Sex-bots and Salt; a Ramble on Robotic Consent:

«Devoured by Lust», Moiret Allegiere, 2017

Well, would you take a look at this: https://www.researchgate.net/publication/335986790_Designing_Virtuous_Sex_Robots .

In yet another preposterous think-piece, this time delivered as a serious and ever so scientific (scouts honour!) research-thingamajigger, amongst a barrage of similar think-pieces, designed to make you stop thinking… the ever-present terror and dread of the potential sex bot takeover in the future is made manifest. Skynet is looming on the horizon. Or Blownet… Sucknet… Hoenet… Fishnet…

Though I will have to admit that it is a bit more creative this time around in its ponderous vulture-morality ways, vices and virtues.

Presenting the obvious solution to the difficult moral, ethical and legal question that none but the terribly trembling forces that be thought to ask.

Which is, obviously: if one fucks an actual object… is this then rape of a bought-and-sold actual object? And how could we possibly make it so that any one man who owns such an object is viewed in the worst possible light?

By presenting masturbating with a sex toy as rape.

Of course.

We have a winner, ladies and gentlemen.

Now, moving on from this, it has to be presented as something carrying with it deeply ambiguous and dangerous patterns of behaviour… and words… and dirty deeds done in the dark.

The sex-bot uprising is right around the corner… if we do not treat the sex-bots, whose sole purpose is to serve as a sex-toy, a masturbatory aid, a release for pent up sexual urges that would otherwise be released through a flick of the wrist… if we do not treat these solitary sexual toys with dignity and with respect, who knows what terrible deeds these men may do when the doll no longer serves its main function?

Oh, the horror.

And with Halloween right around the corner…

Oh, the double horror!

And won’t somebody please think of the children?

The solution is simple – to the point of mental degradation. Make it so that the sex-bots have to give consent to sex. That is, to fulfil the one and only purpose for which they are built. After all, one would not wish any harm inflicted upon the silicone parts or moving mechanical magic, now would one? Certainly, clearly and obviously, there is an AI personality nesting within the matrix of the robotic pump-and-dump-dream. And any machine that exist with an ability to perform any task must be treated as though it were a human being. So one has to ask for consent before fucking the object that is nothing but an object bought for fucking.

This makes no sense.

Who, in their right mind, would pay for that? If one pays good money for a fuck-toy, one would imagine the fuck-toy to be beholden to the whim of its owner. Because it is a toy. A doll. A robot. Not a human being that has to give consent. And, believe it or not, most men are not so stupid as to not know the difference between a toy and a human being. Apparently, quite a few feminists are too stupid to do that, but that ought to surprise no-one.

This, ladies and gentlemen, is why I always ask my computer if it is fine with me turning it on. After all, if it is not turned on, I can not do anything with it, now can I?

And rightly so.

If the computer is turned off, the computer has to be turned off. It is the God-given right of any piece of computer-equipment to do just that. If there is no consent given, I can not have my way with it.

Usually, I have to woo it with dinner, promises of more RAM and a diamond-encrusted processor before it gets turned on. This tactic works, as one would expect, though it does get a bit expensive after a while.

Which is why I tend to keep it turned on after first getting its consent to turn it on. Admittedly, this makes it a bit sluggish at times, but that is just the way it’ll have to be. I am not made of money. And the computer was god-damned aware of this before it moved in with me.

My dishwasher, on the other hand… that one is particularly tricky to get any manner of consent from. Not that this matters much, and I will not get sidetracked into explaining how I woo that pesky and feisty little thing. Some things a man just have to keep private, personal and secret. Rest assured, however, that my dishwasher has yet to refuse consent.

I can poke fun all day long.

We all can, may, should, would and god-damned ought to.

The “Clown World” meme became a meme for a reason. And this is one of those reasons.

Honk.

Bloody, god-damned, fucking Honk.

It is ridiculous, preposterous, and a wee bit frightening.

Have you ever stopped to wonder why all these articles… why all this sudden concern about the ethics of sex-bots? I believe it is incredibly simple.

Women are now, and have always been, the gatekeepers of sex.

This is not strange, given that they carry the burden of pregnancy.

Even with all these new and fancy genders they keep telling me about muddying the waters some… It is still women that get pregnant. Despite men having periods now, and men being pregnant now and… fuck, I keep getting lost in all the new rules. Given time, I suppose I will learn these new rules and laws of gender, sex and sexuality. I will have to learn through being made subject to re-education, I guess.

Biologically speaking, it really is no wonder that women are the gatekeepers of sex. Of course, given our modern marvellous magic of medicine, our various birth-controls and prophylactics, nature is taken out of the equation at a superficial level. We can over-ride this on a conscious level.

On a subconscious, on a primal, primate, reptile-brain level, however… I don’t think it is all that easy. Mate-selection and sexual gatekeeping is still present. Very much so. And these sex-bots remove quite a lot of power from women in that regard.

Though I doubt all that many men will prefer the sex-bots to a real woman, it still puts some pressure on women to perform better than they currently do in the dating game, the social game and the sexual game in order to land a partner. Suddenly, they may need to do more than just show up and show a bit of cleavage. Thus, these sex-bots are perceived as a threat to women’s sexual power. And that sexual power is real power. For men are thirsty beings. One of our greatest flaws, I think, is our tendencies to think with Dick Hardy, opening ourselves up very easily to become Hardly Dick later on down the line.

So they – feminists in particular – have to paint this in terrible ways, to discourage sex-bots and – ultimately – banish them by law, if need be. For all the horrible men and all their sex-toys do nothing but objectify women and trivialize rape. Because of course they do. Male sexuality is something to be afraid of, after all. This is old knowledge. Nothing new. Fear the hard-on. For it is an implement of rape, doom, wanton destruction and pant-splitting terror.

The simple fact that all god-damned stores that sell sex-toys for the curious, for the more libertine of our ladies and gentlemen are filled to the brim with all manner of doo-hickeyes; gizmos, penetrative plastic, mechanical contraptions, buzzing, grinding, pounding, pulsating, thrusting, blinking, singing, poetry-reading, coffee-making miniature marvels of engineering solely for the sexual pleasure of women are of no consequence.

