Eulogy for the lost boys

Eulogy for the lost boys Lowres A4

Ill: «Eulogy for the lost boys», A4, 2018, Moiret Allegiere

 

Starting from the bottom of lungs suffering a incredible infection of long-lasting and irrational hatred, we hear a roar bellowing forth. Twisting and turning and winding its way up and out, it is transformed through the larynx and trachea – moving from a roar to a screech, highpitched and fierce, as if driven by some latent demonic force. The screech spreads as spittle through industrial fog. It clings to every single droplet of dew, stained black with ash and smoke: spittle from a reverbarating echo of hatred blending with the dew of industrialized zones of spiritual decay. Upwards we are carried, clinging to the spittle still, until we mingle and blend with the clouds and get a full-on birdseye view of the world. Like eagles we soar and float above the world.

From this vantagepoint, much that is lost to us we may now see; strange echoes from a void of cloudy despair fill the air about us, charging it with tremenduos energy. Electricity is building up, and we find ourselves drawn apart from the updraft, drawn away from the clouds, separated from the spittle of irrational hate, we seek the void.

Gazing towards the void until the void is all we can see. And in the void; drifting and afloat from shipwreck to shipwreck we see the lost boys. Perpetually lost and stripped of meaning and direction. Cast adrift by forces beyond their control, beyond reason, beyond madness, beyond the void. Grey cliffs bend over the void, cliffs cast in concrete, in piss and blood; a eternal monument of paradise lost and never regained. A grey spectre of isolation cast it`s grim countenance upon their faces and their eyes. And their eyes in turn reflect nothing but a grim spectacle of a future chopped down and left to rot where it fell, meeting nothing but indifference for those who might see them lying there as they walk past under the scorching sun of summer eternal. There is no future in the void. Empty promises. Enormous, cavernous waiting rooms; rows upon rows of empty seats flashing golden rays of light mocking the lost boys for their absence, demanding at the same time access to their seats.

And we – soaring overhead – mock and laugh and ridicule. We wallow in their demise and urge it on. We pick at their flesh and at their bones with long beaks reenforced with metal and barbwire, asking in a mocking, sing-song voice: «Why aren`t you doing anything with your lives?».

They don`t respond. They drift further away. Deeper into the void. Shadows cast from the concrete cliffs of infallible madness fill their cranial chambers, bouncing from wall to wall, gaining speed, gaining momentum, faster, faster, back and forth, until it all becomes a blur and the cranial chamber, so pure at the beginning of time, turns into a chamber of excruciating hate in it`s own right. And we come full circle. Clouds close down. Rain pours. The ground is turning to mud. It don`t matter in the void. Rain or shine, the void stays the same. And we laugh and mock and frown; our collective faces turn into grimaces of pure disgust and disbelief at how grown men can behave as the lost boys do; clinging to chimes of the past with breakneck loneliness and escaping into that which seems familiar and, at the very least, shows no judgement – and to hell with the rest of the world, to hell with the void and the reason and the madness both. It don`t matter much, in the void.

And from the depths of catatonic despair come the deathparade; a marching gaggle of ghouls and monsters, each marching to their own beat, but all marching still to the same drum, out of rhytm, out of tune and out of touch, but still there, moving ever onwards towards the same goal: the void.

And from their mouths hiss the noise of ill intent, whispered at first but gaining in volume and intensity. Whom but the lost boys themselves know what words the lost boys hear at the peak of yet another sleepless night, or in the hollow tunes of yet another sleepless morning, lost in the perplexing horror that is the hour of the wolf; the long and dreary teatime of the soul? Wash it away then, with booze and pills. From despair shall freedom from despair be sought. Or, failing even that, a piece of despair be carved away, masked as loss-of-despair, but in reality nothing but a postponing of grander despair yet to come.

Through eyes clouded with numb sensations of free-form experimental poetry, come the grief. A great build-up of years wasted. A great build-up of wasted potential. A great failure to launch; turned away at the gates and trampled down into the very gravel coating the roads of misspent youth. Time and again in trouble. Drunk and derailed, faded into obscurity by the very same powers that claimed to work towards a greater good for all. All flowing to and from the same source. To bad the source was poisoned. To bad the source left them behind to float into the ether, and be lost. And then to be cemented as a permanent fixture in the void, and be lost. An entire generation of boys doomed to be lost at sea, clinging to whatever might fill the trembling void in the midst of their souls and in the midst of their manhood so that they do not wither and waste away completely. A generation ignored, forgotten and made out to be evil incarnate. A generation scorned and cursed and subject to the greatest betrayal ever bestowed upon anyone by the same hands and minds that purported to love and care about them. A great and world-encompassing lack of empathy and understanding. The fall of man. Paradise lost. Stuck in permanent purgatory to grow cynical. To grow resentful. To grow bitter. To grow into their own demise, either by their own hand or by someone elses. Either to take as many as they may with them into the abyss beyond the void, or to go fearlessly into the abyss beyond the void themselves.

An entire generation of boys and young men raised to walk gladly into their own death – to be born and to live and then to die in hatred – and to be told simultaneously that they are the lucky ones, and should be ashamed of and make amends for the rare privilege of being bestowed a cock upon birth. And we shake our heads and wonder why our boys are failing so, and we blame them for their own failures just as we blame them for the failures of the girls; and the rage and the riots and the shaming and the unfiltered hatred fill their minds and fill their bodies and fill their souls, and they fall. And as they fall, we are lessened. And we don`t see that we are lessened, and we don`t care, and we dont notice that we are lessened. For they are nothing but lost boys.

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Is this really what you want to do with your life?

Lost at sea lowres A3

Ill: «Lost at sea», A3, 2018, Moiret Allegiere

 

Is this really what you want to do with your life?

To live in a constant state of inner turmoil brought on by opinions whose very existence you deem inappropriate to the maximum and offensive to the extreme? To seek out ever new and ever fresh occassions of offense so that you are free to flaunt your virtue and to stand atop your hill of moral superiority in order for everyone within the immediate zone of your selfimposed social-media-madness to judge and consider you to be of the highest moral standing and highest moral standard; to wave the elusive banner of justice immaculate and immediate in front of marching brigades of hysterically screeching butthurt tater-tots? To be caught in a crossfire of ever increasing infringements on what people may say or do so as not to hurt anyones vapourcloud-feelings; to pour ever more gasoline on the evergrowing fires of discontent and then fan the flames with religious fervour, all in an attempt to be seen as the most upstanding, most moral, most chaste cloud of the collective?

Is this really what you want to do with your life?

To live in a selfinduced bubble of stress and maniac madness gathered from the cloudshare storage of your fellow moral crusaders for part-time truths and post-justice justice; to look over your shoulder constantly lest the mad brigades come for you as well in the trenches of this war of fragility which you fight?

You may believe that they won`t.

But they will.

Come time, they will.

They will seek you out like sharks smelling blood in the water the moment you say anything that goes contrary to one tenet or other of the holy church of offense-seekers and victim-warriors; always looking to get atop the highest vantagepoint of victim-mountain, to become – essentially – king or queen of the hill and don the papal hat of victim superior. Ave, Ave, Victimas. This selfinflicted paranoia-induced stress ain`t good for you, you know! Don`t you ever get tired of selfcensoring so as not to upset the anthill, so as not to paint a target on your back for the predatory beasts to sniff out in dramatic re-enactments of past lynch-mob seekers of post-truth mob justice? Are you not tired of these cult-like patterns of thought?

