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.

 – Please like, share and subscribe

 – Moiret Allegiere, 17.08.2019

___________________________________________________________________________________________

My book – Howling at a Slutwalk Moon: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:
Redbubble shop: https://www.redbubble.com/people/Moiret/shop
Blog: https://moiretallegiere.wordpress.com/
YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC3IaCxAXE3pQd7PCdvHoaaA
Bitchute: https://www.bitchute.com/channel/EvbGZyTZSraY/
twatter: https://twitter.com/MAllegiere
Gab: https://gab.com/Moiret_Allegiere
Minds: https://www.minds.com/Moiret
Flickr: https://www.flickr.com/people/152465815@N04/

Advertisements

Yet Another Shooting, and Yet we Miss the Mark:

Male poetry reading 2019 lowres

Illustration: «Group of men reading poetry, 2019», Moiret allegiere

My original intent during my writing session this morning and afternoon was doing a short – or long and rambling, as these things tend to become – piece on hobbies. That is – the importance of hobbies and how they correspond to male health and emotional well-being.

Waking up far too early after yet another night of restless sleep due to severe pain coursing through my entire body combined with this foggy head-space that always follow whenever my symptoms flare up like mad hissing snakes, however, I find the prospect of doing a piece on that terribly difficult. Not so much because of my scatter-brained state of being at the moment, but because there are more pressing matters to attend to. Which just so happen to be both more difficult to write about as well as more pressing. Which is funny, in a slightly sardonic way, I suppose. As the assumption must be that the hobby-thing which I thought of writing about is far easier to tackle with this failing and ailing body and psyche of mine than is the topic I chose. Who can fathom the mind of a bearded bard? No-one. Not even the bearded bard himself.

In order to explain; this topic is more pressing – more pressing at my subconscious – a sensation of strange pressure at the base of my skull – nerves pinched and writhing in agony and soulful despair – something that needs some form of immediate release. Because things I mull over and think about tend to manifest themselves in weird and peculiar ways in my muscles, tendons, bones and joints. Some strange materialisation of the psyche. Psychosomatic illness; pain and death and despair, mind and body working in perfect asymmetrical harmony. Or disharmony.

Did I not know any better, I would say that this culture of ours is making me ill. It is far more complex than that, of course. But it sure as hell ain’t helping.

It was not a good morning to wake up too, nor was it a good world to wake up too.

Usually, I don’t write on relatively recent events. There is a sense of urgency in doing so which does not pair well with my own tendency for long, slow and deliberate thought on a topic – any topic. This is not to say that I consider myself to be stupid.

In all honesty, I do not and I am not.

In order to be even more self-deprecating: I am probably smarter than you believe that I am, yet not as smart as I myself believe that I am. Make of that what you will. I find poking fun at myself makes life more bearable. Something which would translate well to society at large, seeing how everyone and their mums take themselves way to fucking serious, which brings the point to a boil: we have no more room for humour as release or as a point of healing. Because everything is offensive to someone, and no-one can laugh at themselves any more, or at anything else for that matter. Because someone will take offence. Leaving one avenue for self-expression and healing completely closed for everyone.

I tend to prefer looking at – or attempting to look at – the big picture, the grander topics, the greater ideas and so forth and so on, not singular events, happenings or articles. With a few exceptions, for sure.

In order to combat my own insecurities, whichever they may be, I want to be sure that I can defend both morally and factually whatever statements I make. Hence, the long, slow and deliberate thinking I do. Chalk that up to neurosis, if you so wish. I will admit my various insecurities to be plentiful, albeit in a steady decline since I finally began working through them and move onwards with this steady shuffle of mine towards healing.

Which includes self-deprecating humour which somehow people tend to take more seriously than they should. I find that the more serious a topic, the more release is found the moment someone cracks a joke. And an illness causing constant, widespread and chronic pain as well as fatigue is really god-damned serious. Which makes it perfectly reasonable to find release through humour instead of being bogged down with frustration, resentment and anger.

Granted – when this is posted, the topic at hand will no longer be considered recent events in the split-second memories our mass media and social media have brought down upon us. It might as well have been last years news. Or last decade.

…Whatever.

But, Moiret, why this long tangent on humour and release and healing and other metaphysical conundrums of the human soul and condition?

Well, now, my friends, come closer to the fire and I will tell you why: Men, by and large, are the ones telling “offensive” jokes at subjects that are supposedly not to be joked about. And women, by and large, are the ones being offended by these jokes. This goes yet again to show that men and the way men attempt to heal and lighten or brighten the day or the mood are not understood. Instead of attempting to understand humour and the reason for morbid humour, it is painted as men not having empathy and not showing proper behaviour in light of a tragedy. Shame, again, is the point. This removes yet another avenue for men to heal, as we can no longer crack jokes for fear of shame and ridicule from the whamens. Causing build-up of internal pressure that finds no release, for all our ways of release are deemed verboten and in bad taste. Despite being quite the opposite, were only these troglodytes able to understand humour, the reason for humour and the one simple fact that I was told once by someone who worked in a late-stage terminal disease ward; that being that there were nowhere and no-one he had ever been or ever met who had such a grim and morbid sense of humour as those who were months or weeks away from death. It eases and it releases. Humour is far more, and goes far deeper, than merely laughter for the sake of laughter.

This lack of humour, or that is to say: the offence taken at all manner of humour and – by extension – the masculine path to healing brings me to that which is pressing on my subconscious mind; the recent mass-shootings in the USA. If that is not made obvious by now. That is to say – not so much the recent shootings. They are severe tragedies, as are all things of this nature. I, for one, don’t give a flying fuck about what politics brought this into being on part of the shooters.

I don’t care whichever ideology or unnecessary, old-fashioned and outdated side on the left/right political axis they claimed allegiance to. I think it would be safe to say that people who commit such terrible crimes are damaged beyond repair no matter which self-splitting and soul-leeching ideology they subscribe to. It is not necessarily the recent shootings that bother me, as it is that these types of shootings happen at all. Seems to be so commonplace now. Though, this might just be because news travel faster now, and are more sensationalised than ever they were before.

The sensationalism following in the wake of these absolute tragedies always drag with it in its current the usual political pundits and leeches trying to score quick and easy partisan political points on the corpses of those that died before they are even cold. They bathe in the blood of the victims and they feast on their flesh like the vicious cannibals that they are.

And here I am.

Writing on it myself.

I don’t know whether this makes me a hypocrite of the highest order or not. Probably, it does. What I will say in my defence in regards to this is simple: I have no interest in pointing fingers at any political party or any politician. Our western societies are divided enough as it is. And the rank stupidity exhibited on both sides of the great political divide is enough to make me vomit bloody chunks of cancerous sickness.

What sickens me most is of course the usual mass media purveyors of fake news and dubious reporting. This may be bias on my part. I suspect, however, that it has more to do with their reach as compared to those that are not of the mass media persuasion than any bias on my part. Though, I have no problem with admitting that the bias is there.

The so-called reporting I have seen on these tragedies have not been journalism as much as it has been opinion-pieces pointing fingers here, there and everywhere.

…Well, not here, there and everywhere in regards to the mass media pundits. They spew their usual trite and predictable trash, blaming toxic masculinity, blaming men, blaming white men in particular, blaming Donald Trump, blaming the fluent and gaseous, ever-changing, never-static and poorly defined “far right” – their enemy of choice; the Emmanuel Goldstein of their world and their warped and wretched minds that seems to have barely survived a failed coat-hanger abortion.

There is little use, to my eyes, in pointing fingers at this one thing over here as opposed to this other thing over here to try and explain these horrible happenings in the simplest way possible.

Because the partisan political ploy and play on display is far too simple and far too easy, far too emblematic of the great chasm that suddenly appeared in the midst of our societies – that is, the entirety of western civilization. Though this split – this far too obvious and far too ideological split – seem to be greater and more dangerous in North America, it is something that has spread, and continues to spread, all over the west.

These are dangerous times we live in. Not only in regards to violence, but in regards to unthinking stupidity, in regards to immediate knee-jerk reactions from everywhere and everyone. It is one thing for some random person on the vast cesspit of social media to spew some uninformed garbage in regards to things of this nature. It is quite another for so-called journalists who are supposed to hold some manner of journalistic integrity to do the same. This goes for politicians as well. Using tragedies such as these – standing on the corpses of the victims in a blatant attempt to harvest votes and boost ones own popularity – ought to be career suicide. Yet, they keep doing it. And people keep celebrating it. Never once seeing beyond their own ideological idealization of the whatever or the whichever, and never once understanding – or attempting to understand – a broader picture than “men are prone to violence because they are men”. Neglecting the fact that the pain of men is taboo (shameless plug: check out Tom Golden of menaregood.com and his books on male healing for more on this), and that the path men tend to take towards healing is not understood as anything but the wrong path for not being the same path that women tend to take, leaving little cultural acceptance for both the pain of men and the ways men tend to heal.

And I sit here now. Attempting to write on it. Tom Russell filling the room with melancholy tunes from the fantastic “Blood and Candle Smoke” album. Trying to sort out my own thoughts on the matter, as this impacted me far more than I believed that it would when the first reports started trickling in.

It is Wednesday, the seventh of August at the time of writing. This will – most likely – be published a week from now, when all the gun smoke has cleared up and the corpses gone cold. The memory will still linger in some corners of the web, and the sense we attempt to make of tragedies of this nature will be no closer to any semblance of sense. Because it is, in one word, senseless.

My sneaking suspicion – prediction, if you will – is that it will be mostly forgotten, replaced by some new outrage or sensationalised tragedy. The happenings, that is. The rhetoric from all who chose to use it as some quick political weapon will not be forgotten, nor will it be subdued.

Please note that I do not consider possibly fruit-bearing discussions on the possible causes and solutions of and to things of this nature to be quick political potshots.

There is a difference, I think, in pointing fingers of blame hastily at whatever or whomever is in stark opposition to ones own political beliefs and in attempting to find a root cause.

That is to say: there is a difference in stating as absolute fact that this is caused by some defect in men as a group, and in saying that there is something wrong with how our societies treat men that cause them to lash out in a manner such as this – what might that be?

For example.

For there is absolutely no reason in denying or refusing to admit that it is mainly men – and mainly young men at that – who commit such vile acts. That would not be factual. Nor would it be helpful to any cause I wish to champion. Or at the very least spread awareness about.

There is, however, reason to deny the statements made that there is something wrong with men as a whole that cause this. For the very simple reason that men are not defective – being a man is not some biological or cultural defect. There is nothing wrong with masculinity as masculinity is. And there is nothing wrong with men as men are.

There is also reason to deny that it is mainly white men doing this. Because that is not factual either.

But my main gripe, my focus is not on ethnicity, not on matters of race or skin colour or creed or race relations or what-have-you. That is reserved for those who claim to abhor racism, yet do little but encourage hatred and division along lines of skin-pigmentation. And so I am careful when mentioning these factors, as I know very little about them. In particular in regards to North America.

I don’t think there are any easy explanations or simple solutions to these problems. Tragedies such as these will happen and they will keep happening. This is just a sad fact of life – people snap. People reach their breaking point, and they snap. This is something we will never get rid off. I believe, however, that we – as a society – would be able to reduce the amount of such tragedies in a not insignificant way. With solutions that are not simple. Yet would, I hope, be helpful and bear fruit were they to be implemented.

And I have, actually, a few propositions. I admit – willingly – that this is speculation on my part. It seems very obvious to me, though.

I would also like to state that these are based on thoughts, beliefs and values that permeate the structure of my philosophy and my life, and as such are not something that popped up in my mind as immediate responses to these tragedies. This is important for me to mention, as I spent the previous 1600 or so words attacking knee-jerk reactions and quick-and-easy political potshots to these tragedies. I am fully convinced that these propositions of mine would make for better societies overall, not only in regards to extremes such as these.

These are of course not my thoughts and opinions alone; I have a lot to thank the voices, thoughts and work of the likes of Tom Golden, Paul Elam, Janice Fiamengo, the Honey Badger Brigade, Warren Farrel, Erin Pizzey, as well as a multitude of other voices that dare defy the cultural norm and narrative of this day and age. Credit needs to be given where credit is due, and I have a lot to credit these incredible people and their incredible work for.

What sticks out the most to me is that our societies have to acknowledge and understand that the empathy-gap exist. That is: that men are met with far less empathy and understanding than women are, which I think goes a long way in explaining why young men blow up in such a spectacular manner.

These young men are – more often than not – men who have met nothing but hostility and a lack of understanding in this ripped-apart world of ours. From home-life to school to work. They are, as is my understanding, deeply damaged, neglected and ignored men. And damaged people damage people. Or they damage themselves. Or they do both – going out in a blaze of fucking glory and bloodshed, taking as many people with them as they fall as they can.

I would think it bloody obvious that people who snap like this are not well. Mentally healthy people don’t do things like this.

After a tragedy such as this, there is – rightfully – little compassion shown the perpetrators. In my way of thinking, however, showing compassion, empathy and understanding for their troubles before they reached the breaking point would go a long way in defusing the bomb, as it were.

It would behove us, then, as a civilization to not celebrate a cultural zeitgeist that do nothing but paint men and masculinity as inherently defective, that do nothing but place the burden of blame for everything wrong in our ramshackle societies on the shoulders of young men, that do nothing but tell them when they attempt to heal that their way of healing and coping and dealing is wrong. It does not do anyone well having to live with the sword of Damocles hanging over them; to live with the claim that the original sin of masculinity dangles there on a piece of flimsy string, ready to force them to break and snap and kill, maim and mutilate and rape.

When men – be that individual men, or the broader men’s rights movement – speak on issues affecting them as individuals, or men as a group, our societies would do well to listen instead of demonize and smear, instead of shutting down conferences and writing article after article filled with lies about the wickedness of this loosely knit movement.