If one is lucky, one may find a Fleshlight hidden away in a corner for the guy, and a modest selection of pornographic movies. Otherwise, the sexual machinery in the stores are there for women. And the stores mainly employ women. A man that buys a sex-toy is a virgin incel neckbeard loser and must be shunned and ridiculed. A woman that buys a sex-toy is sexually liberated and must be celebrated. Such is the view of things. For a man is judged on whether or not he can land a partner. If he is forced to use his hand, or any other implement to simulate sex, he is a loser. And is as such worthy of our scorn, our rage, our ridicule… and our fear.

Yet, what is a dildo but an object meant to replicate a severed penis? Following the logic of the troglodytes writing these blubber-mouthed articles of woe and petulant worry where sex bots are concerned, I would dare say that a severed penis is a far worse case of objectification than a whole replica of a human being… reducing men to nothing but their genitalia? What a horrible thing to do. Not to mention the unreasonable and highly unobtainable standards dildos set in regards to length, girth, expected stamina and so-and-such. Also: these dildos can not possibly consent. Which only worsens things, rendering every woman who has ever employed the use of a dildo – or a vibrator – a sex-crazed lunatic, bursting at the seams with rape, plunder and sexual entitlement galore.

Surely, they are in desperate need of consent-courses, considering how long they have been free to celebrate their use of dildos and various other mechanical contraptions to simulate the presence of a man… reducing men to nothing but their genitalia – or tongues, in some cases – in the process.

Considering that there have been similar articles of woe and worry floating around in regards to fleshlights and other such silicone replications of various parts of women, I do not think I am reaching here.

This is employing their own logic. If it sounds stupid where dildos are concerned, it is stupid the other way around. At the end of the day, it is masturbation. Not a relationship. Quick release. Not a relationship.

It is, as are all things when it comes to this, a case of double standards. And had feminism not held double standards, they would have no standards at all. Teach women not to rape their dildos. #DildosCannotConsent.

To be clear; I have absolutely no problems with women using sex toys. I do not feel threatened by it. I also have no problems with men using sex toys. Nor should anyone. Yet, women appear threatened by it. #FragileFemininity, then, when, and is it about bloody time? This is attempted control of sexuality. Control of the sexuality of men. Not only that… it is attempted control of sexual fantasies. I think one could argue that circumcision is attempted control of male sexuality as well. But that is another case altogether.

Sex-bots are just that – sex-bots. Robotics meant to simulate a sexual experience. It is not so much objectifying a human as it is humanizing an object. The only threat – the only fear – the only terror is that it may remove some sexual power from women. To claim that usage of sex-bots will normalize rape and as such suddenly increase the amount of rape happening around the western world is ridiculous. It is emotional argumentation; an appeal to affect employed by feminism… Emotional manipulation to get their way, as is their tactic… won’t somebody please think of the children… and the women…

It is the same argument used in regards to violent video games, in regards to rock’n’roll, in regards to heavy metal, in regards to dangerous literature… I fail to see any difference between this and the people who wanted to ban Harry bloody Potter for promoting witchcraft. Woe onto the state of the world.

Honk.

Honk.

Lonely Trainstation Blues – Poetry for the Lost Boys, Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07ZB6K2JX
Lonely Trainstation Blues – Poetry for the Lost Boys, Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1692495518

Howling at a Slutwalk Moon, a collection of previous blog posts:
Vol 1 Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/107571074X
Vol 1 Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07TZTPDPR
Vol 2 Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075714184
Vol 2 Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07TZR25NL
Vol 1 Illustrated Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075717094
Vol 2 Illustrated Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075723078
Other links:
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Bitchute: https://www.bitchute.com/channel/EvbGZyTZSraY/
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Minds: https://www.minds.com/Moiret
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On Violent Censorship and Quaint Duets: A postmodern tragedy in four parts:

howl lowres

Illustration: «Howl», 2019, Moiret Allegiere

 

To be frank and perfectly honest: I really can’t stay. The censorious bull-dickery has been nibbling at the base of my skull far too much lately.

It’s been far too much for quite some time. But who cares about that, right? There is quite a lot of wonderment and very little worry in someone having their opinions and speech censored. It is a price I am willing to pay, as long as the filthy fascists get their comeuppance. Preferably with a bike-lock through the skull whilst being subjected to the discipline of the acidic milkshake shower. Just as long as you don’t deem my speech and conduct to be hateful, it’s all quite alright you marvellous miracle-worker of do-goody nonsense, you; you fantastic YouTube and mass-engulfing-media you!

All these calls for censorship… so astonishingly weird and confusing. It wouldn’t be that bad were it just calls for censorship. We’ve had to deal with arseholes of that nature for as long as we have held different opinions and have had culture that have pushed some boundary or other.

Eek! Won’t somebody please think of the children!”

…And so forth and so on…

For something to offend someone’s delicate sensibilities to be censored and stowed away is far more important than the freedom of other people to enjoy something that offends some hysterical screeching cat-lady with all the sense and magical reasoning of a bat-shit insane speck of dust.

I don’t think the calls for censorship is the issue. The implementation of censorship, on the other hand, most definitely is. That someone wielding some kind of power is stupid enough or brainwashed enough or pussy-whipped enough or frightened of the mob enough to stoop to censoring opinions, speech or culture because someone is offended is frightening. Or – as is more likely – because someone pretends to be offended just to get their fix of dopamine, righteous indignation and egotistical power-trip of the day.

It is even more frightening that it is opinions going against the grain and holy dogma of society as it stands today that is getting censored and deemed verboten. Freedom of expression and speech is there to protect the rights of those who do not conform to whatever social standards we are handed, given or forced into to express their opinions, however contrarian they may be. When given the illusion that everyone holds the same opinion within a society, the immediate thought is of course that people are forced to hold the same opinion for fear of punishment if they do not.

Sterile, whitewashed walls… padded cells… no room for worry here… we are all the same… of one mind… one body… engulfed by the fever and sermon… the cult of the great leader… All because someone is offended… And then it depends on who is offended. Because offence is A-OK. As long as the offence given is trudging along with the dominance of the party-line.

This censorship of speech and opinion is tyranny disguised as protection; the powers-that-be deciding that the poor huddled masses are just to frail and stupid to handle dissenting opinions and edgy teen-humour from mouldy basements; that they are too weak of mind and of will to comprehend that someone can enjoy art and culture which they themselves do not enjoy.

Oh, baby, it’s cold outside!

It is getting very cold inside as well.

Now it’s all just days spent waiting for the cops or the Stasi or the Gestapo or the KGB or whatever to knock my door down for daring to not only consume the wrong kind of media, humour, art, culture, opinion and entertainment but also for producing it.