Is this really what you want to do with your life?

To never delve deeply into the depths of your convictions and think things through properly? To never measure the foundations of your beliefs against something other than what you have already decided is good and pure and proper and true? Don`t you ever feel like plunging deeply into the murky waters of ideas; the darkest, deepest depths of intellectual curiousity and challenge yourself through internal monologues turned internal dialogues with some other part of your soul, chained away in the basement begging to come to the forefront and ask you a few questions?

You know – some questions just to shine a light on some things. See where you really stand. What really matters. Is the prospect of the depths of your own intellectual capacity frightening to you? It must be simpler, plainer, easier to take the quick-and-easy route towards social acceptance by riding the wave and saying what others say, repeating chants and drones and mantras, superficially sounding reasonable and just and moral. It is all for the greater good. The superficial greater good. And that is just it: superficial. Callous. Immediate. A product of attentionspans left out in the woods to be ripped apart by wolves and bears. The quick one-upping brought on by immediate gratification. The instantaneous dopamineburst of instantaneous action; jumping on the bandwagon of whichever moral outrage is popular at the present moment, never for one single moment stopping to think if this is really worth it, if this is really something that warrants this level of moral outrage. Because thinking things through takes time, and time is of the essence lest the case-in-point disappear into the misty waters surrounding the island of immediacy and noone acted, noone got their dopamine-burst and thus their fix for the evening. Them withdrawals are such a bitch. Gotta keep on your toes. Gotta keep them shots coming; perpetual gratification-junkies – exceptionally addicted to feeling righteous flames fanned in the superficial rewardcenters of the reptilian mind.

Is this really what you want to do with your life?

To scream obscenities at those who did nothing but disagree with you? To attack their characters and their personhood, never once attacking their arguments? To never listen when someone is attempting to share their opinions and their views, instead waiting for them to stop talking – or yelling in their faces until they do – so that you can spew whatever ready-made and pre-assembled grunts of arguments you gathered from someone else, somewhere else in the undying cloudstorage of your fellow outrage-afficianados?

Riding the wave is a thrill and a bliss; all that woozy and wollen social approval gathered through likes and shares and comments galavanting your way, to tell you that you are such a good and decent person; so clean and uncorrupted and untouched by the foul fascists hiding behind every single deluminated keyboard, seeking to oppress and destroy your hivemind-virtue by asking a simple question or stating a simple fact which you have deemed, through no thought of your own, a non-fact.

It is so easy, so simple and so outstandingly powerful to dismiss someone immediately as a fascist, a nazi, a misogynist, a racist, a sexist, a transphobe, a whatever. To make them defend themselves instead of the argument. Such a cheap trick, and so effective if one is not expecting it.

Yet, you never stopped to think that these words have lost all meaning through their overuse. And you never stopped to think that these are the tactics of people with no depth behind their arguments and opinions; to attack the person making the argument instead of the argument itself. It proves nothing but your own inability to consider a different point of view; to question yourself and to ponder – deeply – what you consider absolute truth. Don`t you ever think that this madness will stop at one point or other; that the foundation of your movement – such as it is – is built on sand and mud, and that it will all slip away and come tumbling down in a incredible earshattering implosion of blood and hysteria?

Where there is only superficiality, there is no depth. And where there is no depth, there are no roots to seek nourishment to keep the goddamned thing alive. Your castles are crumbling. We can see it. We can see it through the constant infighting amongst your groups. We can see it through the everexpanding nonsense of your outrage. We can see it through your ever more blatant hypocrisy and doublestandards. We can see it through the steadily approaching turning of the tide. Some beliefs have depth. Some beliefs have roots that seek nourishment and find it. Others do not. Anything built on the immediacy of the event will not stand up to scrutiny. Your grapes are dying on the vines. The times, as they say, are a-changin`.

And why are you allergic to simple facts of life merely because they run counter to your beliefs and your feelings? That you feel something is untrue does not make it so. That you feel something is true does not make it so. Some facts are facts. And denying these facts because they make you feel bad is ignorance at best and absolute selfishness at worst. Reality does not have to bend and twist to conform to your personal feelings and beliefs. It is hard to imagine anything more vacuous and selfish than demanding reality itself change to suit your needs. Goddamnit, get a grip! Children think like this. Not grown-ass adults.

Is this really what you want to do with your life?

To fight a battle you will lose because you are constantly changing the goalposts so that noone will ever have the time or the ability to follow through with anything? To levvy ever more demands for protection and pampering in ways which I can best describe by refering to Helen Lovejoy of simpsons fame and her own moral outrage; manifested in seven simple yet effective words: «Won`t somebody please think of the children?!?»; screeched hysterical with no thought, no rhyme, no reason. Merely appealing to affect. Blind to anything else. This is exactly what you and your brigade of rampaging thugs are doing. Think of the children; think of these poor people with no voice of their own whom I, in my grandiosity and grandstanding, care and compassion have decided to speak on behalf of!

Of course, without considering that these poor oppressed people whom you dare speak on behalf of may not be in agreement with you, and may not even want you to speak on their behalf. Do you really believe yourself to be the voice of entire groups of people? Or do you perhaps consider these people so stupid, weak and feeble as to be unable to speak on their own behalf? Well – that speaks more about you than it does the ones you claim to protect.

Do you really want to be lost in a hodge-podge vacuumchamber, insulated against the outside world so that you never have to ask yourself simple questions such as: «Maybe I am wrong about this»?

Is this really what you want to do with your life?

Never consider, and always assume? To paint the ones who disagree with you with the broadest brushstrokes imaginable; painting them as haters of women, or racists, or nazis or whatever suits your needs at that particular moment. Dismiss as hatred that which you do not even care to consider. Simple and easy. Dehumanize and carry on. Disregarding what genuine concerns may be there in order to caress and rub the clitoris of your own sense of affective and superb morality. There is no easier way to win than to consider your opponent as less-than; as not worth consideration.

Do you really want to float adrift on a sea of hatred and bigotry throughout your life because you have decided, within your echochambers, that a certain segment of the population is composed entirely of people so privileged that their concerns and needs need not be met? That it is OK to hate and vilify, seek out and destroy, an entire segment of the population merely because you have deemed them less-than-human through decades of lies and slander, shaming and hate?

Or is it maybe so that you dare not gaze within yourself because you would then be bare to yourself, and all your hatred and all your selfish bigotry and dehumanizing rhetoric would stand naked in front of you and you would see yourself true and through and the incredible shame and the overwhelming sensation of your own abhorrent hatred would flood into you and fill you with regret and paralyzing shame so that you are left in a catatonic state of despair brought on by the ugliness of your soul?

Introspection ain`t pretty when one has blamed the outside world for ones own shortcomings all ones livelong life. It comes highly recommended, though. Try it, and you may soon come to realize the importance of thinking things through at great depth and at great lengths of time. Try it, and you may soon realize that insisting the world change to accomodate your evershifting needs is selfishness and not selflessness; that immediate gratification is a fleeting thing and that the things that last are things that are built across eternal rivers of time, externally as well as internally.

Am I allowed to laugh at this? – A poem for the elucidated snowflakes in our midst.