It is often stated that men need to be more in tune with their emotions – that men need to speak about their emotions more. This presupposes firstly that there are people willing to listen, which is seldom the case. Secondly, it presupposes that men and women deal with their emotions in the same way. Which we do not. It also presumes that men do not understand their own emotions. Which we bloody well do.

There are differences in how men and women deal with difficult emotions, and men are drawn more towards action or solitude than are women.

This can not be stated enough.

Assuming, given this, that men would be cured if only they spoke about their emotions as women do are built around the presupposition that the feminine way is the correct way, and that the masculine way is the wrong way. Once again stating – in so many words – that boys and men are, really, only defective girls and women. Men have an incredible ability to be together in silence – doing something together, yet enjoying silence and merely being in the presence of a good and trusted friend. Men face their enemies and stand shoulder to shoulder with their friends, as the saying goes. The way our civilization has managed to dismantle and destroy any male-only spaces (yet keeping female-only spaces) has removed this one very simple act of healing through action or through silence.

Just the knowledge that this friend with whom one is doing whatever – even if it is just building something together, fixing something, fishing, whatever – is one to be trusted, one who has ones back, goes a long way in making a man feel safe and secure in the knowledge that he is understood.

And when demanding that women be let into what was formerly male-only spaces, thusly removing – under the preposterous pretence of gender discrimination – male only spaces, this male bonding and subsequent healing disappear. Giving rise to ever more broken men who truly have no path to tread in a society in which they are told that all that they do are wrong.

We inhabit societies which have created an entire generation of disillusioned and disenfranchised young men for whom traditional societal expectations have not changed in the least.

This despite the claim that gender-norms have been torn down for all. This claim is simply not true.

It can be as simple as men still being expected to not only make the first move in regards to a date, but also be expected to pay for a date. Or it can be as difficult as men still being expected to sacrifice themselves and their lives to save other people. This is something mainly men do. Just as it is mainly men perpetrating mass shootings. Yet these sacrifices made by men are never mentioned, never celebrated as the grand virtue of masculinity that it is. And make no mistake – I believe that this is a biological trait in men. Re-enforced by culture, for sure, yet encoded in our biological make-up and as such nothing that will ever be done completely away with.

Whenever men do anything bad, it is put up everywhere as men doing something bad. The dominating words then being men and bad, creating a clear link between these two words. This happens despite the good actions of men far outweighing the bad actions of men.

I would think it about time that our cultures began celebrating not only women but also men. There is absolutely no justifiable reason behind labelling it equal treatment when one sex is placed on a pedestal, built up and aided at the detriment, bullying and shaming of the other sex. Equal treatment would mean actually that – equal treatment. Either both sexes get built up, or neither do. Either both sexes still have traditional expectations enforced by culture, or neither do.

To be clear: I see absolutely nothing wrong in celebrating the contributions or importance of women for society as a whole. What is wrong is the lack of celebration of the contributions and importance of men for society as a whole. It is this constant buzz, this constant wretched you go girl nonsense no matter how small and insignificant a contribution any woman may have made.

I remember an article celebrating a female electrician for the simple fact that she was a female and an electrician. Women, then, are to be celebrated merely for doing their job. And yet, men, who are the ones by and large doing all the dangerous work, all the backbreaking labour, who sacrifice and sacrifice all the time, are not celebrated. They are demonized by the very same forces that celebrate a woman for nothing but doing a job that men do all the time.

Young men and boys live in a confusing culture. For it claims one thing – the eradication of gender-norms and traditions – whilst showing, quite clearly, that the traditional expectations are still there where they are concerned. And then the men are blamed and shamed for these traditional expectations as though they are at fault for them being there. Even when it is women – by and large – that expect men to pay for dates, to make the first move, to initiate the whole she-bang.

Claiming that both sexes are treated equal, whilst doing nothing in regards to treating the sexes equally does not make for anything but confusion. This double-standard is clear as the dawn where violence and rape and sexual assault and so forth and so on are concerned as well.

Women and men are the same and can do the same thing is the message delivered all the god-damned time.

This message makes an exception where violence, sexual assault and rape are concerned, however. For that is still the domain of men and men only. To such an extent that men who have suffered violence, rape, sexual assault and so forth at the hands of a woman are not believed, are met with ridicule and laughter and hollow mockery, and are victim-blamed into silence. Only for these same forces to then complain that men don’t talk about their emotions. And then, when this is brought up, the blame is yet again laid at the feet of men. For is it not the ideology of masculinity that has made it impossible for men to speak openly about things of this nature? That is the claim. Despite the fact that feminism does nothing but ruin the spaces where men speak about things like this, and then bitch and moan and shut down the voices of men who dare speak on things of this nature. Catch-22 and the circular logic of feminism as well as the societies surrounding us.

…For this is obviously driven by the culture we inhabit. And the culture we inhabit have listened nothing to men’s advocates where this is concerned. Quite the opposite. Yet, the blame falls on men whenever these topics are brought up, which is odd considering that it is feminist lobbying that brought these double-standards into dubious and neglectful policy in the first place. We just conveniently chose to forget that fact, I suppose.

The point being – men need to be listened to when we speak, the problems of boys and men are not that they are boys and men. It is that we live within a society which do nothing but smear and scorn and shun and ridicule and blame men and masculinity for being nothing but men, for being nothing but masculine. As though the mere trait of masculinity, the mere existence of a man as a man is enough to bring doomsday upon his fractured head and torn shoulders, breaking from the weight of the world.

There is also the issue with fatherless homes to consider. Boys who grow up without fathers do not do well in life. Girls who grow up without fathers tend to do better, but still do worse than girls who grow up with fathers in the home. Fathers are important. I am not interested here and now in placing any blame at the mother or the father for the absence of the father. It is not as easy as placing blame here or there. Because the blame is seldom here nor there on a societal level. On an individual level, it most assuredly can be. That would be another ramble, another long-winded and depressive affair that surely need to be explored. But this is long enough, and going of on yet another tangent would not do anyone any service. My view-count is low enough as it is – ha ha.

Suffice it to say: fathers need to be in the lives of their children. Children need their fathers to be in their lives. Particularly young boys. For stable, good, loving masculine role-models are of immense importance to them.

And to girls.

This is not something new. This is not some wicked scheme of the patriarchy to downplay the role and importance of the mother. Or, for that matter, force women to be mothers. Whatever the hell that means. This is the pure and unfiltered truth. And our societies… their celebrations of single motherhood have got to stop. There needs to be a celebration of both parents, a re-implementation of the family unit, of understanding the importance of a whole and functional family. Not necessarily in any traditional sense, as I have come to understand it.

Just the simple fact that both parents need to be present for the good of the child, be that child a boy or a girl. Even if these statements will bring hate and fury, rage and ruin upon my insomniac head and crippled ass from scores of single mothers feeling slighted and attacked for me daring to state that fathers are just as necessary and important in the life of a child as are mothers. There is genuinely something deeply wrong with a culture that celebrates the absence of one parent, that only celebrate the achievements and acknowledges the importance of one parent. That neglects the importance of the masculine and over-amplifies to the point of tonal distortion the importance of the feminine. This has gone to such an extent that we now have people lobbying to change father’s day to “Special Persons Day”, because – they claim as the reason – some children don’t have fathers. Some children don’t have mothers either, but no-one is lobbying to remove mother’s day, for some strange reason. For, you know, single fathers do also exist. Even if it is rare. And this is rare because of the biased nature of family courts, which holds as the golden standard of parenting the mother, no matter who is the best parent in any individual relationship. Of course, despite feminist lobbying to not have 50/50 as the default custody, this is also blamed on the patriarchy and therefore by extension men. If this does not tell us something about how our cultures view fatherhood, nothing will. It does not matter how small or big the movement lobbying for the removal of father’s day is. It is bad enough that it not only exist, but are given media attention.

Despite what one would probably be led to believe, considering the overarching theme of my writings – I do not place the blame on this solely on feminism. Though I do consider feminism to play a major part in it, and though I consider feminism to be a global fraud and sham, a blight on this earth and a foul and horrible den of hypocrites, double-standard aficionados and control-freaks that will eventually cause the collapse of our civilizations by crafting and crafting again, this narrative, by spinning and spinning again, yarns that do nothing but exaggerate and amplify a manufactured and nonsensical gender-war that does nothing but create rifts and lack of co-operation and understanding where there should be co-operation and understanding between the sexes – there is far more at play in this than that of their forces and their forces alone.

We also have gynocentrism to contend with, we have the biological impulse in men to protect women, we have the – from what I understand – biological bias exhibited in women’s greater in-group preference as opposed to men’s greater out-group preference where the sexes are concerned. Meaning that both men and women will rather look out for the interests and well-beings of women as a group than men as a group. Then there are trad-cons and white knights and the blue pill and the whole buckaroo banzai, the whole fucking thing. There are more forces at play than feminism, and feminism exploits all these other forces, being little more than trad-cons in alluring disguise. It is, as are all things, more complex than it is not. And as much as I would like it to be as simple as pointing a finger of blame at feminism and nothing but that, it really ain’t. I have a bone or two to pick with feminism, for sure. And I tend to focus on it. This does not mean that I am not aware of the other forces at play, making the coinci-dance of society such a difficult fox-trot that I always end up stepping on my own nose when trying to learn the moves.

I must also make it perfectly clear that I do not absolve the young men who go on these shooting sprees of any guilt. The responsibility of their heinous actions fall flat on their shoulders, and so they must also suffer the consequences of these actions. It is a far greater problem than men = bad, is what I am getting at. Obvious to anyone but those who have decided that men = bad, I suppose.

In order to combat mass shootings – in order to do something to reduce the risks for these tragedies to happen – we need to show more understanding and compassion and empathy towards men and boys and what they go through. We need to understand – on a grand scale – that men and boys are not so privileged as we have been led to believe. We have got to stop bombarding boys and men with messages of their inherent wickedness. And we need to stop telling girls and women that they can do no wrong, whatever they do. For – as it stands – any action done by a woman is empowering in some way or other, even if that entails nothing but doing her fucking job. Either, we start celebrating and building up boys and men in the same way we do girls and women, or we celebrate and build up neither. As the world is now, boys and men get all the hatred, all the shaming, all the dark and despicable forces we would rather see hidden in the shadows. And girls and women get all the celebration, all the love and care and empathy and compassion we can find, no matter if this is deserved or not. This goes for gendered scholarships as well. Women outnumber men in higher education, and there is still this immense push to get women into higher education. Even when boys and men are dropping out completely.

We have got to understand that bombarding men constantly with messages of how horrible they are, how bad and vicious and evil they are, has a terrible effect on young men and boys.

Particularly when we see, time and again, women being praised and praised and then praised some more. Our societies – our cultures – show nothing but contempt for boys and for men, made possible by some strange and predetermined biological traits perhaps, yet amplified immensely by a culture that has decided that its one scapegoat, its one wrench in the mechanism, is men.

For our cultures are in the act of auto-cannibalism; are in the midst of self-destruction. They are melting down due, in no small way, to the insistence, the message, the constant reminder that boys and men are no longer necessary – that masculinity is archaic and toxic – that women and femininity are the only saving grace we have. Despite us needing both in co-operation to survive and to thrive, we have decided that we only need the one and that the other should be destroyed. And destroy it they will. Bit by bit and piece by piece, tearing it down from within individual men who are shown and are told over and over that – no matter what they do – they do only wrong. That they can do nothing right.

And all that they experience is a loss of love. A loss of love from the culture surrounding them, and a loss of love for themselves. And they have no purpose. And they have no place. And they have no help. And they gain neither empathy nor understanding for their plight, being told that they are privileged patriarchal oppressors. And there is no guiding hand, no guiding light, no masculine role-model whom they may emulate and aspire to become. And there is nothing but the constant droning, the constant gnawing, the constant tearing-down of the self and all that is, was and ever will be the self. And they reach the end of the rope and they snap.

And the rope becomes a hangman’s noose; tied about their necks. And seeing nothing but death and seeing nothing but destruction and seeing nothing but despair and neglect and hollow tunes and mockery of their misery, they stand upon the gallows and upon the trapdoor underneath their feet, destined to die and destined to take as many with them while they fall as they can.

And then – when the fall is over and done with, when the damage is dealt and the damage is done, when the neck is snapped and the body is dead – the internal injuries now externalized – the whole vicious circle begins anew. For now, his actions and his rampage and his massacre are shown as absolute evidence of the rhetoric that brought him to the breaking point in the first place. Building ever more of the same. Repeating and continuing the rhetoric; a perfect circle that perfectly feeds into itself and into our cultural narrative and the societal zeitgeist, solving nothing yet claiming to solve everything. Rinse and repeat. Ad infinitum.

   – Please like, share and subdcribe

   – Moiret Allegiere, 14.08.2019

__________________________________________________________________________________________

My book – Howling at a Slutwalk Moon:

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:
Redbubble shop: https://www.redbubble.com/people/Moiret/shop
Blog: https://moiretallegiere.wordpress.com/
YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC3IaCxAXE3pQd7PCdvHoaaA
Bitchute: https://www.bitchute.com/channel/EvbGZyTZSraY/
twatter: https://twitter.com/MAllegiere
Gab: https://gab.com/Moiret_Allegiere
Minds: https://www.minds.com/Moiret
Flickr: https://www.flickr.com/people/152465815@N04/

Lies and Slander in the Domestic Violence Industrial Complex:

Healing lowres

Illustration: «Healing», Moiret Allegeire, 2019

Stumbling through the dark corners of the internet one fell morning, attempting to do research on the subject of domestic violence interspersed now and then with one of my dogs barking at some odd happening outside every two minutes, I crawled through the muddiest sludge of the world wide wonder-web to exhume this piece of preposterous writing: https://papers.ssrn.com/sol3/papers.cfm?abstract_id=2790940 .