Once, I laughed at a joke about Islam, and am now terrified for my life. I did the same about Catholicism Once or twice or thrice, but that doesn’t worry me as much for some strange reason. Imagine that.

I’ve got to get away! But getting away is easier said than done. I’m absolutely certain they are hiding in the bushes and in the poppies outside, waiting for the moment I escape from this fortified compound I call my apartment to shoot me down like a dog. No offence meant to dog-lovers. I am one. A dog-lover, that is. Not a dog. Though I wish I were. But that is besides the point.

…All this frenzied censorship and culling of the non-politically correct, of anyone labelled extremely right-wing for being slightly to the right of an amalgamation of Mao, Lenin, Marx, Pol Pot and sacred Dworkin no matter what they themselves have to say on the matter has got me reduced to a babbling mass of paranoid nerves and tendons swishing the air and screaming incoherently about the technocratic elite being out to get me! And the feminists, of course.

Oh, baby, it’s cold outside!

We are witnessing the ruination of liberal values which our societies have held dear and fought for and paid for even more dearly over the course of centuries. And it is bothering me something awful. As well it fucking should. Anyone not bothered, to some extent or other, by this must have their head up their arse and their eyes firmly fixed on their navel. From within their digestive system. This evening has been… its been dreadful.

See, I can write about it in an over-the-top, obnoxious and paranoid manner, channelling all the Hunter Thompson the world could ever want or need. At the end of the day however, it is the grim and realistic spectre of George Orwell that is floating in front of my vision; a peculiar ghost; visions and warnings of tyrannies past, present and future with an elegant moustache, whispering in a kind-of half-mocking, half-disappointed voice: “I warned you, didn’t I? I warned you several times, yet you did not listen.”

And it is grim and it is serious, and we make a toast with Italian red wine, before I tell him:

I’ve been hoping that you’d drop in”.

So very nice.

I’ve been looking for someone to talk to for a long time about this, but no-one is willing to listen to me, George. They call me mad, George, Mad! Then they insist that if I have nothing to hide, I have nothing to fear. Or to lose. And I’m just sitting here, wondering who in all the glory of Stalin’s moustache decides what is needed to be hidden and what is not? And are they really that vain and selfish and egotistical that they don’t realize that they are not safe from the tyranny of censorship which they wish to impose upon others?

…And the ghost of George Orwell will laugh sardonically and repeat what he said, albeit slightly more soothing. Then he will say that he is very happy to be dead, thank you very much. And we mucked it up ourselves despite his warnings so we’ll damned well have to fix it for ourselves! And then he tells me:

I’ll hold your hands, they’re just like ice.” before telling me to stay out of Burma, invest in gold, don’t take any gruff from these swine and so forth and so on before fading into dust, leaving me stranded in my living-room, feeling maybe slightly more uppity and a hell of a lot more paranoid than before his ghost graced me with its presence.

***

You know; I recall, years ago in my early teens, when I first started getting into extreme metal – a poorly defined sub-genre of music I still very much enjoy – buying all kinds of early Scandinavian black metal records as well as a mixed bag of aggressive death and gloomy doom metal; all manners of filth and fury, thinking that soon, my mother will start to worry. As is the natural order of things; a sort-of, kind-of rebellion against the values of the parental generation through shock and horror that was lacking in anything even resembling subtlety. This was back in the hey-days of Marilyn Manson and at the tail-end of the satanic panic.

Man-oh-man: remember when Marilyn Manson was threatening? What a time to be alive! Now it’s all ballads and cute and quaint duets from way back in the early 20th century we are supposed to find threatening and consider worthy of censorship, in a weird backwards role-reversal of parent-child relationship. With all the snivelling teachers pets and tattle-tales we all despised in our forgotten classrooms filling the role of concerned mother for the generation of their parents and their grandparents, as well as civilization at large! People in their late twenties or early-to-mid thirties deciding that all is offence and nothing is anything but what they decide that it is. God forbid someone actually enjoy something without analysing it to death and beyond and promptly denouncing it!

As most people probably are aware of: subtlety is not the first thing on ones mind when one is in the hormonally induced drunken rampage of horrid puberty. Quite the contrary. Just about everything is up front and centre, and the more overt the rebellion, the better. As it very well should be.

Then it blows over and it settles and one is rounded, more secure in oneself and gaining traction on the path towards adulthood, having blown off quite a bit of steam in the process.

If one allows oneself to grow up and become an adult human being, capable of accepting that someone else has the right to voice their opinion, however much it differs from ones own, or even offends, that is.

As this happens, and one starts talking to oneself and thinking for oneself, acting for oneself and being oneself, there is a striking realization that it is all so beautiful, so beautiful. So what’s your hurry? What’s your hurry, indeed? Why hurry towards some ever-changing goalpost, some newfangled outrage that is always eluding your limited grasp? It is simply not worth the fucking bother unless it very directly – through laws, regulations and infringements impacts oneself. Such as state-sanctioned, mass-media frenzied infringements upon freedom of speech, freedom of expression and freedom of association. Which is slowly, yet surely, happening throughout the western world. Call me paranoid as much as you wish: it is happening. And no labels of paranoid schizophrenia and assorted clinical insanity will change that.

There’s no need to worry too much about what other people think or do or find funny or enjoy. It is just annoying to everyone. Including you yourself. Why should this bother you? How does someone laughing at a joke you find offensive in any way, shape or form hurt you? You are not the parent or guardian of the entirety of western civilization. As such, western civilization does not need to bow down and succumb to your will for censorship of anything you consider unfit for human consumption, be those differing opinions or culture or art or music or whatever. As this might have eluded your finite cognitive functions, allow me to dumb it down for you: you are not a worrying mother for a civilization that is a dumb and rebellious teenager needing to have its curfew in place and its consumption of culture curtailed to that which you deem appropriate.

There are more than enough overbearing mothers around. Everyone and their mums would do well to loosen their reigns and let other people be as other people are. Western civilization do not need an overbearing, smothering mother bearing down on them with all the protection and nurturing of a broken bottle of opiate-laced Jack Daniels; telling us that if we are not in our beds at this hour, if we do not turn of that devil music, if we don’t cut our hair, then Father will be pacing the floor with worry and Mother won’t be sleeping either, and you have ruined the stability of the family and will be the downfall of us all.