Transcendental Blues A4 lowres

Ill: Transcendental Blues, A4, 2018, Moiret Allegiere

 

 

 
Hey there big government,
may I maybe laugh at this?
Or are my giggle-qoutas spent
on serpentine hatespeech-hiss
emanating from my every pore
and sweating from my golden
mucous-laden cis-het core;
thrice cursed and beholden
to your standard deviation
of rapturous and torturous
flaccid curious domination
of the vaporous and glorious
equality of constipation
as laid forth by erroneous
drunk and pseudo-metaphysical
intellectual part-time stimulus
who deadpanned, drugged, hysterical
tends towards incompetence?

Good morning dear, big brother, sir,
may I mayhaps maybe speak,
or are my dual testies such a blur
that you much prefer «protect the weak»
to anything which I alone declare
about this sudden state of woe
which you through tyranny prepare,
for us to pack and buckle up and go
somewhere you vaguelly labelled «new»
where faces through barbed wire grin,
then through incessant howls accrue
dubious layers of trans-generational sin
along paternal bloodlines old and mean,
or deemed as such from vantagepoints
whose decadent and pampered spleen
would see old and tired rheumatic joints
removed for progress and progress alone?

Good evening, Xister, gracious Xir
whose numerous labels illuminate transparencies;
neither noxious he nor saintlike her
to grace the present with abundant inconsistencies –
may I please receive my license to laugh;
my bi-monthly allowance of moderate giggling?
Or is it maybe justice served to split in half
the radical notion of humour making wriggling
forms and shapes of those of lesser worth than you?
Is it maybe so that neither his or hers should
transcend obstacles indifferent to your woo;
or ascend through laughter troubles which could
break the minds of those who, weak of will,
would never fathom liberty through comedy?
Those who traverse hardships extreme, and still
find the strength to laugh at statesanctioned travesty?

Woe unto you, drooling mad and moonfaced mob
of justice served through thoughtless crime;
a viscious cancerous infected blob,
a product of our superficial callous time
whose endless never-thinking rage
seeks offense where no offense is done;
whose imbecilic nonsense-plees encage
freeform-thoughts to make sure none
would ever find the courage to engage.
Whose cancer spreads through hate,
through vile and vicious mob-rule bullying
to make sure none would ever create
a movement clear and concise in defying
your lung-puncturing screech of incompetence
flowing on wafts of air in monosyllabic drools
brought on by dumbstruck identitarian decadence.

Good evening identitarian identity crisis,
vague and venomous and vile!
Could your suburbanite pawnshop ISIS
allow me my speech for a while,
or would it upset these fragrant gardens
of your comfortable middleclass;
these delicate withered petals of your wardens
who trapped you in this personhood of glass?
Would it threaten your victim-narrative
were I to raise my cis-het voice regarding
your pettiness; to say it is comparative
to sheltered prepubescent children guarding
their mudcakes in their sandbox-paradise?
Oh, would we then see your castles crumble
bit by bit and piece by piece
or hear your vacuum-voices mumble
something-something war is peace?

A rant about violence.

schools lost A3 Lowres

Ill: «Schools Lost», A3, Moiret Allegiere, 2018

 

Buckle up, Buckaroos! Grab a drink. Have a few. We`re going on a wild ride, a mystical journey to the center of the mind. Or at the very least to the center of certain insanity. Destination unknown, trajectory wonky, wobbly, uncertain. See the writing on the wall. Fasten your seatbelts. Down we go.

Have you ever heard the saying «End violence against women»? Thought so. Did you shake your head and mutter something along the lines of «those poor women, disproportionately suffering violence at the hands of evil men?» Thought so. Sounds fairly typical. Yet another episode wherein visceral gutinstincts overtake the usual rational response. Because we sure as hell need to end this terrible wave of violence washing over the poor defenseless women. Why should they suffer so? And at the hands of men at that! Poor girls. Time to don that armour and fight for their honour. Just as we have always done, time and again. It is chivalry returning for the umpteenth time. Protect women. Always. Even at the expense of men.

The fact that the overwhelming majority of victims of violence are men don`t matter much to us. We need to worry about the minority of victims of violence instead. And this minority just so happen to be women. The reasoning seems to be that men are the perpetrators of violence more often than not. And as such it does not matter much that far more men than women suffer violence. The gender of the perpetrator makes the violence acceptable when swung in the general vicinity of the disposable male; evil mercenary of the patriarchy that he undoubtedly is.

Nevermind that this tells us that the small percentage of men who are likely to be violent would rather assault another man than he would assault a woman. We do not have a call to end violence. Not as such, no. Just a call to end violence against women. Framed in such a way that it is mens violence against women. And only mens violence against women. Of course: women are seldom, if ever, violent against men is what we are told. And when they are, it is brushed of or even given excuses, explanations and mental gymnastics galore to make the female perpetrator out to be the real victim of her violence against the male victim. Deny and reverse victim order yet again. He must have done something to deserve it. Because of course he must have. Victimblaming, superb and absolute, is quite alright as long as it is a man, tainted by original snakelike sin, being blamed for the actions of a clean, angelic and innocent woman.

Now, I will admit that I absolutely think it is a good idea to end violence against women. I just so happen to believe that ending violence against men is just as important. And considering, yet again, that the vast majority of victims of violence are men one would not have to be particularly imaginative to imagine that more resources ought to be directed towards the group most affected. At the very least one would expect more resources. Some resources, even. Yet, that is not the way the swings are swung. Violence against men is commonplace, and mens pain and humiliation – both emotional and physical – is a source of amusement and humour in the zoological paradise of the domesticated primates.

Who can forget Sharon Osbourne laughing, at starspangled daytime television no less, at the very real story of a very real man who got his very real penis chopped off by a very real furious harpy fuelled by bloodlust extreme, and then thrown into the very real waste disposal bin? Snip, snop, chop-chop, blood and pain and humour eternal. Considering that male genital mutilation is legal and not considered mutilation, it is not a far stretch to say that this indifference to the wellbeing of boys and men begins early in a boys life.

Laugh at the mans pain and dismemberment, audience. Add to his humiliation and add to his pain. Laugh, I tell you, laugh! And an army of trained seals applaud and laugh, as the magic is absolved by the zeitgeist, a magic that makes us immune to empathy whereever men are concerned.

The wonders of aerial telepathy told them not only that they were allowed to laugh, but that they had to. The victim in this instance singled out for ridicule. Not only dismembered and victimized, but shamed and furhter victimized for being so! The mutilation of his penis, his physical and psychological pain turned into a joke through dreary daytime television horrors. With little-to-no serious repercussions for Sharon Osbourne, I might add, who made a half-assed apology later on which she snickered and sniggered and giggled her way through; a mean girl lost in the adolescent haze of high school still.

She still has a career.

A man doing the same, were the genders reversed, would without a shadow of a doubt have no career after the inevitability of a nuclear winter following his jokes at the expense of a mutilated woman. He would have been subject to the ferocity of mob law and mob rule. He would have been lynched, his name tarred and feathered, then driven out into the desert to wither and die. Considering that men can not even make a private joke amongst themselves in the presence of a woman without suffering backlash, this is not something I just pulled out of my ass. Look to «Donglegate» for one example amongst many.

Since the victim was a man, he must have done something to deserve his fate. If not directly, he must have done something indirectly. Due to vagueties of patriarchal hierarchies and explain-it-all-away-please.

And so we are blind to his pain and humiliation. Societally, we have no empathy for him. A mans pain is either taboo, or it is a source of amusement. A womans pain, however, is something that we need to band together to end. No matter how small and insignificant that pain may be. Feelings trump facts in this regard, and feeling as though a man looked at her wrong means the man commited sexual violence in some shape or form. «He done eye-raped me, y`all!» And then it`s all «Girl power! Go Girl Go! Show them evil men-folk who you are, how strong you are!» And other such slogans; one-upping the patriarchy, one severed penis at a time. If his right eye offends you, then you must pluck it out.