Within this piece of writing, aptly titled: The Feminist Case for Acknowledging Women’s Acts of Violence, we find clear and concise evidence in the form of them admitting it that the feminist movement, or the women’s movement or whatever label one wishes to ascribe to it, built the domestic violence movement upon lies at worst and blatant misrepresentations at best. Of course, this being a feminist movement it goes without saying that the entirety of their hogwashed bullshittery is based upon either outright lies or snivelling misrepresentations of clear facts presented with the most serpentine of forked tongues, quivering lips and trembling forms, saying in a childlike voice designed to mimic the most awesome form of Neoteny: Please, I am such a frail and powerless woman – help me, big strong man whose strength and protection I don’t need but will manipulate at want when I need it. Even if I don’t need it, really.

I am not going to divulge the information within this incredibly illuminating piece of writing in great depth or detail in this particular ramble. I think this fantastic piece deserves a ramble all on its own, to go through it in such depths as I am capable of, being neither an academic nor a scholar. Now, being an academic clearly doesn’t mean much in this terrible post-apocalyptic haze of the current year. This should be self-evident by the sluggish beasts residing within the overcrowded halls of academia. So: rather than delving into this paper in depth here and now, I will take a look at a few proper studies on intimate partner violence and see how the data contained therein correspond to this amazing evidence of feminist skewed statistics and lies most worthy of the immense judgement and subsequent thunder of our grand societal ban-hammer.

Because this piece of writing, gentlemen and ladies, is of such incredible importance to understand the way our ramshackle societies view instances of intimate partner violence through the black and white, tried, true and incredibly faulty lens of male perpetrators and female victims that I can hardly contain my glee in stumbling across it. Even if I read it with a certain anger boiling in my throat, gut and groin. In the pages of this tome of inadvisedly applied “knowledge”, it becomes painfully clear that the feminist movement combined with the domestic violence movement cares not in the least for the victims of domestic violence, be they male or female. It becomes evident – by the constant reference to the “movement” – that it is the feminist movement that matters, the women’s movement. Not facts, not truth, not reason and not the individual victims of intimate partner violence. The movement above all.

The serpent cult is alive and well.

…And only the cult matter in the grand scheme and schism of things.

It should have been common knowledge from the 1970’s at least that intimate partner violence is not a gendered issue. Once again, I would like to refer to the work of that fabulous Loving Grandmother to Us All, Erin Pizzey and her tremendous work in regards to family violence. I recommend – once again – that everyone read her story, listen to her speeches and marvel at the treatment she received at the hands of irate feminists who had an agenda to push that was driven not by any concerns for victims of domestic violence, but by a concern for their own movement, their own dogma and their own hydra-headed serpent god of false tongues and venomous fangs. She concluded, already back then, that intimate partner violence was reciprocal in most cases, built on escalation and a pattern of abuse that was generational from both sides of the dysfunctional family.

She quickly learned that the women in her shelters were just as, if not more, violent than the men from whom they fled. And so saw fit to build a shelter for abused men as well, for which she was disowned by her feminist cohorts, harassed and harangued and bullied until she had to flee the country.

Obviously, this is a condensed version of the story.

All this came to be merely because she wished to actually help those who suffered instead of pushing an agenda that was as blatantly false as it was completely monochrome in its approach to the problem.

Women are angels and saints and men are the devils lurking at the outskirts of our civilization, ready, at a moments notice, to wreak bloody havoc on all that we hold dear. That is to say: on all that women hold dear. For, should we believe the feminist dogma, men can not hold anything dear but terror, tyranny, violence, beer and rape. Preferably at the same time.

Now, closing in on fifty years later, researchers are attempting to view the problem of intimate partner violence through new and fresh lenses. Gazing at it, as it were, from a vantage point not driven by ideology and subjective opinion, but on facts and objective observations.

Imagine now, if the powers that be had listened to Erin Pizzey when she first began speaking truthfully and honestly on certain matters having to do with dysfunctional family matters. Should-haves, would-haves and could-haves are not great tools for intellectual quests, I will have to agree. And resentment and bitterness helps little in furthering anything. But this fraud and sham of a movement has done such tremendous damage where intimate partner violence is concerned that I can not help it. This new research is not anything new. Not as such. And that angers my blood and boils my brain, slowly reducing it to snark and frustration, anger and resentment.

Think of what could have been done to help both male and female victims, as well as their children. Imagine how much work could have been laid down to stop the generational cycle of abuse – to break the vicious circle of replaying past traumas in ones own family of origin.

Instead, the domestic violence movement saw fit to ensnare society within its tangled web of feminist patriarchy-theory and gibbering nonsense, painting men as the perpetrators and axe-wielding maniacs of immense power and violence. That it was the subjugation of women at the hands of both men and the state that caused intimate partner violence, and that it was men and only men who were violent both within and without the family, given the authority to do so by the nebulous and never-seen forces of the tyrannical patriarchy, the reptilian illuminati-annunaki of the feminist tin-foil-hat wearing swashbucklers of truth and glory filtered through mass-hysteria and quaint quantities of hysterical ovary-acting worthy of a hysterectomy or two.

Driven now by a longing for facts and for the feminist nonsense-mongers to remove their stranglehold on the discourse where intimate partner violence is concerned, we – as a society – need to wipe our faultily prescribed myopic lenses and put actual prescription glasses in place to view these dysfunctional family matters in an objective light, not tainted by ideologues who care for the movement and the goals of the movement, replacing the needs of the actual victims and sufferers in the process.

And so, new research floats to the top of the stagnant pool that has been the discourse for decades. From the septic tank of feminist-infused fuckery that has dominated the discourse, rises a noxious gas that may now be lit aflame and blow the whole thing up where the way we view family violence is concerned.

For: what should matter – what should always have mattered – is lending help to the individual victims first and foremost, disregarding the gendered view that feminism has put in place. Which they so clearly admit to have put in place. Secondly, the root cause of family violence should be understood so that the cycle of abuse may be broken. In order to understand it, one has to admit to and understand what both Warren Farrel and Erin Pizzey have been saying for decades; that damaged people damage people, and gender be damned. Gender should not factor into it. Especially not in these societies which we inhabit in which the claim is that gender never matters. Except when it does, of course. And when it does, it is always when it may in some way, shape or form supposedly help women. It is tempting to say that the root causes should be the first thing that matters. But that would then be done without lending help to individual victims in their immediate need. By lending help to the individual first and foremost, the root cause may be discovered and removed as one would remove a tumour.

It becomes glaringly obvious that their “containment” as they put it in the first paper linked, of female offenders and male victims has done a great disservice, not only to the men who have fallen victim to intimate partner violence, but to any-and-all attempt to grab the serpent by its tail and so refuse it to become the Ourobouros, perpetuating its cycle of abuse through generations of families uncounted. By pushing to remove female offenders, they have willingly allowed the snake to go uncaught. They have driven wedges ever further into the fabrics of our societies, into the trust and co-operation between men and women and sat fire to the entirety of the family dynamic. By their own admittance, they have neglected to catch the serpent, they have willingly destroyed the nuclear family and given birth to an industrial complex known vaguely as the domestic violence movement in which male victims – as we shall see soon enough – are not believed, are shunned, ridiculed, often arrested in place of their abuser and removed from their own home. For being beat and abused by their spouse.

All in the name of “equality”; that fantastic term that means everything and nothing all at once, depending upon the view of the feminist at the moment, depending on the position of the moon, depending on whether or not Uranus is aligned with the swinging cock of Mars to be sodomized at a moments notice and so forth and so on.

In the feminist dictionary, words do not mean what you think they mean. They change and they alter and they evolve all the time within the framework of their ideology, as whimsical and fluctuating as anything ever could be. And so, the joke lies there and I must use it: “At the flimsy will and whim of a woman”.

Thank you.

I’ll be here all week.

These are the jokes, people!

***

Looking on another study now, and of course I need to put in an addendum here – I am always a bit careful when looking at studies like this, given that I am not an academic and as such not all that versed in traversing these kinds of studies – this study is titled Differences in Frequency of Violence and Reported Injury Between Relationships With Reciprocal and Nonreciprocal Intimate Partner Violence. https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC1854883/ .

In this study, they analysed data on young adults aged 18-28 years in the US. The results showed that almost 24% of all relationships they looked at had some violence. Just about half of these were cases of reciprocal violence. In cases were the violence was not reciprocal women were the perpetrators in more than 70% of the cases. That is quite a lot, if I am to be honest. More than the feminist hive-mind and various do-goodie virtue-signallers would ever admit to. This does not matter to these people, though, as they will hold forth as arguments that this does not matter due to the fact that male perpetrators are more likely to inflict injury than are female perpetrators. If I understood the study properly, however, instances of reciprocal violence was more likely to result in actual injury than were instances of non-reciprocal violence.

This was found to be regardless of the gender of the perpetrator. I found this to be very interesting when taking into consideration that the study also tell us that “Reciprocity was associated with more frequent violence among women”. From my understanding of this quote, women were the instigators more often than men in cases of reciprocal violence. Thus leading the men therein to reply in kind. Given the greater muscle-mass and bone density of men in general, and the lesser muscle-mass and bone density of women in general, I do not find it all that surprising that women suffer injuries more in cases of reciprocal violence. It would, perhaps, be a good idea to not attempt to beat someone bigger and stronger than oneself.

Understanding that boys and men have been told since time immemorial that they should never – ever – hit a girl or a woman, no matter the circumstances, it is little wonder that the sympathies of society at large go to the woman in these scenarios, never-minding that she may very well have been the instigator. I think it would be prudent to also keep in mind the probability that people in these kinds of relationships where reciprocal violence occur are more than likely damaged people who keep replaying the same scenarios time and again, drawn to each other by a kind of mutual and subconscious desire for destruction and self-destruction, feeding into the generational cycle of abuse from ages past. Re-playing what they learned at the hands and feet of parents for all eternity. I can not imagine a worse doom than this.

The study also tell us that “the percentage of relationships in which there was reciprocal partner violence ranged from 45% to 72%”. Further evidence, then, that reciprocal violence in highly dysfunctional relationships and families is the norm more than it is not. Kinda ruins the pictures we have been painted and presented for ages now of the stereotypical wife-beating man; a drunkard and a brute with violence encoded in his DNA, allowed by both society and the patriarchy, weird deep-state shadow government that it is. A faulty image handcrafted by feminist ideologues whose interests and passions are to maintain this stereotype more than it is to solve the problem. Because solving the problem would mean that they would have to admit – as they have done in the first paper linked – that women are also violent, that men are also victims, and that violent relationships are more often than not a two-way street where there is no clear victim/perpetrator dynamic to be used in furthering an agenda.

And the agenda is also something they would then have to admit to; burying facts for sake of their ideological convenience and the advancement of the movement, the movement being, at the moment, in a state of siege as more and more people are questioning the societal narrative which we have been spoon-fed for decades; their toxin forced down our throats and injected into our veins from powerful institutions of education, mass-media and more.

This state of siege, I assume, is the main cause and reason for the first paper linked – the fear of loosing their stranglehold on the conversation, the debate and the topic forcing them to change tactics so as not to be shown as the bigoted and ideologically possessed and blinded serpents that they are.

There is this radical notion that has been with me, you see, part of my world-view for all my life, based as much on personal observations as it is on objective analysis, that both men and women are capable of tremendous good as well as tremendous bad. That is to say: women are just as capable as men. And men are just as capable as women. For good. And for evil. This goes in stark opposition to the dominant cultural narrative of our societal psychosis – that men are evil and women are good by default. An awfully traditional view of things, one would have to admit.

The study further states that “In fact, men in relationships with reciprocal violence were reportedly injured more often (25.2%) than were women in relationships with non-reciprocal violence (20%); this is important as violence perpetrated by women is often seen as not serious.”

Gee Whiz! I wonder why it is not seen as serious. Could it possibly be due to the massive influence from the feminist movement in regards to this, I wonder, I ponder, I think and I consider as I sip my coffee and listen to the soothing blast beats and throaty screeching of black metal of the foulest and meanest sort? Note also, that I take my coffee as black and soulless as my metal. It helps with the anger, releases the venom and soothes the mind something fierce. It also wires me up magnificently.

…Could this possibly also have something to do with the gynocentric nature of our species, wherein women are to be protected and as such are given excuses and quite a bit of leeway in regards to the abuse they may inflict upon their spouse and their children? It is a meme at this point, but I think it wise to repeat it here: women’s act of violence prompts us to discuss matters of mental health. And it prompts us to manufacture excuses. Such as that she was abused, either as a child by her father or by her spouse, which forced her to carry out her acts of abuse and violence. Men’s violence, on the other hand, prompts us to demonize all men, telling all men that they need to take responsibility for ending this, starting with looking at themselves in the mirror. It also sparks discussions on toxic masculinity and other such nonsense. When men are violent, it is because they are men. When women are violent, it is either because of men or because of mental health issues, urging us to feel sympathy for her and give her understanding.

What a beautiful shell of a world we inhabit. The post-apocalyptic wasteland is nothing like what I was lead to believe through the movies I grew up on.

Were I not cautiously optimistic, I would have turned into a raging misanthrope by this point in my life. Better to channel that rage not unto humanity as a whole, but onto ideologies that purposefully and cleverly have taken control of the discourse, have tied a noose around the necks of our societies and our civilization, have swarmed their way into our collective consciousness as the truth-speakers, the enlightened and empathetic ones seeking only to establish gender equality, despite proven to be filthy, rotten, tongue-tied-and-twisted liars time and again.