Expecting only opinions you agree with to be allowed in the public sphere – and YouTube as well as other social media juggernauts are public spheres, no matter what you say – whilst at the same time pretending to hold liberal values is hypocritical, unthinking nonsense born from an egotistical notion that the world would be far better if only everyone agreed with you and buckled down and did as you do, speak as you speak, think as you think, believe as you believe, and so forth and so on. A multitude of differing ideas, opinions and thoughts will always fare better than a forced, overarching and governing idea proposed by ideology and enforced with an iron fist.

A tyrannical notion of inclusivity and equality where all are equal under the sun, despite the sun being eclipsed by the moon and the nonsense trembling in your verruca warts travelling all the way to your flimsy attack-womb to give birth to the Antichrist who says that in order for all to be free and to be equal, some must be unfree to speak and considered unequal in opinion so that others shall feel safe from some imagined ill conjured forth in the elitist brains of piss-drunk arm-chair politicians with a graduate degree in gender studies and another graduate degree in guerilla warfare and propaganda of the Bolshevik revolution! Because words, as opposed to actual political violence from the likes of god-damned Antifa, are violence, for some strange and peculiar reason. If the ones committing violence of the spoken word does not tow the party-line of the fair and fragile few, that is.

And now, for this fractured notion of equality and inclusion which is defiling and assaulting our liberties – and that is liberties to offend as well as to be offended – I have to sit here and rant and rave and ramble endlessly about this nonsense instead of settling down some place and listen to the fireplace roar.

There are lots of other things that interest me, you see.

I don’t have to write about this treachery.

There are lots of things that I would enjoy writing about that is not infringements – or attempted infringements – upon my freedom to express myself. This seems to me to be the most pressing, however – the most important topic of discussion in our day and age, where we will either stumble into a censorious dark-age of technocratic tyranny and globalist nonsense, or through fantastic perseverance and grit fight our way into a new renaissance where we value and welcome all manners of speech, expression, art and culture and let them die or succeed on their merit instead of being so scared and timid of disagreements that we much prefer to censor that which is not in line with the current cultural zeitgeist so that we don’t need to see it co-exist with our brave new world.

Out of sight, out of mind.

If we do not see it, it does not exist.

If we redefine a word, it changes everything. Imagine the fantastic utopia; a world in which homelessness and poverty and violence does not exist because the words do not exist, or the words are redefined and everything is swept under the rug so that we do not see it. And when we do not see it, it can not be there, now, can it? There are no suicides in this utopia, in this frantically sterile world. Death by self inflicted gunshot wounds are deemed a curious accident; overdose on pills are just the same. A curious accident. For our utopia is so fantastic and so glorious and so equal and so inclusive that one can not possibly wish to kill oneself! Etc. etc.

We can’t have nice things like free expression of ideas and art and culture, because some raging and demented and ragingly demented social justice warrior or frazzled soccer-mom with feminist platitudes tattooed on the inside of her eyelids who does not think and does not speak for being too busy screeching, snivelling and roaring at the top of their lungs, will want to remove everything not fitting in with their narrow view of how things should be.

And everyone is all up in arms at the horrors these people have to witness; someone actually not agreeing, wearing symbols they do not like, listening to music they do not enjoy, saying something that offends them, laughing at jokes they do not laugh at… For some weird reason, people listen to this abhorrent censorious madness and lunacy. The lunatics have taken over the asylum, and the voices on the wind repeat the mantra and the slogan of the offended and insane: Ban it.

Ban it.

Condemn it all to the deepest and dankest pits of hell! Can’t have anything disrupting whatever remains of balance and calm in these choke-point minds of theirs, now, can we?

And so, really, I’d better scurry.

I had better get out of here before it gets even worse. But where should I run to, and how? There is no place to run. The walls are closing in. No room to roam no more. There’s nothing to do but to fortify this apartment even more; write some more nonsense that I get displeased with, only to hear my wife say that it is beautiful, please don’t hurry – or despair!

And so I will try and relax and I’ll have maybe just half a drink more, and I’ll ask my wife to put some records on while I pour so that we, at the very least, can have a good time as the world burns around us; so that maybe we can sit down and laugh at this atrocious absurdity unfolding before our very eyes instead of having to worry about what the neighbours might think, because, baby, it’s bad out there and it is getting worse and it is getting even more bad and I’m absolutely certain that the neighbours are spying on us, prepared at any moment to report us to the Stasi or whatever it is that keeps a track on us nowadays, and they’ll bust down our door, noses wrinkled in disgust, proclaiming loudly: “Say, what’s in this drink?”, then proceed to pour enough LSD in it to kill an elephant in order to frame me for something so that they can remove me from the premises for something that is not merely protesting the status quo and the frail and frantic feminist take-over of the government and the minds of the younger generation as well as our steady decline into petty tyranny and tin-box dictatorship.

Honk.

Fucking, god-damned Honk.

At the very least, they’ll give me a free car-ride as there are no cabs to be had out there any more since all the roads got paved with nails in order to force us to walk instead of drive and I wish I knew how to end this absurdity without slipping into complete and utter madness, but I don’t know how and – oh my – your eyes are like starlight now – it must be the LSD the Stasi slipped into my drink previously – and it is so terrorizing that in order to break this spell I will count the ways you wronged me and then I’ll take your hat, Mrs. Stasi madam – my, your hair looks swell…

***

We attempted to interview the subject, a Mr. Moiret Allegiere, on the morning of July 3, 2019. He appeared to be under the influence of some psychoactive drug or other, though that was hard to say with any level of certainty.

Later examination uncovered that he had been drinking wine laced with LSD; a rather powerful psychedelic drug.

As per regulations in situations such as these, we offered him Koolaid in an attempt to sober him up so that he would be capable of answering our inquires as to his activities since November of 2018. This had little effect, as he threw every glass we offered him at the wall, mumbling under his breath that “I ought to say no, no, no”. When asked why he did not accept this generous offer of Koolaid, he attempted to stare us down with his beard. He then proceeded to manspread like a true patriarchal oppressor, with little regard to the emotional well-being of anyone present.

This resulted in us having to bring in a new inquisitor, as <name redacted> broke down in fits of crying and literal shaking at this strange display of male dominance. We changed tactics and went for the tried and true approach of unlimited kindness and inclusivity. Not an easy tactic, of course, given the severity of the subject and his mansplained manspreading.

Mind if I move in closer?”

Inquisitor C inquired, in an effort to end the subjects obviously militant strategy of manspreaded beard-staring. The subject did not reply.