Is it then any wonder that few men report being victims of domestic violence? No wonder that the statistics previously have shown few men as victims of domestic violence, even though Erin Pizzey have said since the 70`s that women are just as likely as men to engage in domestic violence; that most domestic violence is bilateral. Not only are men not believed nor taken seriously, they are ridiculed if they dare to step forward and tell their story of violence at the hands of women. As a natural effect, it is underreported. There is also the Duluth-model to take into consideration, of course. I will not go into that one here and now. This is long enough as it is!

Many factors conspire and work together, so that we believe that it is mostly women who are victims. Of course, the feminists would tell you that this is the fault of the omnipresent patriarchy, which views women as weak and incapable. Which sounds an awful lot like «The Devil made me do it». Odd, then, that the very same feminists are the ones who scoff at the idea that men can suffer domestic violence at all.

Katherine Spillar saying that «Domestic violence is just a clean-up word for wifebeating» in Cassie Jayes fantastic documentary, the red pill, should tell one everyting one needs to know. There is no domestic violence. Only wifebeating. What a trip, eh? See how they try to change words around and how they manage to shift the definition to suit their agenda. Luckily, it seems that the tides are turning and that men have finally started reporting domestic violence. Mayhaps we will see a change in the general cultural norms come time. I wouldn`t count on it any time soon, though. Changes such as these do take time. We are fighting a long battle. And the siege has only just begun. We need to be patient.

Oh, goodness gracious me – I almost forgot – men are stronger than women by far, dontcha know! So they would have no problem defending themselves. And here I sat years ago, believing the feminists when they told me that women can do anything men can do. And do it better. Anything but violence, apparently. Strange, this, that biological differences suddenly pop to the forefront of our cultural knowledge and the blank slate social constructivist nonsense suddenly gets spirited away whenever it suits a certain worldview and a certain agenda. Gone in a puff of smoke and leaving nothing behind but a lingering aroma of rotten eggs and synthetic hairdye. It is not either-or. Stick to your scripts. Men as the perpetrators, women as victims. For all time, for ever and ever. Hail Bindel, Praise Dworkin, Amen. Nevermind women using weapons. Nevermind emotional abuse. There is a reason that the caricature of the henpecked husband have been around for aeons.

Oh, my bad, that caricature of the henpecked husband is of course an attack on womanhood and as such evidence of rampant misogyny throughout the ages. Even if it is the henpecked husband being made fun of! Nevermind, nevermind, wipe it under the rug, dust gone, all settled, now we are clean and good to go. Just as long as we know where we have to stand on these issues, dontcha know?

Going back to my teens, I remember the school, as well as the youth club I attended every friday offering classes in selfdefense for girls. Nothing for boys, of course. And at this point, I had been assaulted twice. Not talking about scuffles amongst friends – those happen with teenaged boys, full of piss and vinegar and more pride than sense. It is to be expected. A small scuffle, a quick fight, done with it, nothing major, friends again now. Nah, I`m talking about proper, out of the blue, assaults by relative strangers. People whom I knew by name, and nothing more. And I was thinking back then the same as I think now: why would only the girls be allowed to learn how to defend themselves, and why would the boys be expected to know how? It seems to me that we were, and are, expected to experience violence and as such are expected to be able to defend ourselves. Violence enacted upon men are so commonplace that we don`t register it. It just happens. It is a fact of life. Deal with it. Brush it off and man up! Don`t complain and don`t ask why you are not allowed a free selfdefense class or two, lest we label you a hater of women and scoff in your general direction, you son of a silly person!

Violence against women is so rare and happens so seldom, relative to that against men, that we notice when it happens. We are wound up tight by the wheels and cogs of gynocentrism and a philosophy of protect-the-women, that we feel a absolute and most definite need to end it. Socially, societally, globally. We notice and we weep for the poor defenseless women who needs all the help they can get their poor hands on. Bring back our girls. Boko Haram. Thousands of boys kidnapped, tortured or killed over the years. Forced into becoming child-soldiers. Merely a flicker of a fly buzzing through our collective consciousness. Kidnap some 200 girls, however, and everyone is all up in arms. Women and girls must never experience violence. Men and boys, on the other hand… not so much. It`s different, we are told and led to believe by aerial telepathy and the clicking of the presses, the machines at work. Why is it different? Well – it just is. The apathy disgusts me. The inability to see boys and men as victims, only perpetrators ought to make our foundations shake and tremble with rage.

And I have to wonder if male victims of violence which may leave them crippled physically or psychologically worry or even care about the gender of their perpetrator, or if they would rather see justice served and be done with it? The gender of the perpetrator should not matter. Only the violence enacted should matter. The act. And justice. Not justice legionaire, but justice at all. Justice for one and all. Ideally, we should all be equal under and in front of the law. In reality, though, this is not the case.

If we are to be so stupid as to look at violence through the mindnumbing glasses of partly or completely blinded gender-ideologues, where the gender of both the victim and the perpetrator matter, how does this work in actual reality?

If one follows the cracked and poisonous eggshell-logic of these modern-day victorians, should it not also be the case that a woman assaulting a man is evidence that this woman hates all men? Should it be considered a hatecrime? Is it not evidence of womens violence against, and hatred of, men? What are the rules exactly?

Of course, we know that it is not viewed as such. Were the rules evenly applies across the board, though, it should be viewed as such. Because that would make the woman attacking the man attacking him solely for being a man, if we are to believe that a man attacking a woman does it solely because she is a woman. But the rules are, of course, not applied evenly in the feminist claptrap utopia of doublethink, mental gymnastics and bigotry.

Because of something-something-mumbo-jumbo-woo-woo invisible power structures and patriarchy reigns supreme, it is something completely different.

But what if a woman assaults a woman? Who would be the main victim there? Would the assaulted have done something to the assaulter that warranted the attack? How many factors do we take into consideration when measuring the harmful effects of an assault? Gender? Age? How about sexuality? Skincolour? Mental state? Intelligence? Should we delve even deeper into the vacuos rabbithole of identitypolitics and superficial qualities? What should we factor in? Depends, it would seem, on the time of day, the phase of the moon, wether or not there was a full or partial eclipse of the sun sometime prior and so forth and so on. A butterfly flaps its wings. Women are most affected.

The feminist narrative changes according to the whims and wonders of the universe. Sometimes, there are biological differences between men and women that make things different when women do it, or when men do it. Other times, there are none and gender is a social construct, so why-oh-why are there not more women in STEM fields? Oh, fiddle my bump and call me names – I forgot once again – Feminism is not a monolith, and as such views and opinions may vary. Yeah. It`s great to have excuses and explanations at the ready, floating around in the ether to be picked out of the air and presented when needed. A entire list of made-to-order excuses and pre-recorded arguments to pull out of a tricksters hat in order to justify a clear and cut case of double standards and discriminatory practices.

There is also this to consider: this same non-monolithic ideology view men as a monolithic entity. #yesallmen, anyone? #menaretrash? #killallmen? I find it incredibly strange that subscribing to a ideology by ones own choice; that labelling oneself a feminist, grants one the freedom to not be held accountable for the evils done in the name of said ideology. Actions do speak louder than words, and the actions of feminists do not reflect their claims of working for equality. Quite the contrary.