I think it wise to end this part of the ramble with another quote from the study in question, which makes it easy for me to segway into the next segment of my incessant rambling: “Regarding reporting biases, there has been much discussion of whether there are differences in reported IPV by the gender of the reporter. A meta-analysis of the reliability of the conflict tactics scale concluded that there is evidence of under-reporting by both genders, and that under-reporting may be greater for men.”

Small wonder, that, as men are not believed more often than not. Small wonder, that, when men are ridiculed by the forces supposedly put in place to help victims of domestic violence. Of course, in light of the glorious feminist revolution, victims of domestic violence automatically mean “women”. As such, close-to all resources available are merely there for female victims. This based on the false belief that only men are violent, only women are victims, for ever and ever, hail Dworkin, praise feminism, eternal glory be to the collective, amen.

The last study to gaze upon is also the one I think is of the most interest. It is titled “The Help-seeking Experiences of Men Who Sustain Intimate Partner Violence: An Overlooked Population and Implications for Practice” and can be found here: https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC3175099/ .

As one would assume, given the title of the study, it looks on the experiences of men when seeking help because of domestic violence. Unsurprising to any who have delved into the weird and wacky post-red-pill world, but probably surprising, bordering on unbelievable to any who have not, the study show that men experience barriers when calling domestic violence hotlines. It contains some very interesting quotes from men who have been foolish enough to attempt to seek help and understanding from the resources available. I will look mainly on their quotes, as the stories of men who suffer intimate partner violence are so often neglected and never told.

Also – I would like to make it clear that I do not use the word “foolish” lightly. Nor do I use it as a slur against the men who attempted to seek help from the resources available. I use it to define – to underline – the severity of the issue. I use the word “foolish” for the simple reason that, as the world and the web in which it is ensnared stand, it is a foolish and futile endeavour. This is due to the domestic violence industry being so tainted, so poisoned, by the might of the feminist industrial complex that one would be hard-pressed to find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy this side of the good part of Star Wars. As this quote from a man contacting a domestic violence agency would attest to:

They didn’t really listen to what I said. They assumed that all abusers are men and said that I must accept that I was the abuser. They ridiculed me for not leaving my wife, ignoring the issues about what I would need to do to protect my 6 children and care for them.

but it is not about hating, shaming or blaming men, you must understand. It is all to do with equal treatment of the genders, as the feminist furies would have you believe, with all their piss-pottery and slack-jawed yodelling. Because those who hate men are not real feminists, ya know. And they don’t like sugar on their porridge, either. Strange, then, that these feminists who are not the real feminists are the ones who have decided the rules and law of the land where the mistreatment of male victims of intimate partner violence are concerned. The not real feminists, apparently, are the ones in control of the movement, are the ones who control the discourse, change the laws, neglect male victims and their children and do nothing but further the narrative that women can do no bad and men can do no good. The real feminists, however, are the ones that do not do this, the ones who do not wield any power or influence within the movement which they subscribe to. The leaders of the movement are not real feminists. The ones who have laid the foundations for the movement and steered us all into these days of apocalyptic madness and rampant misandry enforced by law are not the real feminists.

And Hitlerism, you must understand, is not real national socialism. Real national socialism is something quite different. And on and on the circle goes. Where it ends, no-one knows. Nor where it begins.

I am given to understand that there exist no real feminists. Because this is the excuse whenever these hateful, bigoted purveyors of nonsense and neglect parade their hatred of all things male and masculine around town; that they are not real feminists. And when the leaders of a movement are not real adherents to a movement, it is safe to assume that there exist no real feminists, and that it is all a washbasin filled with toxic waste, vaginal sludge and phlegm.

It is fucking nasty, is what I am getting at.

Time and again, these excuses pop up. And people believe it, all the fucking time, people believe it. That the leaders of the movement – the movers and shakers of the law of the land – the ones implementing all manner of vile treatment of men and preferential treatment for women based on naught but sex – are but a vocal minority, a loud-mouthed gangrenous few who do nothing and accomplish nothing and are thusly of little consequence to the movement as a whole, despite the fact that these trademarked not real feminists are the ones responsible for male victims of intimate partner violence, as well as their children, not only not being believed, but not receiving help at the hands of the plentiful resources available to victims of intimate partner violence. Given that the real victims, ya know, are women and women only. But no – that is not real feminism. They just wield all the power and influence in the name of holy feminism and its wriggling, spineless serpent-goddess. And those who are supposedly real feminists do nothing to stop these so-called fake feminists. How very weird.

You know what?

I don’t often say this, but I will make an exception.

Fuck you!

Fuck you right in the ear and the nostrils with a barbwire-dildo laced with ferret-piss and honey, covered in angry ants!

This work shows that men often experience barriers when seeking help when calling domestic violence hotlines, for instance, men who sustained all types of IPV report that the hotline workers say that they only help women, infer or explicitly state that the men must be the actual instigators of the violence, or ridicule them. Male help-seekers also report that hotlines will sometimes refer them to batterers’ programs. Some men have reported that when they call the police during an incident in which their female partners are violent, the police sometimes fail to respond. Other men reported being ridiculed by the police or being incorrectly arrested as the primary aggressor. Within the judicial system, some men who sustained IPV reported experiencing gender-stereotyped treatment. Even with apparent corroborating evidence that their female partners were violent and that the help-seekers were not, they reportedly lost custody of their children, were blocked from seeing their children, and were falsely accused by their partners of IPV and abusing their children. According to some, the burden of proof for male IPV victims may be especially high.

Now, colour me prickly surprised and oddly titillated – could it really be? Well, yes, of course it could really be. The most infuriating bother of it all is that feminists will go out of their way to claim that this treatment is the fault of men, of toxic masculinity and of the patriarchy and that feminism is the force needed to fix it. This despite them being the reason for this sad state of affairs in the first place. At least now we have an admittance from their own filthy and bloodstained hands that they have knowingly “contained” – their word – instances of male victims and female perpetrators, so one would be inclined to believe that this excuse would no longer work.

Yet, it will still work.

It will still be presented as being the fault of men. Whilst in actuality being a combination of the succubi forces of feminism and the gynocentric nature of our species designing a cultural cutlery narrative that women are victims, even when women are the perpetrators. I can imagine no harsher punishment – no harsher and more foul treatment – than being arrested for being assaulted by ones partner, adding insult to injury one snakelike slither at a time, with the godawful feminist dogma whispering in his ear that this is the fault of men and of himself by extension.

A few quotes from the paper, which I think is of interest:

They offered to listen if I wanted to recount what had happened, but indicated that no support services were available”.

I was mostly just doing research after the occurrence to find out what I should do. I found mostly female help sites and was turned down by several so I gave up.

In regards to law involvement:

They determined she was the aggressor but said since I was a man it was silly to arrest her.”

Told me to get her help. Told me to spend the night in a hotel.”

They saw me as a large male and… took her side. I was at the hospital with bruising and burned eyes from hot coffee thrown in them. They didn’t believe that she did this… and refused to arrest her… The next incidence… the police… saw me bleeding they charged her with felony DV, but later dropped it to misdemeanour assault because we are not married and do not live together.”

Well, now, ain’t that interesting in light of the first paper linked? I would dare say that in the line of duty, neglect of the male is right there up front and centre for all the world to see, were they only willing to do so. Clearly, it is incredibly difficult to see after decades of feminist lobbying and implementations – or alterations – of law made to define Domestic Violence in a light spun neatly by the web of feminist dogma, such as the Duluth-model for dealing with domestic violence. But more on that later, as I keep saying whenever I bring it up. I think – quite simply – that it deserves a ramble all on its lonesome.

When all things are placed within the framework of an ideology that presumes women to be the oppressed and men to be the oppressors, violence can only ever go one way. And that way is down from the top – from man to woman. Women who are violent against their male partners are thus given leeway for her supposedly being oppressed for being female and nothing but. The domestic violence industry has handcrafted this fairytale on feminist insistence, where the big bad wolf is the man and everything done to fight the big bad wolf is of the good, even when that means a man being arrested for his horrible crime of being assaulted.

And so, the girl cried “Wolf”.

Because he must have done something to her that caused her to lash out at him. Because the story told and the image presented for decades has been one in which women are never the main perpetrators, nor the first instigators. It has been presented as being so simple, so lacking in nuance as to be black and white; that is the ever-popular Men Bad – Women Good. I know I repeat this often. This point needs to be hammered home with all the persistence and subtlety of a rampant AK-47 in the hands of a drugged-out-of-his-mind chimpanzee.

When faced with this – that male victims are arrested – the feminist hive-mind does, in my admittedly anecdotal experience one of two things. They defend the woman, stating that he must have done something. Or they claim – as they always do – that this is the fault of the patriarchy for viewing women as weak and helpless, forgetting for convenience the fact that all this is the fault of feminist lobbying. That this is the fault of feminism is made evident – clear and bright as the dawning of a new day – when looking at the first paper linked, or looking at the interview with foul and filthy Katherine Spillar in the documentary the Red Pill, wherein she states that “it is not girls beating up on boys, it is boys beating up on girls” and that “Domestic Violence” is nothing but a “clean-up word for wife-beating.” Imagine my bedazzled shock!

If this is not neglecting male victims and containing female perpetrators for the movement and the ideology and nothing but that, I have no idea what is.

This does not matter much, however, within a culture that is so decided upon viewing women as permanent victims of the tyranny of men that we willingly ignore all facts to the contrary of the cultural narrative. And that is a narrative that has been pushed and prodded and presented as absolute fact for decades, despite being at the best falsely presented statistics, and at the worst downright lies.

The worst part – to my eyes at least – is not the narrative being presented of only men being perpetrators and only women being victims. The worst part of it all is that this one-sided narrative, this bitterly unnuanced view of things, stand directly in the path, blocking what would be the best attempt at remedying the problem. And that is looking at the core reason for violence, which seems to be linked intimately with family of origin issues.

That is to say – the sins of the father will be visited upon the son. Adding, of course, that the sins of the mother and father both will be visited upon the son and the daughter both, in equal measure. Doomed to repetition is the generational cycle of abuse.

For are not our behaviours – our patterns of behaviour in adult life very much a reflection of that of our parents, be they our mothers or our fathers? Being able to see this pattern – this circle of abuse clearly, would mean being able to consider the instigators of violence, the perpetrators of violence within a family, be that reciprocal or not, in light of the abuse they suffered at the hands of their parents. Not as a manner of excuse for their behaviour, but as a way to teach them ways of working through the trauma from the abuse that is not them re-playing it time and again, regurgitating the same generational sins as their parents and their parents did, and so forth and so on.

It would mean grabbing the serpent by its tail, understanding that it is a far more complex issue than the feminist hive-mind and their various sultry snake-cult priestesses would have it presented. This way of tackling the issue, however, would of course mean that the feminist movement as well as the domestic violence movement, which is, to be honest, more or less the same thing at this point, would loose not only the stranglehold they have on the discussion but also a wealth of funding and control.

Which I, of course, consider to be a godsend.

But which they clearly do not – hence the first paper linked, wherein they present arguments for acknowledging female perpetrators of domestic violence in order to further the agenda of the movement, not the help or protection of the individual victims of intimate partner violence, nor the families destroyed by it.

Which just goes to show that feminism cares neither for women nor for men, but their own agenda. Whatever that agenda may be at any given moment.

It is definitive proof that feminism as a movement cares for naught but their movement. Women that oppose their movement and the dogma of it all – Erin Pizzey, for instance, can burn in hell for all they are concerned. And men can go to hell as a collective no matter who they are or what they have done. Or what they haven’t done. Where there should be compassion shown to those who are abused no matter their sex, there is naught. All there is is a movement so entrenched in its own ideology and orthodoxy that they willingly – and admittedly – lie in order to further this orthodoxy. At the expense of victims, be they male or female, adult or child.

And that is that.

No individual matter.

Only the party matter.

All else is naught but sacrifices for the serpent-god.

 – Please like, share and subscribe

 – Moiret Allegiere, 10.08.2019

____________________________________________________________________________________________

Links:

My book – Howling at a Slutwalk Moon:

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:
Redbubble shop: https://www.redbubble.com/people/Moiret/shop
Blog: https://moiretallegiere.wordpress.com/
YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC3IaCxAXE3pQd7PCdvHoaaA
Bitchute: https://www.bitchute.com/channel/EvbGZyTZSraY/
twatter: https://twitter.com/MAllegiere
Gab: https://gab.com/Moiret_Allegiere
Minds: https://www.minds.com/Moiret
Flickr: https://www.flickr.com/people/152465815@N04/

Vile cacti sodomy: A ramble on the empathy-gap:

rock n roll will never die lowres

Illustration: «Rock’N’Roll will never die», 2019, Moiret Allegiere

 

In this weird and strange hay-stack world of ours, where all manner of elusive illusion reign supreme, one figment of fantasy tower above all other. That would be the illusion – the phenomenal fantasy – of some grand global network of conspirators aimed at making men the privileged sex. This is dubbed the nefarious patriarchy, thriving and revelling on the subjugation and enslavement of women.

The claim that the voices and concerns of women are never heard is so ridiculous given the state of things that wilful blindness is the only possible reason for people to make this claim. Personally, I much prefer the reptilian conspiracy to that of the patriarchy. I think it makes way more sense.

The fact of the matter is that the shrieking tunes of the feminist death-squads and marching bands are heard and given credence no matter how absurd and ridiculous their claims, no matter how much their statements are debunked time and again by people far more clever than both them and myself. If it is a problem predominantly facing women, you can bet your pontificating arse and snivelling snoot that heaven and hell will be moved in order to fix it. Or at the very least alleviate it. Even if it is a ridiculous first-world problem easily mended by taking some more responsibility for one self, as is the case with the horribly sexist air-conditioning; a non-issue and personal pet-peeve of mine, remedied quite easily by the woman or women in question putting on more clothes.