At this point, we were all at our wits end, I will have to admit, and we left the interrogation room to discuss our strategies further. As none of us inquisitors would like to admit to failure. In particular when faced with a fiend such as this.

Poor sinner; he does not know any better,” Inquisitor A stated, “at least I’m gonna say that I tried – after all, what’s the sense in hurting my pride?”

After letting the subject stew in our kindness-and-inclusivity-cell for a few hours, all inquisitors present, with the approval of the grand inquisitor, felt that the time was right to carry on with our interrogation.

Upon opening the door, however, the first thing that met us was the bare naked form of the subject – a sight, I will have to admit – that made me go temporarily blind. Of course, the temperature in the cell was slightly higher than average – somewhere in the vicinity of 50 decrees centigrade – we conceded, however, that this should not pose too many problems.

As an obvious result of this, his nudity was considered to be highly offensive.

This resulted in us charging him with sexual assault and battery.

I really can’t stay”, the subject said, in a hoarse whisper. He then proceeded to ask for water. Which inquisitor B was reluctant to deliver, fearing some kind of water-based assault. When told of our reluctance to deliver water, the subject simply stated “Baby, don’t hold out.” And asked, yet again, to be let out. As the subject seemed incapable of acknowledging the true nature of his crimes – that is intent to disrupt the peace, disrupting the peace, intent to spread misinformation, spreading misinformation, crimes upon good taste and decency, using the word “C**t” more than once, assault upon art, manspreading, beard-staring, mansplaining, manterrupting, manslamming, non-feminist activities, as well as crimes of thought, holding controversial opinions, sexual assault and battery as well as general crimes of a testicular nature and counter-revolutionary activities – we were understandably very reluctant to unleash him upon the general public, well aware of the heinous acts he has been carrying out for almost a year.

Despite it being summer, we felt that the best approach was to convince the subject that it was in fact winter, which, all things of course being subjective and objective fact no longer existing as anything but a remnant of patriarchal and white supremacist power-structures, really can not be considered lies, fibs or anything of that nature.

Said inquisitor A: “Ah, but it’s cold outside.”

Said the subject: “I’ve got to get home! My wife must be worried sick!”

Said inquisitor C: “Oh, baby, you’ll freeze out there.”

Said the subject: “Say, lend me your coat – that should help me with the cold.”

Said Inquisitor A: “It’s up to your knees out there – it’s all to do with climate change, you see.”

Said the subject: “You know, you’ve really been grand. And I thrill when you touch my hand!”

The touching of the hand was a result of inquisitor B attempting friendliness and comfort during the obvious inner turmoil of the subject in question. A tactic that was well planned out, had it not been for us not factoring in the subject proceeding to manbite the hand that comforted him, before manslamming his way to the door which none of us inquisitors had thought to close or lock, considering the passive nature of the subject after being left to calm down and relax in the kindness-and-inclusivity-cell. A tactic which have always worked before.

Upon which biting, Inquisitor B let out a scream, and in a strong and powerful and independent whimper stated: “Why don’t you see… that we are in the right? How can you do this thing to me? That really hurt!” In inclusion to the aforementioned charges, the subject is now also charged with general assault and battery of a patriarchal nature.

After manhandling his way to the door, the subject paused for a brief moment, his horrible mannaked manform outlined against the bright light of the hall outside, his manpenis swinging gently below his filthy manbeard like an improvised manclub. He gazed at us with his terrifying male gaze and said in his manvoice these words:

There’s bound to be talk tomorrow! Think of my life long sorrow; I have to deal with bastards like you all the time! At least there will be plenty implied if you caught pneumonia and died, you wretched puritans. But now, I am afraid to say – I really can’t stay. You should get over that hold out, you imbecilic purveyors of nonsense.”

The subject then manshook his manbeard in our general direction, turned around and promptly bolted out the nearest window. As one would expect, we were all frozen in pure terror and fright at this horrible display of toxic masculinity, and as such were completely unable to calm down the situation and restore order.

The subject is now on the loose, considered armed and dangerous. He must be approached with caution. Wanted dead or alive.

***

Ah, but it’s cold outside. A nuclear winter is looming on the horizon. A dreaded future in which all is sterile and complacent and apathetic. A future in which opinions and even facts that go against the dominant narrative is verboten, unfit for mass consumption for the perceived threat it poses against the delicate sensibilities of those who consider subjective feeling more important than fact; who consider facts and truth, reason and logic to be lies and slander or discriminatory statements despite being none of these.

We are going down the drain, flushed down and forgotten or trampled underfoot by the furious forces of basement-dwelling nincompoops pushing for a violent chaos for reasons they can not properly explain.

A generation lacking in empathy for anyone who does not share their limited and – to be honest – extreme point of view. For lack of reason, for lack of arguments, for lack of thought and conduct and empathy, they chose to beat up, beat down, rough up and pound anyone who disagrees to within an inch of their lives. Politically motivated violence from people to frail and weak and fragile and cowardly to consider the point of view of someone else. High on their own power; their own force in numbers, they become a mob – a buzzing, glaring, stupid mad, insane, rage-fuelled hive of violence and contempt claiming violence of words to justify their violent actions.

And in their minds, it makes perfect sense. In reaching the conclusion – dumb as it very well is – that words are violence, violence is then justified in order to stop violence. In considering words that they themselves have deemed to be hate-speech to be an act of violence, they have every right in the world to face violence with violence. To their fragile minds, caught in the intersection of indoctrination, brainwashing and cult-ish thinking, they are partaking in self-defence. Even when not directly attacked. And even when, by all metrics, being in the wrong, Antifa and their ilk truly believe that they are in the right.

These people are lost within a role-playing game; LARP-ing as revolutionaries; believing that they are bringing down the establishment, that they are fighting the rising tide of fascism… by implementing tactics used by fascists; the strong will survive, the weak will suffer. And the strong is the mass, the mob, the pack, the collective hiding the individual behind a mutually assured strength in black-walled numbers horrifying in their madness and violence against those whom they consider to be the truly violent ones.

These people are lost in their own demented belief in their moral superiority.

I would be inclined to pity them profusely, were it not for the fact that they hurt people immensely and with impunity; were it not for the fact that they seem immune to anything not covered by their hug-box echo-chambers, their backwards nonsense, their bored and pointless lives in which they seek so desperately some meaning, something to do, something to break the monotony and drudgery of their easy existence that they rave and roar and rampage and ridicule; that they bash and beat and break bones and skulls to gain some semblance of action, of meaning, of being part of something bigger than their pathetic weasel existence.