Being born, through no fault of ones own, as a man makes one part of the evil force of masculinity. By random chances of birth, by simply sharing genitals with the few men who commit to evil acts and deeds, one is guilty and need to take on the responsibility of the evils of a few men. Yet, labelling oneself a feminist does not make one responsible for the evils done by feminists. Feminism, I stress, is a choice. A selfinflicted identity whose wounds run deep and whose noose is firmly tightened criss-cross around the neck of the world.

In short: By virtue of my dingaling, I am directly or indirectly participating in the violence against women. And so I must, directly, contribute to end it.

Shame on me otherwise.

The fact that I wish to take a egalitarian approach to these things matter none. Wanting to view violence as violence, no matter the genetic makeup and chromosomal haphazardness of the victim as well as the perpetrator makes me, somehow, diminish the seriousness of violence against women. The fact that I suffered a violent and out-of-the-blue assault by a random stranger at the age of sixteen which dramatically altered the trajectory of my life don`t matter none. Working towards ending violence against all is stupid and bigoted. Ending violence against women on the other hand – well, that is just downright virtuous and something that all and one should aim at. I can`t comprehend the mindset that taking a non-gendered approach to violence takes something away from women. But that is what happens when one views the sexes as being at war. That is what happens when one projects unto others that which one does oneself: by looking at one, we necessarily need to take something from the other. The feminists would do well to remember what they themselves have been saying: when you are used to privilege, equality looks a hell of a lot like discrimination.

Pointing out the fact that men are the victims of violence more often than not, not only the perpetrators, turns us into evil mansplainers wanting to take away from women. So they bathe in, and drink, male tears instead of extending, or taking, a hand so that cooperation to end violence in all shapes and forms brings us closer to a common goal. The feminists would rather ridicule and shame boys and men than they would acknowledge the fact that boys and men are the vast majority of victims of violence. They would rather humiliate than cooperate, shame than emphatize. No fraternizing with the enemy, you know. The discussion has to be onesided, for some reason or other.

According to the feminists, talking about both genders and their issues somehow detracts from the conversation about women. It is a supremacy movement; a push to give women all the advantages they can, at the expense of the wellbeing of boys and men. Giving equal consideration to both genders is impossible, in the eternal quest for victimpoints and woe-is-me; in the neverending quest to put women atop the pedestal. All animals are equal, but some animals are more equal than others. If you don`t agree, you sure as hell hate some animals more than others. And hating some animals instead of the other animals is the worst crime imaginable.

And now we are stuck in a climate in which boys in elementary schools are made to stand in front of their class and pledge to never be violent against girls and women. Girls are not made to do the same. What message does this send to boys? And what message does it send to girls?

Nothing much. Merely that the life and wellbeing of girls matter far, far more than the life and wellbeing of boys. Not a big deal, you know. Boys have been told never to hit girls, no matter what. Girls are never told not to hit boys. To believe that this would not lead girls to abuse this obvious power is absurd. Women and girls are human beings, and as such are capable of both good and evil, just as men and boys are capable of good and evil. People who actually believe that the genders should be treated equally and held to the same standards would know this.

People who do not believe that the genders should be treated equally, however, would not know this. And there we see the cobwebbed lies spun by feminism; a move for supremacy and increased privilege and pampered protection for girls and women. In the guise of equality. A move for beating down and shaming boys and men for being boys and becoming men. Hidden behind the flowing, glowing and fantastically laced panties of equality.

_____________________________________________________________________________________________

Some Links which may be of interest:

https://web.csulb.edu/~mfiebert/assault.htm

http://menaregood.com/wordpress/maryland-report-domestic-violence-and-male-victims/

https://www.bbc.co.uk/bbcthree/article/5d33c36d-cd41-4351-97ed-4516962d5c44

http://webcache.googleusercontent.com/search?q=cache:-BLvmB5o20UJ:www.csulb.edu/~mfiebert/assaults_bib343_201307.doc+&cd=2&hl=en&ct=clnk&gl=us&client=firefox-b-1

https://psychnews.psychiatryonline.org/doi/full/10.1176/pn.42.15.0031a

http://menaregood.com/wordpress/the-one-sided-narrative-of-domestic-violence/

https://domesticviolencestatistics.org/men-the-overlooked-victims-of-domestic-violence/

https://www.foxnews.com/opinion/men-are-not-monsters

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=80JqoyaL-p4

Let Boys Play

Monsters and Gods A3 lowres

Ill: «Monsters and Gods», A3, 2018, Moiret Allegiere.

 

Let boys play.

Let them play in the mud, roll down the hills, fall and scratch their knees. Let boys play. Let them expend their energy, expand their imaginations, learn the ways of the world through practical applications of childhoods whimsy and wonder, wide awake, on the right path.

Let boys play.

Let them play as only they know how. They`ll figure it out. Through play and rough-and-tumble tumbling, they`ll figure it out. They`ll learn the boundaries and they`ll learn empathy, they`ll learn to read confusing social situations and they`ll learn to interact accordingly.

Let boys play.

Do not deny them their boundless energies and furiously burning curiosity. Do not deny them their natural state of being; their state of learning through doing, and through doing learning how to be, how to live, how to breathe and how to navigate the slumbering wormhole that is the world.

Let boys play.

Let them express themselves completely, utterly and magnificently. Let them chase their dragons through the woods of shared childhood-fantasies in packs, feral and strange and glorious. Let them trample the ground to mud in magical initiation-rituals, dancing fantastically wild and free!

Let boys play.

Do not whip them into woeful submission with drugs designed to numb the spirit and the senses. Allow them their natural shaman-state of visionary journeys through fantasies fantastic in their majestically shared exploration of their bodies and their minds.

Let boys play.

Do not smother them with an overabundance of misguided rules and regulations, designed in no small way to make them sit and make them still and deny them movement extraordinaire. Do not nail their youthful exhuberance to washed-out blackboards in search of meaning meaningless.

Let boys play.

Let them purge their bodies of energies defined by boyish fancies; to spend and to exhaust and then recharge in dull and boring classrooms until the next recess comes around and the process repeats and then repeats again in a loop and a circle, functional and fantastic.

Let boys play.

Let boys play, and they will learn how to navigate the world instead of burning out and wasting away due to misguided notions that boys are inherently defective and need to be tamed, subdued and controlled. Teach them that they are good, and all good things will follow.

Let boys play.

Do not tell them that they are rapists in waiting; unapologetic sociopaths in need of re-programming and worldwide chemical castrations. Do not allow them to believe that they are bad, that the very core of their being is rotten and toxic. Tell them that their masculinity is good, pure, clean.

Let boys play.

Boundless, deeply rooted imagination instead of state-enforced tranquility and trepidation. Let boys play, free and open and honest, and there are no limits to the gods they will meet or the monsters they will slay, in boyhood carefree and expansive or in manhood, careful and all-embracing.

Let boys play.

Remembering rebellion

End of the night lowres

 

I remember, quite distinctly, lying on the gravelcoated roof of my elementary school and quaffing wine straight from the bottle. I must have been about fifteen years old, caught in that strange treshold between carefree boyhood and careful manhood. Young and filled with hopes, dreams and aspirations for the not too distant future. Somehow, I knew that I would set my mark upon the world in flaming letters a hundred feet tall. This knowledge was shared amongst our little group of friends, drinking and laughing merrily atop the roof: we would all put our marks upon this world of ours, in one way or another. We would prove ourselves worthy, talented, independent, strong and radiant; shining with some inner glow surpassing the warm glow of wine.