Imagine that.

Considering that the dress-codes for men in workspaces where air-conditioning exist tend to be far more rigid than they are for women, business-suits of course being the only acceptable form of clothing for a professional man, there is little wonder that men in these workspaces would be far warmer than the women in these spaces. A business-suit is a hot thing, warm as the devil himself. And not being allowed to wear anything but this suit; no shorts, no shirts, no nothing of the sort… All to give the veneer of professionalism sorely needed by the company, it would be fair to say that the air-conditioning should keep the space cool and that the women being cold should maybe do something as simple as putting on a sweater or wearing pants or something of that nature. Radical notion, I know. But that is what happens when you get radicalised by the horrible patriarchal reptile forces of the internet.

This is, of course, an incredibly sexist and horribly misogynist thing to say, as women should be free to do whatever the hell they want to do, even if that includes blaming other people for their problems of feeling a slight chill in the workplace when the only thing needed to do is to put on one more layer of clothing. I assume this will be held forth as a shining example of a man trying to control what women do with their bodies; not taking into account the dress-codes for men in these spaces.

This does not matter, obviously, because men being uncomfortable in the stifling heat and lack of oxygen in the sauna-like room temperature that seems to be preferred by women everywhere is just another manifestation of primeval male toxicity calling for the governance and patriarchal regulation of female body-temperatures. Where will it all end? At some point – men may be so rough and domineering as to keep the temperature of the room at a level where they are comfortable.

Cor blimey, governess, we can’t have that, now can we – men can not, under any possible circumstances, be expected to be comfortable? Holy hell and shining madness – soon you’ll be expecting they be allowed to sit comfortably as well… soon, you’d be expecting men to sit in the manner their biology dictate… and we’d see a horrid rise in episodes of vile and violent manspreading. Best get that man-spread-combating chair of monumental stupidity – designed by a feminist apparently considered a hero by the frail and fragile forces of frantic and frazzled feminism – rolled out to meet and greet the world at large. Knock it into the law-books; manspreading to be punished by public castration. That sounds good! YASSSSSS! Slay QUEEN!

…And various other ululations of feminist preposterous pandering and self-congratulations; patting themselves on the back on their path towards irredeemable and superfluous obsolescence.

Anyone not currently basking in the radioactive glow of unlubricated feminist sodomy lovingly delivered by the strap on cacti-dildo of some-odd dominatrix, should be able to see the lack of empathy where men are concerned scrawled across the crossword patterns of our wretched and decaying civilization. Born as much from men being the disposable sex as it is from lobbying feminist activities and academic institutions indoctrinating young minds into the victim cult, it is everywhere. Right out there in the open for all the world to see. If only all the world were willing to see it. The pain of men is unfortunately taboo to the vast void of the world, and so men who suffer and who struggle are shunned. They are told that there is something wrong with them for being men; that they deal with their emotions all wrong and so need to open up and talk about them. Only to be met with ridicule, shaming and god-knows-what when they do. Toxic masculinity causes men to not share their feelings and emotions. And fragile masculinity is the terminology of choice used to shame men when men do. Odd how that works; almost as though the ideology and preposterous ideas therein are manufactured to paint this picture that men are wrong no matter what and how they do.

See, women in general don’t seem to want this emotional openness in a man. And men know this. More oft than not, they know and learn this by experience, the moment they go from being boys to being men and get met with far less understanding and cozy comfort. So men learn how to process and handle their emotions on their own, in their own way. By and large.

When being told that this is the wrong way to go about it, and being shown that trying to talk about their emotions the way the feminist-infused school of thought demand brings nothing but the same feminist-infused school of thought crashing down on them with all the horrid power of the ancient ones, the breaking point is closing in.

And damaged people damage people.

Snap, crackle, pop.

Everyone has a breaking point.

In seeing how much protest any-and-all conference aimed at the issues men face meet, not only by the awesome might and fury of the feminist forces, but also by society at large – so much so that they are shut down, forced to change venues, forced into obscurity – one can not help but wonder how the claim that the voices of women are never heard can make any manner of sense. Nor how it makes any manner of sense that only the voices and concerns of men are heard. Consider the backlash to Cassie Jaye’s documentary the Red Pill, where genderless gender-studies professors of – apparently – no ill repute prop up their terrified and trembling forms on television to completely and utterly lie about the men’s rights movement and what it represents, sculpting clay-models and straw-men of men who want nothing but to be free to rape and plunder like Mongolian hordes. Consider television hosts in Australia admitting to not seeing the film, but bashing it nonetheless… consider screenings of the film being shut down on feminist insistence… and tell me, with a straight face, that issues facing men are taken seriously; that only the voices of men are heard to the detriment of women.

When the voices of the men’s rights movement are shut down at every turn and men are being constantly bombarded with negative messages regarding their sexuality, their sex and their masculinity.

Like the APA guidelines for dealing with men and boys, in which the finite and infant-like wisdom of the dominant ideology reign supreme, putting into place the notion of masculinity as some form of toxic and destructive ideology. IDEOLOGY. The psychiatrists will then, of course, deal with the issues boys and men face when coming in to seek help by telling them that it is their masculinity – that is – their identity as boys and as men that is the main problem facing them, nothing more, nothing less.

So, one would have to wonder – why is the suicide rate of boys and men so high? Not that we hear that much about the suicide rate and how many men kill themselves, of course. Because women attempt suicide more, so that must be the focus point of our societies in which women are hated so-so much. Never taking into account that the women who attempt suicide survive and the men that kill themselves die. Not taking into account that women who attempt suicide may be crying for help – something that, I absolute believe, should be taken seriously, but which is a far cry from actually dying by their own hand. Nor is it taking into account repeat attempts at suicide by the same woman, boosting the numbers some. Or “simple” self-harm documented as suicide attempts. Nevertheless, it is painted as some preposterous problem facing women first and foremost, as are all issues. Even when men are most affected, it must be somehow twisted and turned so that women are the main victims. Men dying don’t matter. Because women didn’t die. It makes perfect sense, of course. When one sex receives empathy and understanding and the other sex does not.

Yet, the claim is there: the empathy-gap does not exist, as we all should well know by now. It is for the lack of the empathy-gap that women who snap and kill their children or their partners prompt us to feel sorry for them, opening for dialogues of immense importance in regards to mental health and how horrible the state of women’s mental health is. Women are, in other words, and by the insistence of the dominant feminist forces in our society, crazy.

You will excuse me giggling like a rabid schoolgirl.

In so doing, they are creating all manner of ways in which the partner of the woman may be made to be the perpetrator after the fact, being that he most assuredly abused her to the point of her snapping and killing him or their children or both. What a splendid thing, what a tremendous stroke of luck, that he is dead then, and with no possible ability to defend himself. Victim-blame much, you trite troglodyte?

Sounds like the rhetoric of an abuser to me, but what the hell do I know? Men can’t be abused by women, after all. Because feminism said so. And since they said it, it must be true. Proven, of course, by the severe lack of domestic violence shelters for men… or for boys, given that boys above a certain age who are abused are not allowed within the premises of these shelters for women and their children fleeing the horrible and tyrannical patriarch at home. A son is only to be sheltered as long as he is a boy and not a man. For, when being a man, he clearly can take care of himself – as women are absolutely incapable of doing, apparently. The train of ridiculous logic that follows is circular – there are few – if any shelters – for abused men – there are many shelters for abused women – therefore it follows that women are abused more and men are abused less. This is despite the fact that feminists have protested and done all in their power to not have shelters available for men. This goes all the way back to the first shelters created by Erin Pizzey – a woman I have an immense respect and admiration for, and whose experiences I recommend any and all to read – in which she quickly learned that women who sought shelter were just as, if not more, abusive as the men from whom they sought shelter.

She then tried to open a shelter for abused men, and got met by a campaign of harassment by the feminist forces that is difficult to believe in a society in which feminism is painted as a force of good and nothing but. But that is the way of revisionist history and historians; she who controls the past controls the present. She also controls the future.

For the simplest and most profound example of the empathy-gap, one could simply point to male genital mutilation being allowed and – in many cases – recommended, whereas female genital mutilation is illegal, in order to best showcase the glaringly obvious presence of said empathy-gap. But that don’t matter none, because mutilating the penises of baby boys ain’t no problem. Boys don’t have bodily autonomy, my little pumpkin. And that is quite alright; nothing sexist or horrible about allowing one sex to be genitally mutilated at birth – shaming those who oppose it – and making it completely illegal for the other sex. Nothing wrong with using these severed foreskin in facial creams, for the vanity of women either. This is just to be expected; fresh baby-facials for the women, and shame on you if you disagree, or find this a bit icky. These women have all the right in the world to smear severed baby foreskin on their wrinkly faces, you boorish blue-collar slobs. As if the genital integrity of boys mattered more than the unwrinkled countenance of some past-her-prime woman in superficial distress; woe betide you, should you dare oppose the facial gluttony of the barbarian queen.

Honk, fucking honk.

I could go on and on about this. This is just a rambling introduction to the empathy-gap; a roguish ballad sung by a bearded bard riddled with spontaneity, insomnia and sudden bursts of insanity. There is a lot to unwrap, to ponder and consider in this silly world of ours.

I will leave you with some more thoughts on incels, which I touched upon in an earlier piece – “Shame and Ridicule on the Howling Plains of Twitter”, available on Bitchute, YouTube and my blog. Incels have been on my mind quite a lot lately, and I am pondering doing some larger piece on the phenomena of inceldom, if I find more thoughts on this accumulating within the vortex of my cranial madness.

Norway has a television channel very much like the BBC, which of course is far more than a television channel now. Funded by the population by force and the government by choice. It is also infected very much with the vampiric forces of regressive progressivism and the holy ghost of feminism, obviously making them less-than unbiased. Even when they claim that they are unbiased.

That is the problem when people are so engulfed by their beliefs and convictions that they do not consider it properly – they do not see their own bias. This is a very human thing. For itself, there is nothing wrong with it. We all have confirmation bias, one way or the other. It is wrong when something that everyone is forced by law to pay for does not represent the interests of the population in any objective way, mirroring only one set of beliefs, values and convictions and claiming this to be unbiased, thus colouring the mainstream view of the thing by presenting itself as nuanced and unbiased.

Some years back now, they had a news-article on their website about a woman in a wheelchair complaining that the lack of interest she received from men – when sitting in a wheelchair, as opposed to pictures where she was not in her wheelchair – on tinder was a form of sexual harassment in itself, as she felt herself ignored by men for being in a wheelchair. Hardly worth doing an article about, I thought then and I think now. There followed a few lines about her being just as deserving of love as someone not wheelchair-bound.

Maybe she should have used some of that baby-foreskin facial cream. That might have helped. Probably not though. Wouldn’t have helped. Not with those legs.

What sticks out here is, of course, that she sounds very much as though she is involuntarily celibate, forced into a state of permanent singlehood by forces beyond her control. As though she is one of those disgusting incels we’ve been hearing so much about. You know; the ones who feel as though they are entitled to companionship and to sex. Those horrible people whose situation in life has been turned into a quick and easy insult for disgruntled feminists and their orbiting white knights to pull out at their whim and fancy whenever arguments are lacking.

If said incel is a man, of course.

If a woman shows up and acts as though she is entitled to love, companionship and sex from men, she is met with empathy and understanding. To such a degree that woe-is-me type news articles pop up from the wood-works and make themselves heard to make us feel sorry for her and do all that we can in order that her plight of being single – that is, being an incel, is alleviated. For how could any man be so horrible as to have romantic and/or sexual preferences on their own? Men are not allowed this, you see. If a woman shows interest in a man, the man is expected to reciprocate in kind – lest he be considered a superficial arsehole. Does not matter whether the woman is fat, or in a wheelchair, or whatever it may be that throws the man off and makes him not turn on the testosterone-fuelled rape-cannon below his belt – if he shows no interest in her if she shows interest in him, there is something wrong with him. Some would maybe call this behaviour entitlement, but what do I know? The inverse does not apply, but that is part and parcel of life in the strange purgatorial afterlife we have inhabited since 2012.

This is not the only article I have read in which female incels are shown care and compassion that male incels have never been shown, nor ever will be shown.

I sent a complaint to this state-sanctioned, populace-and-government funded channel of ours regarding this article. I worded this complaint properly, of course. Thinking that – since I bloody well pay for this mass of propaganda and nonsense, I have every right in the world to complain.

In this complaint, I asked them if they would publish the same kind of article were it a man complaining about – in essence – not getting laid due to circumstances beyond his control.

They never replied.

As they usually never do whenever I complain. I have sent them a few complaints in my time. Only when their bias is clearly shining through, proving that they do not for one flat-farted second represent the interests of the people who are forced to pay for their spewing of biased bile.

There is that which is so strange to me; that mist floating out there on the horizon, within which all manner of ghosts and ghouls and terrors roam; that outpouring of empathy and understanding where women are concerned, that majestic lack of it where men are concerned. Men, who feel a lack of companionship and of sex are scorned and shunned and ridiculed; are told that they are not entitled to sex, nor are they entitled to a woman’s time. Which I, admittedly, agree with. I also agree that women are not entitled to sex, romance, companionship or what have you.

However; women who feel entitled to this are given empathy and understanding; are given a place in our government-funded public broadcasters of propaganda and sanitized trash to vent their frustrations in regards to this, to lay all the blame on men for not wanting to bang her, for not wanting to enter into a relationship with her for her being in a wheelchair.