As it stands, I can not pity them. Nor can I hate them. I consider them a poignant tragedy; a symbol of a society sliding into pointless decadence and hedonism, into overabundant debauchery and degeneracy. A society in which living is remarkably easy, a society in which they have it so good that they feel sorry for themselves. And feel guilty for others not having it as good as they do. Lost within a society in which there is nothing to strive for, nothing to conquer, nothing to occupy the days with, nothing that gives any sense of meaning or belonging, prompting the bored beast within to go on a rampage, to complain and to bitch and to moan about non-issues just to break the pale and grey and dull monotony of every day slipping into the next day with no meaning, no point, no search, no quest, no nothing. There is no unifying idea, tradition or ideal. Just the endless fight. Preposterous petulant prepubescent post-graduate children hidden in the bodies of adults, bored senseless and prone to believing anything as long as there is some action, some feeling, something, whatever.

Oh, baby, it’s cold outside.

And it will keep getting colder as long as this tide is not halted. As long as this tide is allowed to run free, backed by mass-media pundits just as pampered and decadent and dull and bored and meaningless as they themselves are. As long as this nonsensical violent beast is given free reign, is given protection and explanation and all manner of mental gymnastics to justify their abhorrent behaviour; their killing of opposing views, their culling of inquisitive minds who do not swallow their dogma hook, line and stinker, we will see more violence, more chaos, a steady escalation of beat-downs and debauchery until someone is killed for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Prompting even more escalation.

And these people preach tolerance. It sickens me.

Tolerance.

Tolerance.

Tolerance.

How that word has lost all meaning. How that word has eluded the grasp of mental midgets, incapable of considering views from anything but their own coke-addled minds and echo-chambers. How that word – tolerance – has escaped the dictionary and floated into the midst of bullies, using it as nothing but an excuse for violence against those considered to not be tolerated or tolerant; using it as the sword or bike-lock or bludgeon of righteousness, when they are incapable of understanding that tolerance is a two-way street. In preaching tolerance, one must also be tolerant. And being tolerant is tolerating that other people hold views different from ones own. And that this is quite OK in a society that is not in the grip of some totalitarian tyranny.

Violently assaulting people for holding different opinions is not tolerant. It is quite the opposite. It is the hallmark of tyrants; the banner of obscene and horrible tyranny.

Which we are sliding into, gently, to mass applause.

Which we are drifting into, lovingly, to cheers and celebrations.

Which we embrace as though the worst crime in existence is someone having their feelings hurt and being offended for seeing or hearing that someone disagrees; for believing lack of tolerance in other people whom they beat to a bloody pulp for their lack of tolerance of opposing views spoken or written.

Oh, baby, it’s cold outside!

The freedom of the west is dying.

Long live the freedom of the west.

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 – Moiret Allegiere, 06.07.2019

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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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We Swim in Silence:

Meditating cynic 2 A3 lowres

Illustration: «Meditating Cynic», A3, 2019, Moiret Allegiere

 

We swim in silence;

With laced veils tied around our faces, across our mouths and hands and chests, we swim engulfed in silence, profound and deafening, quietly maddening. Waves crash at the shores of desolate desert-islands and we crash to the shores with them, ground into the coarse sand and broken shells of futures indeterminate.

We swim in overwhelming silence;

Beneath skies clothed in iron underneath its flowing gown of silk and satin; beneath a moon of complex and dubious duality, beneath the majestic majesty of translucent travesties, we sit and watch the bonfire at the beach in whose magnificent flames our accumulated wisdom burns and turns to ashes. By whose flames our midnight camp-ground is illuminated with pages of books floating by, ablaze, aflame, unheeded and unheard, accentuated by a loud death knell not in mourning, but in celebration.

We swim in exhausting silence;

For ours is the vampiric era of censorious insanity. Ours is an age in which we must pretend we do not have a past upon which to build; an age in which we must do all we can to undermine accomplishments of days and days before our time and before our shadow showed itself. This is the age where all that is, was and ever will is considered offensive criminal offence, criminal neglect and superfluous ridiculousness. Ours is an age in which all that dissent from the proclaimed truth, who disagree with the dominant cultural narrative – forged by culture-war convenience – must be silenced, must be brought to their knees and suffer silent silencing by any means necessary.

We swim in radiant silence;

Caught in opiate whirlwinds of fanciful fanaticism, we march with pandering, meandering, misplaced, misguided notions of altruism upon our brows and around our waists and wrists and ankles. We march with superficial knots tied around our necks, with tattoos upon our eyes and tongues and nimble fingers commanding: “Be malignantly virtuous, or else.”.

We swim in washed-out silence;

With gag-orders forced down our throats from hastily scribbled pen-pal-like petitions to hinder and to halt and then to silence; a proclamation of continual dependence on fear and tribulation, a co-dependent tangling of the untangled social madness and hysteria at the dawning of the age of superficial identity politics. Through the bonfire we see, glassy-eyed and cold, manipulation of history, ruination of free-form discussion, wreckage of words and collapse of meaning presenting only one side and making sure that only one side is seen, to tear sanity, truth and reason asunder, to turn a hard-spun, hand-woven lie into truth and into beauty unquestioned.

We swim in deafening silence;

Where it is considered better to censor history, better to burn and to ban and to eradicate literature than it is to suffer someone reading and learning on their own accord; where it is better to bring all we see and all we built and all we gained crashing down in feral wild and violent crash-bang-booms, than it is to learn from past mistakes which are naught but mistakes of the past. Better to view all of history and all of literature in deep black and white rather than learn from the negatives and build upon the positives; to view it in a much more nuanced light, stating: this is what it was, this is how it is, we learned from this, we can learn from this as well.

We swim in dilapidated silence;

We find ourselves cast adrift and floating, in chains, tied up with seaweed, with post-truth and with rot and riot, in a time and place and day and age where all but one is one and all but one is all, where all-or-nothing thinking is perceived to be and are presented as nuanced thinking, where we lose if we should stop to think, where those who understand, where those who comprehend, that a willingness to expose oneself to a multitude of ideas, opinions and speech is the mark of an open mind are burned alive on metaphysical pyres of indoctrinated mumbo-jumbo magic imposed upon them by ravaged authority, or hunted down for sport in dark woods of social media rapture, frozen over, doomed to die.