I remember it was early autumn. Not too cold, yet chilly. Another treshold. The changing of the seasons, the changing of the guards, the changing of our world. I remember vibrant stars in the sky, a glorious full moon. Dark streets illuminated only slightly by the cozy glow emanating from windows of warm homes, fortifying themselves against the onset of winter. A chilling wind blew over us. We warmed ourselves besides the glowing embers of booze and excited tales of the future. A future which both frightened and excited us; that strange confusion that shows itself so vibrantly and clearly in a adolescent mind still caught between maturity and immaturity. This was a time of contradictory feelings and imminent explosions of emotion. I can`t remember any particular conversations. Nothing clear. Disjointed words and sentences fill the inner chambers of my skull. I can only remember the clear theme at display: our circle was slowly breaking up, as we all set forth on our own paths towards whichever future was destined for us in further years of schooling.

We spoke about longing and we spoke about love and we spoke about remembrance and remembering. We spoke about never forgetting eachother or, more importantly, ourselves, in the strange fog rising from our not-too-distant future. A future shared, yet separate. We spoke about dreams and we spoke about hopes, about where our different muses would lead us on our paths towards salvation and ascension. Our little group fulfilled the roles of the outcasts; the rebels and the ragamuffins, the vandals and the barbarians, wreaking havoc on our small town over the past three years or so. And we knew – we all knew – that our phase of outward rebellion would change course and steer towards something other than numb rebellion as our minds and bodies changed course and steered towards something other and more substantial, something strange and unknown. This phase was blowing off steam. We knew. There was a sense of honour amongst us vandals, us visigoths and rogues, no matter how much alcohol we consumed, illegally aquired from liqourcabinets of knowing or unknowing parents. There was a strange knowledge that we were not bad people. That we were, all things considered, good people.

Of course, we conceded, our rebellion would stretch all the way towards our burgeoning adulthood, and beyond, into the stars and into the vast expanse of unknown deserts which the grim finale of adulthood contained. We would still be outcasts. We would still be rebels, rogues and vandals. We would lend our rebellious nature towards the constructive rather than the destructive, if only we could find the chance to do so. It was not there and then, however. It was so many years into the future that the mere notion that it would all slip away from our clammy hands in the blink of an eye seemed preposterous to us, ridiculous, unbelievable and fantastic. At this point in time, we were rebels without a cause, a archetype of troubled youths rebelling against the whatevers and what-woulds and what-shoulds. Against rules and regulations. Against the knowledge that our lifes were predetermined by our parents, by our teachers, by our fevered madmen that dared label themselves politicians and dared to think that they had any right to rule over us. It is easy, sitting on the cold rabble-roof of a dilapitated schoolbuilding, getting drunk and drowning in hopes and dreams, to fall prey to a underlying sensation of euphoria; a bodily euphoria that starts somewhere below the bellybutton and slowly works its way up toward the vocal-chords so that it eventually becomes a roar of joy and laughter and love as clear and clean as the first breath of crisp autumn air.

And we roared and laughed and bellowed to our hearts content that night, knowing that soon – very soon – we would become us. We would come into ourselves, into our own, that our lives were only just beginning, and whatever would happen could not happen soon enough. Oh yes! Oh, how great and grand and glorious. The future seemed fantabulous, supercalifragilistic, irridescent and as brilliant as the glazed-over eyes of an alcoholic reaching a odd moment of sobriety.

The night slipped away, and we slipped away alongside it, moving towards our homes and our beds, drunk and strange and incapable of logical thought and reason, overcome with celebratory impulses, shook to the core with the sensation of living, of life, exploding with the divine revelation of life. As we parted, we laughed. As we laughed, we parted.

And I came home. And I reached my bed. And I wept. And the weeping turned to unconsolable crying. My mouth, where a few specks of vomit still lingered on my tongue and in the corners, quivered and shook and I could not understand a thing of it. Now, my soul has always been tainted in no small way by the melancholy, and in hindsight there is no wonder why this long night would call me out to weep in such a overwhelming manner.

It was the breaking of my innocence, my descent into hell, which I celebrated that night. The crossing of the river Styx. The burden of adulthood lay heavy on my shoulders, and I was on my path towards the grand unknown. From relative order to complete chaos. It scared me. It shook me to my very core. It scares me still as I write these words in that peculiar woosy trancelike state I wind up in whenever I attempt to put my fingers to words and my words to finger coherent thoughts and meaning.

If I was wiser back then, I would have seen the cause of my melancholic nature and called it out for what it was. The crushing burden of the school lay upon me, even as I lay upon its roof and fractured bowels. Ten soon-to-be-done-with years locked in the halls of elementary school was weighing down on me, and the remnants of my distant future crossed over with my very close past that night, as I lay in bed, all alone, knowing that our little group of friends would split up and be tossed to the four winds faster than I could snap my fingers and call my own name out of the desert-mirage I saw closing in on me in my minds eye.

If I was wiser back then, I would have called the root cause of my now-aching body, tormented and torn by years of repression and denial, by years of hatred slung my way by pedagogy ruined by ideology and brainwashed indoctrination by name. I would have noticed the fork in the road, as it were, which stunted my development and stunted my rational responses and stunted my mind and kept it nailed to the molten core of the earth. And now I remember, reclaiming for the moment the form of my fifteen year old self, the awkward and sweaty clumsy confusion of puberty and late-night onset panic and anxiety. This night would come back to haunt me later in life. A grim spectre of confusion and profound introspection. The long, dark teatime of the soul.

It was not the breaking of our fellowship, nor the apocalyptic visions of impending adulthood which bothered me. Realization dawned some fifteen years later. We had been taught to believe lies and slander, spun truths and covert statistics. There, in our seats in hallowed classrooms in front of an altar of passive information, we had been told that boys were to blame. Our teachers – one in particular – told us, time and again, with no trepidation and no shame, that the girls were better than the boys in every aspect. Overt, unhidden, unashamed. Horrid schoolday after horrid schoolday, pisspoor schoolyear after pisspoor schoolyear. We, as boys, were told to believe in our own inferiority. The girls were more mature, more clever, smarter and better than us. And at the onset of puberty, as sexual education rolled in through the revolving doors of our indoctrination chambers, we were led to feel ashamed about our blossoming masculine sexuality, so simplistic and primitive as opposed to the feminine sexuality, of course. The feminine sexuality reached all the way to the heavens above, so complex and multifaceted that no man could understand, comprehend or fullfill it. Ours was the savage sexuality of mere beasts; a primal force to be contained lest we loose all control and started raping willy-nilly. Our sexuality mirrored chaos. The sexuality of the girls mirrored order. Brilliant and divine, so complex as to be sanctified as opposed to ours, which was so simplistic as to be vilified. Boys and men could not be counted on to curtail their urges, we were told. All our thoughts were only ever focused on sex. Odd, then, that we ever got anything else done. To grind us down into the dust, turn us into singleminded simpletons, this point was driven home with nails plunged deep into our cerebral cortex. It was shame. Pure and simple. A blackboard castration of blood and chalk. A full bodily sensation of shame and regret for every single hard-on ever brought to fruition.

