.

Modern-day shaman rites in therapist couches and classrooms overrun by borderline infantile infanticide; Xanax double-takes that see young boys and men Xeroxed and ritualistically Ritalinized into completely oblivious oblivion. Or stroked and stoked into opinionated opiate-ponderings where and when all else fails on the long and winding road towards a cure for their peculiar predicament prescribed and defined as such from long-fingered hang-tooth nailbiters chewing on their last whistleblowing efficacy delicately, mulling the plight of their patients over in their heads above industrial-sized governmental coups in cocktail-party conversations with the best and brightest purveyors of rare drugs and synthesized herbal refreshments.

Or else euthanised euphorically and lovingly with Lithium and her alarmingly alluring grace; assorted whites and yellows and heavy metals; aluminium coils wrapped neatly around his neck and twisted tenaciously on the back of his tongue, spreading the woefully woke and aware inflammation further through his central nervous system, assaulting his brainstem and his neural interface, waking now and seeking madness, rampage, full frontal fevered frenzy.

…but succumbing to alluring traits in couch-lock cock-blocked bliss-and-blues as the medics and the healers both state with defined certainty that tribal states and views and love are not for him or his. For in his future lie naught but a blissfully unaware lifestyle-choice of hermits in the hermits cage and cave, built by the hands and hungry pens and mouths of vicious freelance isolationists and sanity separatists with concerted Ritalin or Concerta-grips around his morning bathroom routine, tangled in the lonely web of spiked-drink-greens upon his walls and consciousness that dread and die and dared defy the soothing chill and body-buzz of Venlafaxine-induced hyper-aware hyperactivity.

That lack of sleep from spiked brain-processing brought up from the depths of Effexor and her spectral shape mimicking amphetamines that kick-started body rush and muscle spasms, lockjaw-pains and clenched teeth and facial muscles… that then fed into an acute and immediate psychosis of delightful rarity and delicacy exploding from the shattered force of the tranquillized child lost deep within the mad-mind-maze of this spectral spectre spectator spectacle flooding the body with unknown chemicals and neurotoxins which were then to be quelled and conquered by the psychotics dream of anti-psychotics; graceful Zyprexa and her ruby lips injected into the tongue or corners of the eyes to kill the roaring madness and woefully misplaced energy whipped to a torrential monsoon by Venlafaxine. Oh boy.

Better soothe them nerves, old boy, to sleep and then to slumber some; take this casket or this suitcase or this ancient hearse filled to the point of structural collapse with alluring chemical remedies for your peculiar plight and predicament; uppers or downers of our choice by our hand and lingering pen-pal prescription delivered straight to your mailbox; instant Nirvana, instant enlightenment, instant radiant bliss, chronic constipation and a lingering impotence manifesting in the shape of a limp-noodled pinhead-dick.

And have we told you of our healers way, our ancient traditions brought to the front-and-centre of our world and dreary days; culture born from our holy ghost and divine presence; pop-psycho-babble amazingly popular in these streets named now after pharmaceutical companies dealing in bliss-by-the-bottle-and-the-handful salvations; four bucks a pop and we will promise transcendent pit-stone euphoria in blissful remedial Remeron sleep-and-slumber. We can promise Benzo-Buddha beauty and benevolence; numb and unfeeling, uncaring, a stoics dream and vital lifeline handcrafted by mechanical interventions in the deadlined supply-line and brought to life by starstruck seashore sellers of sensual sanity.

Or else we do have Prozac and Xanax, Cipralex or kiss-my-arse and various other tonics and bitters and swamp-snake snake-oils for your immediate release onto the loving bosom of God, in order to bring you to your knees praising God and his divine eternity in permanently persisting paradise; entire civilizations drugged into compliance and forgotten, lost within the murky swamps without a guiding light, with no need for guiding lights when there are no place to which one should wish to be guided.

Just flow and just feel nothing in this chemical bliss and castration of your muddled murky masculine mind blinded by insufferable individual ideology.

Soothed to the point of imaginary tentacle extraction and playtime alien brainwave interference by our galaxy of pop-goes-the-weasel pills that promise all and deliver nothing; all at once. And we can deliver salvation and we can deliver bliss and we can deliver you to the gates of paradise by scribbled lines from pens and needles in your feet and in your stomach and your heart and spine and soul and all.

For immediate release, in this day and in this age is prescribed from immediate need, from lack of patience, for lack of accumulated strength and wisdom to stand still in the coming storm, to call the storm to play ones own part and then become integrated into one self – conquered and defied, leashed and curtailed within and subdued by ones own strength of will.

The mouthy masques of psycho-babble babblelogues do babble on, solving issues of severe substance with substance-abuse court-ordered and mandated by vast and vague wishes of state-sanctioned uniformity – prescribed psychiatric prophylactic psycho-pills to conquer all and mend the beast – or, failing that, at the very least hiding said beast behind the merchant masques that stutter and then stammer so, to turn the beast within a docile, slumbering mess. Yet still being there within the brain and the fluctuating chemistry therein, it will once in a while pop up and come out to play, prompting us to crawl back into psycho-thematic couches and chairs to be prescribed some more and then some more, time and time again.

Or else be met with disbelief and stark defiance should we propose a differing solution to the drug-induced lazy euphoria of couch-lock-bliss and energies curtailed or wired or both at the same time, drowning in chemicals that tell the nervous system to do diametrically opposed things simultaneously; to be wired and to be subdued. To be fully aware and energetic, yet to be unaware and unconscious.

In this haze and marvelled madness lies he still; subdued and pill-popped, pondering his peculiar prescription predicament by the hand of God and the Government, merging, melding and meddling, becoming one and the same, indistinguishable and wonky and clad all in white flowing gowns.

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 – Moiret Allegiere, 17.08.2019


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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.

Dulled senses, dulled sense

Heimlaus lowres


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.