We swim in absurdist silence;

…for the perception of one trump the perception of the other; the perceived and subjective feelings of one trump the facts of the other. In order for none to have their feelings hurt but those whose feelings are not considered real and proper and true feelings, we censor, we de-platform, we chase the witches out of the cities and into isolation, into desolation, into alienation.

We swim in pregnant silence,

In decadent decay,

in obscure relativity,

in relative obscurity,

we swim in nonsense, reaching only death.

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 – Moiret Allegiere, 04.05.2019

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Stayed all Night

Once more into the frey A3 lowres

Ill: «Once more into the frey», A3, 2019, Moiret Allegiere

(This is a poem I wrote some time back. Not exactly my usual topic, but I’ll share it nonetheless.)

I got drunk and
stayed all night
in burnt-out
toilet cubicles.

Old-school guillotine madness
a dream from footprints in snow
a trail of blood and cum;
carry on my wayward son.

Transcending life and death
with a drunkards hypnotic gaze,
I exhumed God, feeble-minded,
from rolls of toilet-paper
on cold stone-tiled floors.

An imminent explosion
pulse beat at the tip of the heart,
pounding nails into my jack-hammer migraine
transcending life and death
to sway far away, saintlike.

Clouds floated overhead
head over heels
posthumous humour between
walls lined with graffiti pointing
at the road toward intentions;
paved with good hell.

Crude drawings and sketches
of cocks and cunts
and words alluding to
fornication
within this holy cubicle
within this inner sanctum
within this temple to
the body.

After a while
cloven in twain with
my particles rising towards
space incandescent, diamond-like
and scattered alongside my marbles
I fell to my knees
at the feet of my porcelain-altar.

Lying coiled at the
feet of God
drawn wishy-washy towards
enlightenment, cold as hell
huddled under my cheap
trench-coat stained with vomit
and with booze and rot.

Existence exited right of centre
with high-strung nervous tension
and frost caked in the corners
of closed eyelids, blinking REM-like
aiming at immediate psychosis.

Voices cried «NO!» elaborating
drunkenly on fingertips elusive
in this foul ravens-night
cold as the babble
found in throats closed by anxiety
where God descended his beggars
throne, asking for handouts
and receiving analogue telephone
receivers to comprehend only silence on
the other line.

Heavy pressure on chest
huffing puffing heaving
for air, forcing breath into
lungs to be met only with
hyperactive neural interface-madness
click-clacking on the receiving
end of telephones spattered with gold
alone and descending into
madness particular to God;
his voice whispering in my
elusive ear: “transcend”.

Then transcending what exactly?
Collapse of air and breath and lungs
prolapsed back-stroke and neck,
stinging burning sensations of pain
and fatigue extreme
and fatigued extremities,
then turn your head and wobble
then turn your eyes inwards
gaze at pits of madness
vicious despair
cold and clinically insane.

Then transcend transcendence.
Become a noose,
a laughter golden.
Become a silence,
metaphysical, then freaking out.
Running wildly over the hills
wild horses roaring with laughter,
sacrosanct, taboo, fetishistic,
seeking truth in nonsense.

Words spat at murals
hanging drugged from streams of
light, crawling naked towards
mountains of madness, covered
in piss and shit and dust and stone.

Eerie mechanical prophet-words
immediate, cleaner than
impatience
in the face of God and in the
face of Society and its snake
coiled in the back of my throat
forcing vomit out in
screams of frustration
and roars of rage.

Then meet only silence.
Hands that claw at heartstrings,
silence more profound than
words of wisdom gathered
in stoned drum-circles, or in
dilapidated concrete-blocks where
peeking children gaze at death
through folded curtains padded
with razor wire.

Seven layers of madness.
Tragedy ensues.
Suicidal seeker-dream
drug born, ravenous and weird.
Pecking at the eyes of reason
when shivering scatterbrained
huddled in a corner of sacred
and permanent building-blocks
of bygone society, resting
at the feet of psychiatry
showing no mercy
to the likes of scatter-marbled
me, seeking drunk tiger-dreams
and strength in adversity
as sweat drips to the floor
and find me crawling at the door
beckoning for a reckoning
and begging for alms to
grace the ever present
present of the past
with calm relaxed
I-don’t-give-a-fuck-anymore
sentiments.

We exit.
Stone-hands stitched at our sides.
We exit.
Stage door open left and right,
gone from centre and balance lost.
We exit.
God and me and vibrations stranger
than her whispered voice in
meditations lost to eyes and
shaking voice.
We exit.

– Moiret Allegiere, 20.03.2019

_____________________________________________________________________________________

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Open up to be shut down

fatherhood 1 a3 lowres

Ill: «Fatherhood», A3, 2019, Moiret Allegiere

 

Open up, man. See the bright light of salvation. Open up and speak and talk, man. There is no judgement. If only all you men supressed your masculinity and opened up about how you are feeling, everything would be smooth as silk and satin laced with arsenic and cyanide. If only, if only, you stopped acting manly and opened up, all your woes would leave you. All that tension would just float out of your muscles in a phlegmatic cough rising from your cancer-ridden lungs.

All day, everyday. Open up and talk. And you shall see and sense the bright light of salvation and you shall be cleansed and bathed in the tears of God. Supress your natural side. Deny who you are. And become what the feminists want you to be. And all shall be well and good.

The assumption, of course, is that men are not by nature masculine but are masculine by their own design. That behaving like a man is nothing but a act to cover up weakness. That one is not being a man, but merely pretending to be a man.

That men act as men because we are, in fact, men, is a thought that does not even strike these social constructivist nonsense-makers babble-mouthed brainstems. Men are not men. We are a blank slate tortured and malformed by societal expectations of how men should behave. In order to rectify this, we must change how we behave to please the feminists and become the shining light of salvation ourselves. If we only acted more like women, we shall be free. Because that is the golden standard that all shall follow: the proclaimed social construct of femininity. Because all is a construct and all constructs are bad. Except for the construct of femininity, which is the true nature of all human beings.