I can count single instances of exposed bigotry. And I need more than two hands to do so. Every opportunity to bring the point of the boys and their lack of maturity home was used efficiently and eloquently by teachers hiding behind the experience offered pedagogues and adults alike: more experienced and knowledgeable than us, and therefore correct in every aspect of life. Shaming of masculinity hid behind every corner, and came roaring to the front. Our schooldays was an era of mockery and absurdity, a grand culling of inquisitive and energetic young boys and men. An entire gender dragged kicking and screaming from classrooms to courtrooms of public opinion; a generation of boys made to be ashamed of their gender. If I look at it closely through closed eyes, I can see the wave rushing towards me at great speed. A wave that gains size, gains momentum and comes crushing in at the shores of my neural pathways with severe destruction.

Masculinity has become original sin. A scapegoat on which to lay all the burdens, all the errors of the world. If we look back through the tides of history, it is clear that the burden of the evils of mankind have taken different forms and shapes. From the physical to the metaphysical, from Satan to the jews. We had torture and death of heretics and witches, jews and homosexuals, satanists and gypsies. All groups, all identities, made to carry the evils of the world. From one moral panic to the next, from one hated identity to the next. Leaving the spiritual realm as a society, we are forced to blame the material realm. And so the blame falls on men. And so the group which we are socially allowed and expected to vilify and destroy changes shape and changes form as the tides turn, a tale as old as time. Our society needs its bloodsacrifices, so that it can refrain from looking at its rotten core.

We had the satanic panic of the 80`s and 90`s, and now we have the male panic of the here-and-now, decades of indoctrination and tall tales, of skewed statistics and outright lies, to teach everyone to hate men and blame masculinity and shoot us down in the streets with learned words, learned sentences repeated ad infinitum. No matter how much it is debunked, no matter what proof and evidence and facts we provide, it is ignored and – yet again – vilified. And in the meantime, the suicides of men go up, up, up, addiction to drugs and booze, homelessness and loss of jobs and lack of education and lack of direction in life for men go up, up, up. We are told that there is only men at the top, so the men must be well off. Well, my friend, there are mostly men at the bottom as well. What does that tell us about how society views men? Expendable, disposable, forgotten and turned away. Men drop out of schools and out of work and out of society and out of life itself at rates which would be seen as alarming were it women. And noone cares. It is so strange, watching this madness unfold. It is weird beyond human comprehension to see men die, literally and figuratively by the thousands, by the tens-of-thousands, and still hear society at large tell us that it is only women who suffer.

We have become unable to care about men dying from drugs, homeless on the streets. Because some women struggle with the airconditioning in their cushy officejobs. Should we dare to talk about mens issues, we have to consider women as well. Should we talk about womens issues, it is only women. Nuance and cooperation is dead. Welcome to the age of onesidedness.

«Racist, sexist, anti-gay, MRA, go away!», they chant as a liturgy. Showing, no, proving to us that they know nothing about men and mens issues. Nothing at all. Instead of listening and trying to understand, they shout us down and claim that we are the bigoted and hateful ones. They fill the world full of lies, and they don`t fucking care. They spew nothing but what they have been indoctrinated to believe. Men are the scum of the earth, a crust of undesirable fatty tissue to be removed and forgotten, pushed away into dark corners, into oblivion. It is inconceivable to listen to the plight of boys and men. Or, for that matter, to let others listen to it. Frightened, the feminist hordes protest and disrupt every meeting, every conference where men dare say that not all is milk and honey in the land of men. Unless, of course, the conferences and meetings are viewed through the feminist lense. And they have the media and the establishment on their side. Simultaneously claiming, despite all evidence to the contrary, that they do not. Who is the real underdog, I wonder? Is it the ones that are allowed to speak everywhere, the one who dominates the discourse? Or is it the ones who are shouted down and denied a change to speak at every turn? I think we all know the answer to that one.

It is confusing. And downright frightening. It ain`t easy, being a man. It never has been. The newspapers publish article after article blaming, hating, demonizing men. As do the televisions. And we lap it up, licking the jackboot-stillettos of the tyrants. Just as we did in forgotten classrooms years back. Decades, even. No matter what we do, it is wrong. Or twisted and turned to become wrong and bad, viscious and mean. «Why can`t we hate men?» Signed, sealed, then published. This overt hatred would not be accepted were it any other group in society. Such is the ways of the world, the whims of the universe. Day in, day out. A underlying current of hatred, so commonplace that we no longer see it, that we barely register it at all. We do not perceive it as lies, but as truth. The indoctrination is complete, all the way from blue-eyed and naive schoolchildren to the very tops of our societies. Our heads have been filled with lies and with hatred, with contempt and hysteria. Every man is a potential rapist and an abuser of women. Twisting and turning, denial and wilfull blindness. Changing of words to fit an agenda. Changing of laws to fit an agenda. Men can not be raped by women, because the laws are written in just such a way. Sexism can only be experienced by women, because the dictionary is written that way. We ought to be scared shitless by this. Yet we walk and accept, with bowed heads, this new-speak rising from the grim spectre of feminism. We ought to reclaim our places of education, purge them of ideological indoctrination and bring them back to truth and reason. Let the feminists, with their agenda, say their 50 hail Dworkins and grab their pussyfixes. Boys need to be told that they are good. Boys deserve to be told that they, too, matter. That their lives and their experiences and their wellbeing is just as important as that of girls.

The mind boggles at the clear doublethink; simultaneously oppressed, and in domination of the media and of the discourse. But all is possible in the new-speak world. Double-plus-good, comrade. double-plus-plus-good good-think. I know, I know. Invoking the holy name of Orwell is used to death and beyond, but there is reason to do so. And will be for a good and long while, if we don`t change. And as all good change does, it begins from within. From the first ravages of the first weeping in bed at the age of fifteen, drunk and bewildered, to the later stages of grief after reaching adulthood with fear and anxieties. Change starts with oneself. And it takes an eternity to reach the turningpoint, the point where the kettle boils over and all the steam that was confined suddenly fills the room and changes ones perspective of the room. And as perspectives change from within, so does perspectives from without. The more we talk, the more we are heard. A slow change building up like an avalanche, to come, at last, crushing down and into the consciousness of society at large. We need to become fearless.

Seventeen years ago, I spent a night getting drunk on the roof of my old school. And the anxiety that gripped me that night is the same anxieties which grips me now, with a body twisted and malformed from crippling pain. It is the same path we have walked down, as a society, for decades and decades. A society in which men are viewed as unclean, filthy and dangerous. A world in which men are told, from an early age, to hate themselves and make amends for the sins of being men. By virtue of nothing but the random chance of our birth, we are the bad guys. I see myself, sitting on that same roof with that same bottle of wine years later, reaching yet another treshold, another change in my behaviours. Feeling that strange sensation of euphoria building up again, thinking, feeling and remembering rebellion.

Totalitarian tango

Ørken lowres

The streetlamps shine with umbrage while permanently offended sidewalks creak and croak. «Left foot, left foot, left foot, march!», a voice through smashed windows beckon. The weird and wired click-clack of jackboot-stilletoes echoes trough the dim night, as we are made to dance in pairs to the frightbat tunes of the totalitarian tango.

Our civilization is turning to dust in one fleeting fall from grace, enginereeed by ideologues with selfspun halos `round their moonfaced grins, made from cotton picked in slaveplantations by men with necks bent under the weight of someone elses projected thoughts. Here we go, picking cotton, picking a bit of cotton, listening to the mindboggling screech of the totalitarian tango.