And it is not that I don’t have empathy for her. I actually do. Just as I have empathy and understanding for men who are in a similar situation to her. It is that society at large demonize men who are in that position – men who long for meaningful relationships, men who long for physical touch, who long for anything beyond the purely platonic. It is that our newspapers and our public broadcasters paint these men in a horrid light; as haters of women and as rapists-in-waiting, as potential mass-murderers and whatever they’ve got to throw their way, whilst simultaneously making empathetic fluff-pieces about women who act just in the same way that these so-called foul, horrid, basement-dwelling, neckbearded, fedora-wearing incel-bastards do.

Women who feel entitled to sex, love, romance and relationships are to be listened to and understood. And be allowed to shame men for not wanting to fuck them, love them or caress them.

Men who feel entitled to sex, love, romance and relationships are to be shamed and ridiculed. For wanting to fuck women, be caressed, or loved by women.

And yet, there is no empathy-gap to speak of.

And all men’s dreams are torn asunder.

And all men’s love denied eternal.

And all men’s pain invisible.

And all men’s all lost.

And still, men are supposedly the ones whom all the world listen to.

 – Please like, share and subscrive

 – Moiret Allegiere.24.07.2019

____________________________________________________________________________________________

Howling at a Slutwalk Moon:

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:
Redbubble shop: https://www.redbubble.com/people/Moiret/shop
Blog: https://moiretallegiere.wordpress.com/
YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC3IaCxAXE3pQd7PCdvHoaaA
Bitchute: https://www.bitchute.com/channel/EvbGZyTZSraY/
twatter: https://twitter.com/MAllegiere
Gab: https://gab.com/Moiret_Allegiere
Minds: https://www.minds.com/Moiret
Flickr: https://www.flickr.com/people/152465815@N04/

We who fell from Grace/Alphabet-soup/Being but boys

Venlafaxine blues 1

Illustration: «Venlafaxine Blues», Moiret Allegiere, 2017

We, who so lovingly devolved and fell from grace; who longed to be devoured by the rush and the filth and the harshly whispered words…
who so quickly succumbed to illness, to tribal despotism and despair; who saw sudden surges of revenge pondered in school-yards a-flame…

…who so slowly broke down and fell apart on streets lined with gold…
who so openly announced our departure from our selves for all to hear…
who so honestly drank slow-burning ruination from chalices offered by silver-tongued Succubi speaking soft nothings in our ears…

who so truthfully believed belittling tattle-tales and nursery-rhymes, timid and scared and frozen in the headlights…
who so freakishly, annoyingly, self-devouringly swallowed the hook and line and sinker of preposterous tongue-tied dogmatism…
who so very much longed to prove our worthiness in shaded temples overrun by smog and asbestos by the light of her countenance…
who so dramatically disowned our inner-most being for the flicker of her shanty-town eyes and trash-heap domestication…
who so simple-mindedly tore our beating hearts from our chests through our throats and shattered jaws to present as tokens of our love…
who so lonely in nights beneath concrete-breasts, betwixt asphalt-thighs slick as weapons-grade plutonium, cursed ourselves just for being…
We, who so longed for love that we became a self-mutilating spectacle burning with desires deemed demonic, satanic, beast-like…
who so longed to be loved that we fell from our heads and minds and souls into caricatures resembling anything but ourselves…
who so believed the foul things we were told in classrooms steeped in ideology that our souls, our spirits, died by slight-of-hand suicide…
who so fell for the tranquil war-cry of dogmatic serpents, ideologically blinded by pins and needles, that we waged war upon ourselves…

We, who made ourselves disposable, expendable, throw-away-able..
who made necklaces from our own teeth and presented them as gifts…
who made solemn vows to never be the ones we were…
who made promises to sacrifice and to protect and to serve…

We, who were told we were – by our mere presence – dangerous…
who were told we were – by our very nature – fiends…
who were told we were – by testosterone itself – immature…
who were told we were – by birth – untrustworthy…

We, who were made to make amends for the sins of our fathers…
who were made to take a pledge of inferiority…
who were made to mimic serfdom from infancy…
who were stoned by popular vote…
who were put in laughingstocks for speaking up…
who were hung, drawn and quartered when we drew a line in the sand…

Where are we now?

…lost in opiate-daze, body-outlines drawn in charcoal upon streets of yesteryear, heads resting on pillows of impenetrable street-trash, sleeping rough beneath lonely midnight-clouds, being spat upon by passers-by whom we, in the prime of our youth, swore we should protect?

…lost in manic labyrinthine chores and demands with vision clouded by push-and-prod-and-pulls infinite, minds ensnared by senses of righteous indignation at the here-to, here-now, come-here-boy, slaving away at the rat-race in indebted servitude to make amends for the sins of our fathers?

…lost sleepless between lead-sheets where our groins are slowly eaten away by bedbugs crawling through our shameful erections, working to do what the constant buzz and drone and hum of puerile, infantile, prepubescent publications tell us that we must do in order to be men?

…lost in fulfilling a barrage of incoherent societal demands levied at us for being us; a disastrous crack-haven voice calling for our responsibilities, our self-sacrifice, for us to do better and to be better so that women and children shall be safe and free and be safe to be free and be free to be safe?

…from us…

…lost in alleyways, brutally beaten and kicked to the curb, shot between the eyes and mugged, robbed, ripped apart by violence gratuitous and grandiose, crawling our way through broken bottles and puddles of piss to be told, at the end of the line, that we must end violence against women?

…lost between the spread legs of time, shadows floating by, unseen and unheard, unnoticed and unwanted, vague bodies crippled from stress and melting minds, double-narratives told constantly, double standards imposed upon us, heart, soul, mind, body now lost in time and space?

Where are we now?

…free-falling with arms flailing impotently into some dread future-scape, numbed by cogwheels ticking away, by machinery, by mechanical contraptions brutally burying into our skin and bones, our skulls and minds, our hearts and souls.

…free-falling with temperaments doomed to die, with judgements passed on the monstrous cock, the savage balls, the passage of time from mirrors mirroring history viewed through period-blood, menstruated heavily from high-and-mighty academes who never once tasted truth.

…free-falling into delirious neglect from a society whose whispers maniacally conjure grins and glee toxic and nauseous through perpetual lies and misrepresentations, through hit-pieces a-plenty and the everlasting tide of self-assured cock-shamed shaming of the cock.

…free-falling maddeningly into spirals of deceit where once stood truth atop the shoulders of giants, now ground into spastic broken shards of glass doubtlessly preaching dubious equality handcrafted marvellously from uncertain rustling behind the shower curtains.

…free-falling, lambasted and ridiculed for standing up where once we fell down, delving ever deeper into the solemn solitude of cathedrals erected to honour the death of potent masculinity; the culling of young minds seeing young boys led to the slaughter viciously, maliciously.

…free-falling into chemical castrations; blood and chalk on blackboards coveted by legions of pedagogues armed with orthodox new-truth, pale and pasteurized, homogenized and swollen with lies of a dogmatic nature, dominatrix school-mistress with fell venomous fangs.

We, whose wings were cut, whose fangs were pulled, whose claws were trimmed…
we, whose thoughts were silenced, whose tongues were amputated, whose throats were slit…
we, whose heroism was dubbed toxicity, whose playful banter was labelled hateful, whose sexuality was considered primitive at best…

We of the conveniently neutered generation,
of the conventionally tortured generation,
of the chronically tormented generation…

Who are we now?

…A generation of boys and young men shamed into silence, into servitude, into self-flagellating microcosm misanthropy aimed squarely at our sex and gender…
…A generation of boys and young men whipped into the deserts and the tundra to be food for the vultures and the buzzards and the demons; to feed the roar of the moving dunes, like waves…
…A generation of boys and young men lost within the manifested reality of grim-faced bespectacled poet laureates of fame and befuddled fortune in feudal-systems crafted from narrative convenience in academic stupidity…
…A generation of boys and young men ripped from the arms of their fathers and thrown into dungeons to suffer and then be crushed beneath the weight of the wickedness of the world…
…A generation of boys and young men scarred from a thousand strokes of the whip; the cat of nine tails poignantly expressing the societal dissolution of our very nature…
…A generation of boys and young men being told that they are at fault for the demons in the wilderness, the ghosts at the door, the past, present and future atrocities of humanity…
…A generation of boys and young men who never witnessed the rod being spared; who were spoilt with the tongue-lashings of a million studiously inept traumatized graduate students of brainwashed notoriety…
…A generation of boys and young men lost within the vortex of a de-constructed society, within whose arms and upon whose bosom we were never wanted, wished or welcomed…
…A generation of boys and young men who have been socialized into sacrifice, who have had their sexuality scrutinized, their essence demonized, their eyelids sewn shut with barbed wire…
…A generation of boys and young men raised into self-loathing and cold despair, losing ridiculous societal games by their mere presence considered harmful to all within line of sight…

And we were promised that our problems also mattered.
And we were promised that all should be treated equally under the sun.
And we were promised, were we only to open up, we would be saved.

And we were told the problems of boys and men were of their own making.
And we were told the problems of girls and women were also of men’s making.

…then we were told that boys and men have no problems, but that we are boys and men.
…then we were told to shut up…
…then we were told that we were the problem.

…then we became the problem…

*

Agencies devoid of reason chase us out of bed in stone-cold mornings.

Belated birthday-wishes for the dream that was the child within,
Choked out at the corner of bedlam and squalor,
Delirious and dripping with fright-night splendour,
Eternally seeking empathetic connections – salvation through society.

Fear being what they taught us in our ruptured barnyard-schools,
Gullible as only small children could be,
Hated and shamed for nothing but our crucified cocks,
Illuminated by the rudimentary petticoat-philosophy of nincompoops.

Jealousy reigned supreme in the bloodshot eyes of low-gear thinkers;
KKK-lynchings emulated in child’s play: boys are inferior.

Lying is the path towards miss-understanding,
Maddeningly hiding truth for sake of ideological convenience.

None who speak truth live long to tell the tale;
Only death await those who dare defend the masculine –
Painting perverse, obscene portraits of we who fell from grace –
Quiet, quaint, devilishly innocent political “truth-seekers”,
Raped by sourced evidence and facts to the contrary,
Silencing us as we advance ever more; crossing the borders of obscurity.

To tear the blindfold away from the inebriated waste-face of society,
Understand that society need to know more than lies and slander.

Vile assaults on men, on boys, on masculinity called us out to war.

We will win through persistence this war of nuclear attrition,
Xeroxed and force-fed to our gutless, gullible generation;
Young and old are all the same, tranquillized and mindless,
Zombiefied by rigorous academic intellectual insanity.

*

Being but boys, we lived vivid summer-evenings entranced in woodland playtime, running wild and free through trees infested with trials and tribulations for us to conquer…
…being but boys, we slew monsters and crossed paths with gods in never-ending summer days where we dazed about in frantic free-form imagination, hopelessly devoted to expressive life and love…
…being but boys, we grabbed every minute, every moment, and shook it endlessly, heedless of time passing through us, ecstatic, burning internally with wild warlock energy…
…being but boys, we stomped the ground beneath our feet until it turned to mud, conquering horrifying demons and fears and sweating like mad, hungry, powerful beasts…
…being but boys, we were shamans and warriors, magnificent playwrights of our own shared destinies, found in the holiest of holies, the inner sanctum of boyhood imagination…
…being but boys, we danced to tunes only we could hear in the soft, warm, murmuring summer air, breathlessly entangled and ensnared in lifesaving, life-affirming explosions of joy…
…being but boys, we were unhinged, burning with rebellion, with piss and vinegar, with breaking the cataclysmic chains that tied us to the daily drudgery of routines like superstition…
…being but boys, we evolved and we grew and we came to be young men, affirmed through fear-mongering parasites in burnt-out messianic lectures at school to be viciousness and lust and rage and ruin…

…being but young men, we were thrown overboard, cast adrift, to float face-down in lost mid-summer dreams where hopelessness gripped our throats as saltwater filled our lungs…
…being but young men, we succumbed to the allure of life-denial, taught haphazardly with veiled words sung from irrational gurus atop pinnacles of forced chemical castrations…
…being but young men, we saw our heads stomped by tender feet preaching liturgies of our foul wickedness through tyranny clothed in excruciating religious fanaticism…
…being but young men, we were made to rebel against our selves in days and nights of self-flagellating dishonesty, disrobing our masculinity to cleanse the palates of tin-foil-hat dictators…
…being but young men, we were made to break the supposed mould of maleness imposed upon us by our tyrannical forefathers, whose words and deeds should trickle down from history and manifest in us as shame…
…being but young men, we were shame incarnate, rebuilt, reborn from aeons of historical dust and mist and mud, disgusting swine of society dribbling with glee at every lash of the whip across our backs…
…being but young men, we fell into despair and never uttered a word in opposition to clinical insanity reigning supreme in miraculous lamplight-plays of smoke and mirrors…
…being but young men, we were castigated, ridiculed and shamed, laid in chains and iron and led towards torture-chambers to be confronted with, to admit to, our sins and seek repentance through pain…

And we saw, as men, our friends fall into catatonic states of unbridled drug-abuse, chained to the bottle and the needle as time wore on and wore them down.

And we saw, as men, the falling-out of our sanity linked to pre-programmed academes interrupting the heartbreak with lectures plentiful of shame and neglect.

And we saw, as men, broken and beaten and crushed by the weight of all our sins, God pass by in miniscule whimpers to lead some other stranger to some other far-away land.

And we saw, as men, summer floating into winter, permanently frost-bitten and trembling with hypothermia and repressed rage, our selves blow chunks of brain across living-room walls and floors.

And we saw, as men, suicidal ideation taking the place in our minds where once we used to stomp the ground to mud, where once we used to laugh to our hearts content.

And we saw, as men, our own deaths mirrored in the eyes of society shining with self-assured mockery and overambitious celebration at the death of we, of us, being nothing but men.

