«Touching the Godhead of finite wisdom»

Å røre ved gudehovudet av endeleg kunnskap

Yet another case of old-ish illustration instead of something new. Labouring under some illness or other makes making art harder than it used to be, by golly.

Got something new and – hopefully – very good coming up this saturday. Though, I should probably be careful in stroking my own ego and artistic ambitions too much. Let’s say that the one coming up this saturday is at the very least decent, and leave it at that, lest my head gets too big for my shoulders and I tumble to a doom of my own design.

There is something to be said about being humble, I think. Remembering the simple fact that ones art may not be as good as one would like to believe does two things: it grounds oneself in reality and pushes oneself to always get better at whatever it is one does.

And that, my dear friends, is the way the cookie crumbles on this gloomy morning in June, resembling autumn in all but the temperatures being slightly higher than they would have been, were it truly autumn.

I miss proper summer.

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– Moiret Allegiere, 19.06.2019

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Solipsism

kunst013

For reasons of health – that is to say a doctors appointment – there is no writing nor new drawing today. Please take this old-ish drawing entitled «Solipsism» as a filler. Drawn before I discovered such a thing as colours existed. From way back in the day when the world was black and white.

 

There is something good coming in the way of writing this saturday, which I hope will make up for this lack content. «A MeToo Dance Macabre» is the title. Hopefully, this will manufacture some anticipation.

 

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  • Moiret Allegiere, 29.05.2019

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(Filler-poetry) Micro-Dystopian Junk:

Blame it on rembrandt A3 lowres

Illustration: «Blame it on Rembrandt (Selfportrait)», A3, 2019, Moiret Allegiere.

 

From the spectrum analysis
of the void; wishy-washy
nonsense bottled and sold as perpetual
freedom grieving the loss of
some-odd something.

Veiled gurus cowering in shades,
hiding mumbo-jumbo recordings
of coked-up politicians flinging
shit on the stage.

Weird visions emanating from the
microcosm of cataclysmic
bacteria in my gut. I hear
strange noises in the inner ear;

a hum, a drone,
devoid of meaning.
’tis wordsalads and
stoned gibberish from the ranks
of growling throats and teeth and tongues.

’tis a slow descent into madness:
storytime sellouts, loud-mouth,
obnoxious and drunk
on power
shouting at us from a pinnacle
of perceived morality.

And we:
we have become fat and bored
cold and callous
narcissistic, vapid, overcivilized,
crammed into the backseat
of an undersized Honda
and labelling it love.

Our revolutions have become pedantic
miniature-scale overthrowings of
the what-ever-man-I-didn`t-dig-it variety;
gibberish of cancer-ridden mind-morons,
cowering behind a shower-curtain
drowning in an inch
of proclaimed hate-speech.

All our piss-poor grievances bottled
and sold wholesale as micro-dystopian junk
to be injected constantly into the eyes
and flaring nostrils
of the clinically dead conscientous junkies;
offended and having no shame.

Chemically castrated, side by side and in pairs
we walk jubilantly to mass-graves
singing songs
of joy and celebration and
of joyus celebration,
blinded to the truth
by ideals too clinical to be sane.

Castrated and morally feverish
we raise the flag of superficial fellowship,
a banner of solidarity,
free-falling, drunk and damaged,
just another take on the old
new world order of old
new-speak.

Kallo! Kallei! Hey-nonny-nonny-neigh!
Here we are, lost in permanent
displacement; within a void, within electric buzz!
Hey! Ho! Hey-nonny-nonny-no!
Here we fall, lost in a progressive
shitshow; a hollow tune, a loss for words.

All our words, swirling
down the drain (Hey honey, I’m home)
seeing reason in the face of madness
dance away, flip-flopping into the ether
or into crowdfunded oblivion
permanently scarred by the toxicity
of freedom-fighters fighting for tyranny.

Visionary journeys numbed by drugs and by TV
trashtalking gossip and no-nonsense dreamscapes
in bent reality reality-television, starstruck
by witnessing the vast open canvas of apocalypse

coursing through the veins of reflected
imagination and wild cosmic vibrations
fucked up by lack of oxygen –
nutritient deficiency on the mental plane
balanced by grievance-fuelled
moral stupidity;
we grow accustomed to the night light.

A sudden bright-light flash of
full frontal nudity whilst,
in the background,
heaps of cocaine-stunned nocturamas
plow the cottonfields eternally
in old world plantations.

What ya saying, humdinger?

don`t chase the fractals
don`t frighten the children
kill yourselves instead

melt into the background
disappear in bad music
hands at your sides
or tied behind your back
disappear

choke the life from your
throat, tear your voice from
your eyes, silence and
then
disappear.

A vast freak-out on a global scale,
weird pent-up lack of self-control
in this moment: a permanent fixture.

We die, laughing maniacally.

We die, smiling goofily, succumbing to
a fantastic death-dance.

We die, celebrating our death masqued
as some rebirth or other;

built by futurescapes too horrible to comprehend
past bleeds into the future –
eternalism in the works, oh baby,
our time is what once was will be
again
and
again
and again.

Cycles of mischief and of decadence
dull and numbed and bored,
grinning at nothing
and laughing at noone, smiling at
chasms or at wild-eyed wonders
with childlike innocence.

And so, and now, and there and then,
with childlike glee,
we march backwards
to our solitary confinement and,
confined to isolation, silenced and killed,
we think: this is proper, this is good, this is just.

We are going back.
Backwards in time.

Shamanic madness on the fringes of society
mystical and stained with blood;
teeth at our throat
and hamfisted theory
theorizing hamfistedly
blood and guts and gore
from archaic esoteric
wisdom.

Our cultures merging and diverging,
coo-ee, coo-ee, it`s only me,
it’s only me,
shattered, tattered,
torn apart by raven claws,
smooth as skulls
and dopamine.

It’s only me; an eerie collapse,
an aerial view of animal frenzy,
an inverted comma on your lips,
cold as the dawn
and serotonin.

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– Moiret Allegiere, 08.05.2019

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«Filler Poetry»: Monsoons

Easter Sunday 2019, A4 lowres

Illustration: «Easter Sunday 2019», A4, 2019, Moiret Allegiere

 
I dreamt monsoons as a kid

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

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

I dreamt tall trees
and
blasts of air
and
drunk death
behind waking
eyes
as a kid.

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

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

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

with

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

drip

drop

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

Repeating repetition
repetitiously

same as before
as a kid.

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

Bright stars high and slow
dazed my late night
night-light frenzy
calculated
and
as cool as
corner-store bullies
showing down in
grievous ecstasy
noiseless
voiceless,
voiceless
and noiseless
lessons learned from
sleep deprivation
as a kid.

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

as a kid.

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

 

– Moiret Allegiere, 24.04.2019

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