As history comes full circle and we come to ourselves, we ought to reclaim what values we once had; we ought to value these grand memories, our buildingblocks, our beautiful ethics! We think, as we watch our values and our virtues and our moral integrity get rolled in the bog and labelled unclean, unfit for human consumption, that progression for the sake of regression is a grand stroke of divine inspiration, that it is a virtue equal to none, a virtue in and off itself, impossible to criticise, as we ourselves roll around in the filth, naked, whipped and bleeding, glancing at the icy rhytm of the totalitarian tango.

No matter the mind, and nevermind the matter! No matter the sane, nevermind the truth! In the glorious present of the stunning utopia, this call is not ours to call. Our phones have been left off the hook indefinite, and we are hung on the hook infinitely: guilty by association, guilty of thinking what this new breed of crybully authoritarians believe that we think. You think like this, you see, due to balls and white skin and normative sexuality. And don`t you forget it, you lowly bro, you pathetic inbred neckbeard basement-dweller, you hideous ogre, you! And miracles of miracleberries: they sign documented out-patients away, for to sing and then to dance and henceforth to bleed, to singe and to glance and to breathe in the six-string-shooter ballads of the totalitarian tango.

Our five-finger-dance is oppressive. Monkey see, monkey do. Our superior aristocracy, the new victimclass are working towards denying us our right to speak and assemble, under the pretence of them being victims of thissen-hissen and other such mumbo-jumbo. In the topsy-turvy world of upside-down land which these parasites inhabit, the powers that be deny us our opinions, our voices and our pain. `cause it offends, see. And offense is the worst, see. In our mouths they put their own bigotry, their own hatred and their own in-group preference, reasoning thusly: we think like this about them, therefore they must think like this about us. A hivemind-vacuum, a echochamber, nourished by eternal intellectual blockades, a shot of black tar heroin delivered straight into eyeballs, dry and crusty that tears the parchment from the walls. It calls us out to pray, the earth moulds us from the clay, the wind beckons us to play, we hear the sunshine turn the night to day. We should revolt. We submit instead, lest we be shamed yet again. Alone we stand, audited, glanced at, then dismissed, fodder for the cannons, food for the vultures, spat in the face: more broken men in line to do the totalitarian tango.

Do my eyes deceive me? I see a Bosch sketch of a society yet to come, gigantic hellscapes rising from the pineal gland, a fleeting whisper from ruby red lips cracking into a bloodstained smile, painted then tainted by mad, frenzied eyes, stung with crazy lies, with tonguetied chants, full of words and temper, signifying nothing! Eighteen more strokes of the clock, seven days to reach the glock, a beckoning to grab the golden cock as we march along to the beats of the drum; the beats of the hurr-durr. A recently legalized, nationwide, socially and state-sanctioned hatred, unaltered, unopposed. We are living in a total conversion mod of western society, see, a totalitarian farce, depraved and decadent, a lonely lunatics nightmare timeline: the totalitarian tango.

And we ought to be hanging from the piss-yellow light of the streetlamps come midnights eternal, roaring with laughter and howling at the slutwalk-moon at all the weird shit going down. We ought to not be listening to this absurdity. We should not yield to their ridiculous demands; the feminist hivemind speaking the language of the social justice intersectional rumba. Yet we yield and yet we cater to their every whim and flight of fancy, and yet we bend over backwards, then conform to their every nonsensical demand. The decades of shaming has reached peak efficiency, the malebashing nearing its climax. Orgasmic screams of the orgasmic divine: woman good, men bad. In the language which greets us at the feminist intersection of reason and madness: men are disposable, women are aristocracy. We should not dance. Leave the hivemind to their fainting couches and smelling salts. We should not dance, and yet we do, step by step, beat by beat, the totalitarian tango.

Here we see the streams of time follow the flow of hate with a call to arms raised in banners, raised in banners of fluctuating solidarity. Our politics have become absurdist theaters. Our absurdist theaters have become politics. Here come the politically correct lynchmobs. Watch them gather in the streets chasing down the witches and the heretics, the wrongthinkers, the thought-crime-afficianados whils`t vomiting a stream of consciousness-nonsense from lips painted the colour of hate, regurgitating what they have been thaught to say: tangofodder, do-gooder, moral busybodies watching what their neighbours do with binocular-efficiency and then insisting that their neighbours is watching what they do instead, deny and reverse victim order in the diamond light of the totalitarian tango.

Snowwhite was raped, and so was cinderella. Prince charming is a construct, a dominant male powerfantasy. The damsel in distress trope is misogyny extreme, yet he for she and help us, men. In a society wherein everyting is a social construct, gender in particular, there seems to be an obscene amount of focus on the faults of one gender, and the glory of the other, by biology say they, when the biological findings confirm their narrative structure, a narrative structure as fleeting as the warm smell of rotten eggs. even as they claim gender is a social construct. Don`t worry, mate, Big Sister got more than enough mental gymnastics rolling the rounds of the totalitarian tango.

Never you mind and never you worry, buddyboy, our claws will not remove your cock – or leastways parts of it – yet we may have to take your balls away. It is the testosterone, you see, which is the problem, see, and testosterone is made manifest in cumstains galore all across the face of mother earth. Testosterone is a burden, a murderweapon, a tool of the oppressive patriarchy, even if we also tell you that your masculinity is a social construct and nothing but, there is still testosterone posioning. We are all double-think and wondrous laughs as we prance and shoot our way through the grandiosity of the totalitarian tango.

Listen and believe to the harbingers of doom and gloom as the dust settles on the emotionless, wildly staring eyeballs of these sultry goddess-queens, as dead and dying silverstreams of cum from silverbacked gorillas worth more than you flows like a river from the cheeks of societies past. Let me hear your laugh, young boy, and chant along with the wave we are riding, the wave towards our ingenious yet indescribably horrible freedom. Freedom from offense: sew cushions and pillows underneath our arms so that we never have to experience anything even remotely resembling difficulty. Do not deny us our personhood by merely stating disagreements. Do our dance, tick-tock along with the jackboot-stillettoes, Do not offend, dear, do not offend. Also: dare not take offense to the hatred we spew, as we dance and weave and whine the totalitarian tango.

The night is ours, a proclamation. We are taking it back, a glorious calculation. Give the men a curfew, keep em all locked away in musty basements. Take away their hobbies and destroy all their spaces, deny the men their fun and their fancies, and let us sit and spin our cottontwined haloes `round our nimble figureheads, as we feast on the blood of the weak this week, oh god what a grandiose performance, oh my how incredibly brave and courageous and strong this perpetual victim is. Do not raise your voice: feminism is for men too! They are watering our beers with crocodiletears, as we accept and reform and reject everything but the totalitarian tango.

And moses spreads his cheeks and god spreads his lips and the evening spreads itself thin over the hurt and the pain as the lipstickpolished nails sing hymns of salvation, glory be, glory do, boo-fucking-hoo. Jane smacks jack for spreading his legs when he sits. Nothing but bright light and glazed eyes, nothing but twisted truths and pregnant lies waiting to burst as we see decadence perform fellatio on the erect notes of the totalitarian tango.

What we see in the horizon, what rises from the streets, what comes crawling from the prehistoric ooze is the complete control and domination of our thoughts and of our speech. Our freedoms are being stolen by the social justice hivemind, a beast of biblical prophecies brought forth, a glance into the past: Victorian morals posing as a progressive push forward, a furthering of the women-are-wonderful effect. Men are the beast, women are the gods. Men do all wrong, all the time. Women do no wrong, all the time. In the air, a whisper spreads: fare-thee-well, equality, enter now the totalitarian tango.