And we saw, as men, a world which passed us by and flew above our heads, daring us to reach out and touch its wings and tender beak, to seek its nurture and its love and compassion and fail, for it to mock and laugh…

And we saw, as men, the dawn of our demise where we were drowned in monsoon-rain, choked by moonlight, thrown from the cliffs onto the lashing, crashing, smothering waves below…

And we saw, as men, our friends and then ourselves checking out and longing for release and, after quick snack-breaks in rudimentary ghettos, finding solace in dropping out…

Where are we now?

No longer lost.
No longer losing.

No further fall from grace.
No further need for grace.

No more mindless dogmatic self-flagellation.
No more mindless pilgrimages of redemption.

No more swollen tongues from shutting up.
No more swollen chests from having to prove our worthiness.

We were mockingly proven to be unwanted, unneeded, unnecessary.
We were mockingly proven to be lecherous, treacherous, syphilitic.

We were told we were violence incarnate; anti-Christ resurgence, war, pestilence, famine and death in one neat package of toxic testosterone and vicious venomous boners.

So that now, to still the beating of your hearts; we’ll stand repeating:
There is no balm in Gilead;
and we who fell from grace
shall play this game
ah
nevermore.

 

– Please like, share and subscribe

– Moiret Allegiere, 22.06.2019

____________________________________________________________________________________________

Redbubble shop:

https://www.redbubble.com/people/Moiret/shop

Visit my blog:

https://moiretallegiere.wordpress.com/

Check out my youtubechannel:

https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC3IaCxAXE3pQd7PCdvHoaaA

Check out my bitchutechannel:

https://www.bitchute.com/channel/EvbGZyTZSraY/

Stalk me on social media (as long as it lasts):

twatter:

https://twitter.com/MAllegiere

Gab:

https://gab.ai/Moiret_Allegiere

Minds:

https://www.minds.com/Moiret

Flickr:

https://www.flickr.com/photos/152465815@N04/

The Child Within

Limited exposure lowres

Illustration: «Limited Exposure», Moiret Allegiere, 2019

 

There is, I think, a distinction needed to be made between being childish and being child-like. Childish behaviour in an adult, be that adult male or female, is not a good thing. Throwing tantrums when one does not get ones way is not an admirable trait in someone who is, supposedly, an adult human being. This goes for tantrums thrown when someone is merely disagreeing with a point of view, or offering some contradictory perspective as well. Good examples of this is, as one would expect, feminist and social justice warrior protesters, activists and their ilk. You can video evidence of this behaviour just about everywhere on YouTube – petulant and whiny six years old children trapped within the body of an adult. Male or female. It does not matter.

Children are sociopaths, you know. They need to be taught, they need to learn, how to empathize properly, how to see and consider something from someone else’s point of view. How to view other people as human beings of equal worth – and thusly – equally entitled to their opinion, to voice their opinion and to disagree where ever they may disagree. This is not to say that all opinions are of equal merit. Everyone should, no matter their opinion, have the undeniable right to voice their opinion. Without being assaulted for it, or denied the ability to speak.

Not accepting and understanding that other people have differing opinions, throwing temper-tantrums more befitting a child and calling for banishment to the land of ghosts and shadows all who have opinions different to ones own is childish and narcissistic behaviour. The behaviours of the supposedly woke tribe is like watching a kindergarten full of spoilt children whose parents have not done their job properly fighting over who gets to use the most popular toy during playtime. These kindergarten fights can get messy.

I used to work in a kindergarten, once upon a time. And though I never did see any fights breaking out between the entirety of the children there, there were quite a few fights breaking out between small groups of children, all reaching for the same toy, and all completely incapable of understanding that the other children also had needs and wants. Usually, this is something they learned quickly, as children are known to do, given proper guidance. When not given proper guidance, but being treated as though their shit don’t stink and subjected to doting, overprotective parents who are incapable of understanding themselves that their child can do wrong, the child never learns. And so, the child does not grow up. Not as such. And when the child does not grow up in temperament, the grown up acts like a spoiled child when his or hers needs are not immediately met.

This, I would dare say, is being childish.

And this behaviour is being celebrated as some sort of strength and virtue by mainstream media; these whiny children put upon a pedestal for all to marvel and gawk at their supposed strength in supposedly speaking truth to power. Here come the age of selfish, spoilt and childish entitlement from grown-ups who should, by all reason and logic, know better and act better.

Then there is being child-like. Keeping in touch with the inner child, being able to gaze at and marvel at the wonders of the world still; keeping an inquisitive nature alive and well, seeking answers to myriad questions. Being playful, joking, whimsical and witty, spontaneous and bursting with life.

By and large, it seems very clear to me that men as a whole tend to never lose touch with the child within. This is not acting like a child by any means, but keeping that sense of wonder, of curiosity and of playful exploration an integral part of ones life for the entirety of ones life.

I think it is safe to suggest that this could easily explain – at least in part – the fascination for, and love of, model trains and cars and planes and things of that nature exhibited by so many men. The same could easily be used to explain playing video games as well, by and large a very male-dominated hobby. It should be stated that this is just speculation on my part. What would you expect, from something that is merely the ramblings of a basement-dwelling, neckbearded, fedora wearing fringe lunatic such as myself?

The importance of keeping in touch with this inner child is something that can not be underestimated. There is a spark and lust for life found in that inner child so beautiful and magnificent that I would almost dare call it magical. It is a fantastic dance, where the child within is given free reign and is allowed to come out and play when it wishes to do so. This “playtime” of the inner child could potentially manifest in myriad practical and theoretical ways. It is not limited to model trains, cars, video games and things of that nature. The creation of art, for instance. Or philosophical musings on the nature of life, the universe and everything. There is a harvesting done of that inner child in the minds and hearts of great artists and of scientists alike; the exploration and adventure of the world done by the actions of an adult through the guiding hand of an inquisitive child, wondering what will happen if this object is taken apart and put back together again. Time and again. It is the quaint and curious, adventurous and exploratory nature of childhood potential focused by an adult mind through adult discipline into astonishing works of art and literature, into perplexing discoveries regarding the nature of humanity and the world at large.

When that inner child dies, or is killed through some unforeseen event, the man himself dies a slow death of a thousand cuts. He may not be dead on the outside, but he is sure as hell dead on the inside. The inquisitiveness, the playfulness, the adventurous and spontaneous nature at his core is stripped away, leaving nothing but a grumpy old man in its wake. A grumpy old man who has forgotten how to live, and as a result, how to love. Be that to love himself, or to love someone else. When all that is left is the serious, the material, the drudgery of work and monotony of everyday life; when that spark of childlike wonder and whimsy is stripped away from his being, life becomes not life, but merely existence. And there is nothing more hopeless and desperate than someone who is not living, someone who is merely existing in their own little segregated bubble of time dubbed “life”, wading to and fro at someone else’s beck and call and living someone else’s wishes for lack of their own fulfilment.

That death of the inner child may come as a result of both internal and external pressures and happenings. Tragedy is inflicted either way, no matter the cause and the reason for it. Strip away, or neglect, the inner child and all you have left is a lump of flesh acting on automation; mechanical, synthetic, going through the motions and not feeling much of anything but a slow dissatisfaction eating at a man bit by bit, day by day, minute by minute.

And therein is the crux of the issue: there is this expectation that, whenever a man settles down to raise a family, he is expected to give up anything he ever enjoyed in order to focus solely and squarely on his family and their needs. That all hobbies must be ended and all child-like glee over this or that be robbed from him for he now needs to grow up, take responsibility, and that is all he needs to do. Go from point A to point B – go to work, protect, provide, and that is that.

Now, I absolutely think it is important that children and the whole of the family must take priority in the life of any parent, be that a mother or a father, if the decision is there to raise a family. There is little doubt about this. This should not then translate into the man giving up everything that ever gave the man joy in his spare time. There is less time for it, this is true and obvious. But to give it up completely seems a harsh punishment for raising a family.

I belong to the generation where video games became a de facto norm. Growing up, every single boy I knew played video games. Most of them grew up to be men who still play video games, as did I. Over the course of time, I can not help but notice a trend in relationships of this generation, where the woman demands the man quit his hobby of video games for the simple reason that “grown men have better things to do than play video games.” This quote is verbatim something I saw written on a Facebook post by a woman who gloated over the fact that she finally made her fiancée sell his gaming consoles. There was much cheers and applause from the inhabitants of social media at this display of coercive control within the relationship. Were it a man gloating over something similar, in a similar manner, you can bet your colonoscopy-bag and wrinkled scrotum that there would not be much cheering and applauding. Quite the contrary.

According to her, he had better things to do with his life and his time. I assume those better things were focusing all his attention on her and her alone. It is, one must understand, absolutely horrid that a grown man should have any hobby outside of a relationship that does not revolve around her. It is also absolutely incredible that women are so bold-faced as to assert to know better than men what men should do with their own free time. Men don’t get to decide what they do with their time. Women get to decide that. That is fair and equal in a relationship, dont’cha know.

Anecdotal as it may very well be, I also have stories of men having to sell their much loved hi-fi system because the woman in the relationship felt that it took up too much space and were too ugly to have in the living room of his house which she moved into. The same goes for collection of records, cassette-tapes, and all and any manner of small bits and bobs that tend to make up men’s hobbies or interests, object-focused as men tend to be.

Enough of this happening results in the inevitable death of the child within, by a thousand small cuts. Every man is expected to drop everything if his woman demands it. And this is not considered coercive. This is not considered controlling. This is not considered abusive. It is cheered on and celebrated as some sort of strength exhibited by the woman. Men must grow up, and in growing up men must drop anything and everything that used to give them joy, to focus their attention on her and her alone. Under the pretence that it is focusing on their relationship and their relationship only. Clearly, I am speaking in general terms. Not all women act like this. Society, by and large, do celebrate and condone this kind of behaviour from women, to such an extent that is not only taken for granted, but also expected, that a man shall give so she shall receive whatever she may wish. Even when it results in the death of his inner child – that is, his playful nature, his essence and his core.

My own inner child was killed some years back. Not by external forces, but by internal forces caused by an absolutely horrible psychotic break from reality that saw my very being ripped apart. I spent more than a year in this horrible state of complete complex confusion, suffering an inability to find joy in anything. Even things that used to bring me great joy brought me nothing. All there was that used to be me was an empty, hollow shell that saw absolutely nothing but the inevitable end of the line when gazing at life. There was nothing to be gained from the future but death, so why bother? Had it not been for my art slowly, but surely, resurrecting that inner child, I fear that I should still be lost in that horrible witching hour, that gloomy, dreadful, horrendous state of being where there were nothing but being, but existing, widdling away the time and the days until life finally left me and I died physically, not only metaphysically.

That state of being is not something I would wish on anyone – so hollow, so empty, so devoid of absolutely anything that nihilism, in comparison, would be the most fantastic set of complex beliefs.

Now, the child within is awakening yet again, to such an extent that I find myself perplexed by the beauty of the potted plants growing on my balcony. I can stand looking at the flowers for quite some time, marvelling at the stunning display of colours, how it grows from seed to flower, and all that romantic jazz.

In these strangely corroded societies which we inhabit, where all things generally thought to be masculine is, somehow, considered to be of lesser worth – if not straight up dangerous – when compared to things generally thought to be feminine, it is not uncommon to see and hear and feel the winds blowing around our broken bodies and mangled flesh.

The voices on the wind whispering, in soft tongues tainted with spite and bile, that men who partake in video games, who find joy in things that are – by popular decree – considered childish, immature, silly or stupid…

…that men who play around, who joke, who are spontaneous and find joy in the present moment, marvelling at some small and – perhaps – insignificant happening in the world immediately around them…

that men who do not hide, who do not shame and chide and beat the child within to within an inch of its life, are somehow immature, are somehow doing nothing but shirking and avoiding the responsibilities that come with adult life. The thought that it is, not only possible, but maybe necessary, to balance the child within, the gleeful wondering, wide-eyed and marvelling child within, with the responsibilities and duties of adult life seems to be too far-fetched to grasp for those who are not in touch with the inner child.

There is a constant current of shame where men and the interests and hobbies of men are concerned running through the crack-house-streets of our societies. All things, interests and hobbies considered masculine must be shamed, or at the very least looked down at, if begrudgingly accepted. It is interesting to note also, of course, that if a woman should find interest in these things and hobbies traditionally masculine, she is often given media-coverage and praised to high heavens, for some reason. It is not unusual to stumble upon an interview or twelve with women that chose to spend time and money on a male-dominated hobby. A hobby that adult men are usually shamed for partaking in. Take this for what it is. I will absolutely admit that this might be a case of confirmation bias on my part.

To me, at any rate, no matter the howling of the winds and the whispers, the screeches, the careless glee exhibited in shaming the so-called immature hobbies of men, the petulant piss-take claiming men just wanting to shave away responsibilities and obligations of adulthood… it should not matter.

When masculinity is constantly shamed and merely being a man is enough to not be allowed to partake in certain discussions by the frantic forces of infantile mobs claiming justice and equality, it should not matter.

No matter the winds and tides and currents and ever-evolving psychosis of cultural decay and destruction.

No matter the shame and the blame and the nonsensical demands to give up this and to give up that.

No matter the forces pushing for dissolution and eradication of masculinity; the forces wanting to keep men browbeaten and subservient, shamed and silenced for the crime of being men.

No matter.

The child within is still present, self-contained enough to not give a flying fuck, self-aware enough to not stop marvelling and gazing at the pure bliss of the present moment, of the never-ending playtime of the soul.