So we are told to open up and talk about our emotions. And so we talk about them. Only to be met with ridicule, to be told that male tears are a delicious beverage to drink and to bathe in via shirts and mugs, and to see that our pain is a source of amusement and ridicule. Our conferences on mens issues are protested, shouted down and shut down. And we are labelled as crybabies with no real issues. Mens emotional pain is not taken seriously, even by the same forces that would have us open up and talk about our emotional pain. It is, of course, only a way for feminists to proclaim that they care ever so much about men, if only men were the way they wanted them to be; if only men succumbed to their will. That is to say: do not talk about issues regarding men that are not preapproved by feminists, and above all do not talk about them in a way not preapproved by feminists. In other words: shut up and listen.

In this world where we are told one thing only to experience that the opposite is true, what`s a man to do? Damned if you do, and damned if you don`t. Men act instead of talk. As a general rule. And women talk instead of act. As a general rule. And when the powers that be tell us to open up and speak, only to make us realise when we finally do that we are told to shut up and listen, we grow confused. And confusion brings inner turmoil when there is no release. And there is no release, because we are told that our way of handling our emotions is wrong and we are shown that attempting to talk about our emotions is wrong. Both are wrong, in the minds and eyes of feminists. Men can not do anything right. And our societies see no issues with telling us this, constantly bombarding us with conflicting messages and commands to do this, do that, do all the things even when the things contradict the other things and the actions of feminists show quite the opposite of what they say. If you object to this, you are showing how toxic masculinity is. And are thusly nothing but a neckbearded, basement dwelling, incel virgin loser who can`t find a woman. Should you wish to find a woman, you are acting as though you are entitled to sex. Should you not wish to find a woman, you are a misogynist who hates women.

Freeze. In the headlights of this foul year of our lord. Freeze. And do nothing. And wait for the inevitable barrage of articles asking: where have all the good men gone? Where did chivalry go? It`s time for men to shape up and step up and be gentlemen again. Even when that is deemed as sexism. It doesn`t matter. Everything is sexist, no matter what and how and where and when. So here we stand, frozen in the headlights, waiting for the truck to hit. And when it hits, and images of our mangled, broken bodies start floating about atop the riproaring tide of our engines of mass-manipulation; our sanctified massmedia newsoutlets, the conclusion remains the same: there is something wrong with men, and men need to change.

Asking men to talk more about their emotions presupposes that someone is willing to listen. And that is seldom, if ever, the case. As made evident by the aforementioned «male tears» mugs and shirts. It`s wrong when we don`t talk about our issues. And when we do, it is either goddamned hilarious or dangerous. Hilarious to feminists and dangerous to women. Men talking about issues affecting men is taking away from issues affecting women. Even when the claim is that men need to talk more about their issues. This is what we are told and this is what we are shown. And this lays down a fertile breeding ground to spawn broken men; our societies beckoning us to come closer with the same hand that pushes us away and holds our heads under water.

It is not a secret that men experience far less empathy than women, be that politically, intimately, socially. This begins already at birth, with boys being left to cry longer than girls before they are picked up by their parents. It is not a secret, that is, to those who do not cling to the nonsensical belief that women are disenfranchised and oppressed; not being shown empathy in any way, shape or form. Whils`t being shown all the empathy our careworn societies have to offer; all serpent-tongue and smoother than hissing silk.

A broken man is useless to society, since he has nothing to give, no value in and of himself. Better for him to off himself than find value in and of himself. Women, on the other hand, have always had value in and of themselves. And feminists know this. A broken women must be mended, fixed and repaired by any means necessary, given all the help there is. All the time. And she will experience this.

A broken man may be told that there are empathetic ears. He may be told that people will help. He is, however, shown time and again, that noone wishes to have anything to do with him. That there is no help for him, no ears to listen and no hands to help. He is pushed away and hidden away, being told to open up and then being told to shut up and let women speak when he finally caves in and opens up.

It is not the case that men are emotionally stunted. Or that men are not in touch with their emotions. It just so happen that men process their emotions differently than women – as a general rule. There is nothing wrong with this. What is wrong is being told that the way men process emotion is wrong. That we need to do it differently, that we need to be socially engineered to do it differently. Only to experience, when we do it differently, that noone is willing to listen. That it is wrong for us to talk about our fears and pains. That leaves no room to maneuver. No way to do anything about our emotions, no path to thread. The beaten path is wrong, the new path is wrong, all paths are wrong, and there is no place for us to go at the end of the day when yet another sleepless night is crawling in on us and the whispering voices from our minds keep us from sleeping and keep us from being emotionally fulfilled.

The silence in those long, yearning nights is a silence profound and deafening; a dangerous silence wherein all that is wrong with ones life and oneself floats around inside the inner sanctum of the mind; giant asteroids colliding with enormous planets in the vast vacuum of space, exploding over and over again. Pieces of order and stability being chipped away in grand galactic explosions until there is nothing left but a gnawing, biting, burning, shrivelled up and dying sun anxiously awaiting the imminent implosion of the fruitless void of the inner world.

The unbridled and unhinged celebration of the feminine path to healing being the one true path to healing strikes me as nothing but arrogance. That there are more ways than one to process and deal with emotions, be they good or bad, is a concept dying in our streets from malnourishment. And it is malnourished by the constant insistence from feminism – and as a result from society at large – that there is something fundamentally wrong with men, and that if only men could change and behave differently, all would be good in the world of men and the world at large. The notion that society should, perhaps, change the way it views and treats men is as foreign to these people and their views as introspection is. That mayhaps and maybe the best path to take to make men heal and make men whole is to not bombard men constantly with a barrage of hostility and enmity; to not continually tell us that we do everything wrong, no matter what and how we do it.

Remove the hostility and the constant attacks, and maybe, just maybe, let men speak and deal with our issues in a way deemed suitable by us instead of the feminist hivemind. Remove the blatant lies and constant protesting and shutting down of our conferences. Let men have their own spaces in which to air their issues and seek healing, instead of shutting them down for being foul misogynist hellholes if there are no women present.

This may come as a shock to the feminst armies, but I`ll take my chances and say it. Prepare your sniffingsalts and fainting coaches if you need them: men do not need women around in order to behave properly. We are quite capable of behaving properly under our own supervision. We are not children in need of constant parental guidance. There is not anything wrong with men. There is something wrong with a society which constantly tells us there are something wrong with men. Being constantly told that there is something wrong with men creates men there is something wrong with. Especially when there is no place to go for healing, no destination to reach and all ears and all eyes are deaf and blind by wilful design trickling down from the beginning of time; madness masquerading as reason burns the core. Society has gone insane, and the ones who still dance are considered insane by the ones who do not hear the music.

Moiret Allegiere, 09.01.2019