 – Please like, share and subscribe

 – Moiret Allegiere, 08.06.2019

_________________________________________________________________________________________

Redbubble shop:

https://www.redbubble.com/people/Moiret/shop

Visit my blog:

https://moiretallegiere.wordpress.com/

Check out my youtubechannel:

https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC3IaCxAXE3pQd7PCdvHoaaA

Check out my bitchutechannel:

https://www.bitchute.com/channel/EvbGZyTZSraY/

Stalk me on social media (as long as it lasts):

twatter:

https://twitter.com/MAllegiere

Gab:

https://gab.ai/Moiret_Allegiere

Minds:

https://www.minds.com/Moiret

Flickr:

https://www.flickr.com/photos/152465815@N04/

Limited not to escape:

Lonely parkbench blues lowres

Illustration: «Lonely parkbench blues», A3, 2019, Moiret Allegiere

Limited not to escape are these dreams of complete liberty. Free-form expressions are denied by hands twisting and churning in feigned anguish, whose mere presence do nothing but waste time over disagreements regarding words judged to be not suitable for use by any but the twisters of hands themselves.

Aghast with sudden pain and thought-pattern-demise and blinking in the bright light of imprisonment, this sheltered spiritual decay of ours cry out in harmonious whispered whimpers, labelling as forces of liberty the same forces that lock the cage, that throw away the key.

Painting with broad strokes across the trembling sky, in black ink resembling soot and smog, a grand unifying manifesto calling the unburdened masses to arms, to fight, to feud, to fracture and dissolve what is, was and always have been through clinically insane trials of men whose only spoken crime is being men.

This manifesto adorn the walls and wails of bedsit-boudoirs under which roof sit fancy-free conformists claiming nonconformity, establishment pawns supposedly pawning the establishment, bound by unparalleled duty to spread the words and deeds and unthinking hate of this new morning of our mourning; a mutually assured suicide on part of both man and woman, on part of the feminine and masculine. Shaded, mumbled, jumbled, words thrown to the plasticine walls of society in a quest for sovereign ownership of the word and words hidden in and around the irrefutable, yet never understood term “equality”.

Smog-induced brain-fever is freely available, delivered with state-sanctioned gratification, with diaphragms vibrating with smug, superior glee. Dutiful neglect of responsibility. It was we who burnt the seas, who scorched the forest to spite the trees, who brought the mirage to the forefront, you see, thus removing any sense of truth and of justice and of liberty for all. Liberty is a pipe-bomb-dream, a long sought and forgotten treasure, a fragment of ages past standing in the way of this new sharp and shining razor-blade utopia.

To speak in tongues and gargled pseudo-intellectual cabbage-talk is divinity. Exhaustion and anxiety now revered by fragile nimble fingers seeking something to do. Drained by her sudden swollen body-odour and shaving her tongue with whiplash-cream, she turns to the camera obscura, proudly proposing personal hygiene to be a patriarchal conspiracy. It is her freedom to be just as fat, sloppy, stupid, sweaty, disgusting as men are.

Muttered words of some hardship or other spread like winged slimy eels beneath the slutwalk-moon and iron skies within this shallow and ridiculous opium-dream of hers. She thinks in terms of his and hers. Yet, surely, surely, surely, his and hers do not exist as anything but societal distractions from the radiant core, the essence that is all of humanity; the blank slate onto which all obnoxious behaviour on part of men is poured, all wondrous behaviour on part of women dripped and dribbled?

What, then, pray tell, is the doom and subsequent judgement of man? To be fat, sloppy, stupid, sweaty and disgusting? To have these shambled cornerstones of voluptuous ideology poured into our ears to ease the suffering and lamentation of the women, upon whose backs the chores and chains of the world left their mark as charred scars of some half-digested slavery?

Slavery making it so that she, now, carried on wings of affluent emotional labour, may soar like a vacuous eagle into the thin night of maladaptive malcontent. For her beak to spread this vile infection, this bubonic plague through spittle draining from her canker-sore eyes into the hearts and guts and golden cocks of men, onto these flat-chested streets paved with gold and oppressive affronts through words and deeds not proper etiquette in the presence of a lady such as herself.

Our illusion of liberty lying sprawled on the ground in some mockery of Christ, one thinks; crucified to die for our sins of masculinity and be buried in the gelatinous blob of intersectional feminism, transcendent academia throwing shade on history and on truth and on culture and on beauty.

Limited not to dreams of cowardly escape are these dreams of freedom and of liberty – to be allowed to speak and utter sentences and structured thoughts that go against the grain, the dominant cultural narrative of these decadent decades of socially engineered gender-blueprint-nonsense. This without the vile and violent milkshake-assaults from haggard street-thugs, soft and frail and weak and meek in the media limelight painting the assaulter as the assaulted, thusly blaming the victim and celebrating the victimizer, with no clarity of vision, focus, truth or sense of reason. Poor victims; fighting the establishment when the establishment is on their side. Detached from reality, pandered too and pampered still, delusions somehow given credence in this poorly painted plagiarized society of ours.

Should these labourers of self-induced coma ever harbour thoughts of more substance and more sense than grandiose hedonistic whispers of affront from some imagined ailment of the sexual interplay, I fear their caged minds would rupture and their spinal fluid leak out through their flaring nostrils.

The twitterati tweet and twatter with all the obscene and obfuscated flirt and flutter of a brilliant raven, perched atop the flaccid bust of a moral high horse just above their chamber door, speaking words that make less sense than “never-nevermore”.

Succulent whimpers from infant-like adults veiled as brave and heroic calls for censorship of hate-speech and thought-and-syllable-and-breath-hate abound in this spectacularly grim shell-shocked utopia. All hate-speech controlled by an unparalleled unified singularity; a cosmological universality deemed singularity by the chosen frozen few who consider it absurd that their calls to kill all men should be considered hateful speech and conduct, not proposed equality in luscious bullshit-peddling. Snake-oil is what it is, was and always will be. A fantastic cure for any and all, no matter the functionality of the thing. It is piss. Piss and ink. Call it what it is, and carry the fuck on.

Freedom does not equal freedom in the minds of so-called freedom fighters fighting for fragile freedom to be free from their own self-imposed frail fragility, bottled by operatic, dramatic, coagulated upper-middle-class snobs as heroic bravery. It equals freedom for them and theirs and their ideological equals, not for the likes of me and you and they and them who dare to disagree with the pussywillow-masses, shaking profusely and profoundly in glass-shoes and silk undergarments, donning battle-helmets of pink pussy-lips so empowering and fantastic; reducing women to their vulva, their vagina, their urinary tract infection and fungal-coated thighs and Venus fly-trap charm. Courage is being weak no matter what. Weakness is being courageous no matter what.

Are there any vaginas in the room?”, she says, to jaundiced cheers and mindless glee and thunderous applause. “Are there any vagina-friendly men in the room?” she carries on, to the same mind-numbing hum-drum, banal as only a room full of drools and dribbles may be; then complain that men reduce women to their vaginas, then complain about objectification, even when referring to women in a room full of women as “vaginas”. Woe unto the weirdness of it all. This is the age of instantaneous insanity, of moral decay through decadence and hedonism; we have it so good that we must have it bad. We have it so good that all must be bad, and we are bored and we are dull and we are nothing but a snake-pit floating out to see, sinking to the bottom, not realising that the only thing we need to do to stay alive is stay afloat. Or, perhaps, perchance, ride the currents of life and calm the fuck down for a moment or two.

Criticism is not tolerated by the equality-brigade, whose understanding of equality is not equality as one should think it is, but equality for those who are of equal opinion as the equality-brigade, engineering equality in equal measures to the equal opportunity destruction of society. All speech to the contrary of their definition of equality is akin to the clenched fist of a neo-nazi Obersturmbannführer wishing each and all a grand day and a free speech, thank you very much. A Nazi, a fascist, a true scum-fuck, is anyone who wishes that everyone should be allowed to speak and to listen. Whilst the true liberal view of liberty and truth and justice for all is the denial of the right to speak and listen for those who do not think as the equality-brigade and their vacuum-cleansed sense think. Hell hath no fury as a feminist scorned by someone disagreeing in a civil manner.

It is so painful, this lack of diverse thought in the dawning of our age of diversity; a clouded muddled mind shared by thousands upon thousands, the same thoughts and meaning and feeling and sensation, a shared experience, mutual as mutual may be, sound of mind and sound of heart and sound of body, yet hard of hearing, hard of seeing, hard of thinking anything but the buzz of the hive, the drudgery of the colony the beep and bloop of the collective.

This present-era diversity is doubtlessly good. As long as the immediate knee-jerk reaction of the eyeballs see representations of women and minorities, the rest do not matter. A superficial brilliant diversity in this dawning of diversity, diversified in appearance but not in thought by the might and power and influence of clawhammer-feminism, whose wisdom veiled the truth behind incoherent moutwash-gibberish, exposing cleft palates of distinguished beauty within their salty attack-wombs and sagging choke-hazard breasts.

This present-era hypocrisy is doubtlessly of the good and for the good. As long as no-one speaks out in disagreement against the salty brigades or the bonesaw-brutality of their rhetoric, dripping with venom re-named champagne, all shall be well and all shall be good and all shall praise the miraculous coming of the Christess from beyond the slutwalk-moon, from beyond the iron-labia sky, whose reign on this earth shall be the best and also the last, the finale, the end.

There is more at play and more at stake than anyone could have guessed. There is no path nor plan nor ploy nor play more distinguished in their brilliant stupidity than this force now sweeping across the world in a fantastically morbid dance.

This assault on basic liberties – to speak, to think, to express oneself – somehow wormed and wiggled and sucked enough cock to get all the way to the top of the elusive pyramid-hierarchy. A trail of dust and broken shields behind. Free speech is hate-speech. Thusly, hate-speech is not free speech. And those who control the language control the world. Those who control speech control thoughts, control patterns of behaviour, control the domesticated primates in their cages, in their cosy comfort-zone never seen as cages. Now repeat after me: I am free. Must be free. I can not see the bars and chains, now can I? Nor can I see the door closing shut, the roof falling in, the walls closing in around me. Individual freedom dies slowly. Bit by bit. So slow, that we do not see it go.

Limited not to escape is this dream of freedom; of emancipation from tyranny. To wish all and one the same freedoms as one wishes for oneself is the basic humanitarian approach. Not to curtail someone else’s freedom to elevate ones own, but to allow for the possibility that people dance to different tunes, and tread different paths than oneself, and that this truly is no problem, no matter how vehemently one might disagree. That this is cause for celebration: the diversity of ideas and of opinion; the battlefield upon which they are tested and tried and trialled.

In this evening of our society, this autumn of our civilization, a boot is stomping on a human face, forever. And the ones who are doing the stomping cry to the ones who are being stomped that they are oppressing the boot and foot with their face and head. The face and the head is denying the boot access to the ground, you see. And so the boot must stomp harder, the face be more pliable.

People do not think. people react. people do not consider. people act. Immediately, without pause, without glances, without second chances, without consideration for the fact that denying someone the right to express their views for fear of hate or fear of hurt feelings does not reflect kindly upon those who wish to suppress the basic liberty of speech and thought and expression of someone else. And who defines hate, and who defines truth, and who defines sanity in our mass-deceived societies? To the victor go the spoils.

People do not think further than the tips of their noses; do not have the self-awareness and introspective power to realize that they might be wrong. That these calls for the limitation of speech and expression should never hit them in the backs of their heads or in their drooling moron-mouths for they – they – they themselves are never in the wrong; self-obsessed and vain modern-era narcissists are they; gazing in the mirror admiring their own beauty, gazing at their mind-mirrors and marvelling at the beauty grasped from minds and thoughts that never stray from the trodden path, the accepted path of societal discourse where white men are bad, women are good, and minorities are stomped under the heel of the ever-affluent patriarchy, sometimes known as the kyriarchy, omni-present and elusive as fog, as mist, as smoke and mirrors.

Always present, yet never seen or pointed to as something concrete. Just a vague rumour, a susurrus, a rustling of the leaves and breeches of highly offended maidens of integrity and honour.

This patriarchy, who honours men and dishonours women, who elevates men and oppress women, is the same patriarchy that allows for calls to kill all men; that allows any critique of any women saying that all men should be killed to be labelled as hatred of women. For wanting to kill all men is not hate-speech. Attacking the harpies who shout from pedestals of translucent morality that all men should be killed is hate-speech. Under the reign and thumb and crushing weight of the cock and balls of the patriarchy, women shall never be criticized no matter what they say. And men shall have no say in any matter, no matter the matter at hand. This patriarchy who absolutely hates women, this society in which women are treated so poorly, allows for a movement for women and women only to speak on behalf of women and men as genders and as sexes, simultaneously denying a movement for men to speak on behalf of men.

You kerfluffled yet?

Limited not to escape from society is this dream of freedom. It is a dream of values and responsibilities. A future shared in co-operation, where diversity of thought and of opinion is valued, not diversity of shallow superficial traits. Where thoughts and thinking and ideas hold more sway than sex, than gender, than racial traits and characteristics. Where people are judged on the content of their character, not on the colour of their skin or the lack of a cunt between their legs.

 – Please like, share and subscribe

 – Moiret Allegiere, 05.06.2019

____________________________________________________________________________________________

Redbubble shop:

https://www.redbubble.com/people/Moiret/shop

Visit my blog:

https://moiretallegiere.wordpress.com/

Check out my youtubechannel:

https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC3IaCxAXE3pQd7PCdvHoaaA

Check out my bitchutechannel:

https://www.bitchute.com/channel/EvbGZyTZSraY/

Stalk me on social media (as long as it lasts):

twatter:

https://twitter.com/MAllegiere

Gab:

https://gab.ai/Moiret_Allegiere

Minds:

https://www.minds.com/Moiret

Flickr:

https://www.flickr.com/photos/152465815@N04/