It is Getting Increasingly More Difficult to Not give a Fuck:

«Afternoon Greetings»

It is getting increasingly more difficult to not give a fuck.

The Circus is back in town again.
The wide-eyed clowns are drooling again.
The thrice-fisted theatre is back at it again.
The shadow-gallery strokes its lack of cock,
then rubs its paramilitary cunt
rough and raw and ready-red,
complaining about an impotent
maladjusted male malcontent.

It is getting increasingly more difficult to not give a fuck.

The Circus is back on form again.
The wide-eyed penitents are singing songs again.
Thrice-lamented eerie tunes that lost their rhyme,
that lost their rhythm and their reason,
in raw and rough ready-read
illiberal indoctrination,
chronic cerebral constipation:
so-called malicious masculine omnipotence.

It is getting increasingly more difficult to not give a fuck.

The temperature is rising again.
The hot-headed heat-seekers seeking heat again.
Thrice-cursed and shellshocked from safe-shelter-zones
that sang in rhythm and in blues
two-stepped grim-faced tango-hues;
that spoke as messengers divine,
smote down those who drew a line
in the sand, who showed they had a spine.

It is getting increasingly more difficult to not give a fuck.

The bayonets are rustling in the leaves again,
the circus-tent burning in the streets again,
Thrice-hung, drawn and quartered in the sheets again.
Tranquil telepathy spread from the podium;
dyed danger-hair whose longing for odium
saw neither here nor there an end
to anything but society and ruptured sanity;
to start fresh and new this age of vanity.

It is getting increasingly more difficult to not give a fuck.

The censors are back in tune again.
The institute for higher morality shaking in their boots again,
thrice-unfucked morality-policing busy beaver-bees again,
that stepped out of time, then out of line.
Fourth Reich rising dimwittedly from the heatwave;
free speech in dire need of a close-knit shave:
to celebrate diversity and one-pack liberty
must we then throat-fuck free speech as a necessity.

It is getting increasingly more difficult to not give a fuck.

The eunuchs sing of love again.
The old-gloom snake-oil-schools back to caning again,
thrice-well-wished pedagogues knitting blindfolds again,
to allow for free-hand fondling of tranquillised kids.
Smarmy teachers propose unilateral castration,
blind with penis-envy or brain-fucked into devastation.
Boys with glitter-eyes whisper free-form castration-blues,
damaged by institutionalized flag-pole emasculation.

It is getting increasingly more difficult to not give a fuck.

The inquisition is back at it again.
The inquisitive minds seek incessant incestuous notes again,
thrice-fondled tight-arsed censorship again,
to sing and speak in babbled monochrome plague-verse.
Dogwhistle whispers mark high-street hysteria;
sussuration of surveillance run through academia,
murmured watching of the populace in social media,
drifting ever so slowly into intellectual euthanasia.

It is getting increasingly more difficult to not give a fuck.

The actors are back in town again,
the acted-upon are in their webs again,
thrice-bejewelled and forgotten in the night again,
token band-aid for the broken boys and men
whose long lingering grey-cloud despair left them hopeless,
whose pre-approved time-stamp patterns left them homeless,
whose hounded backs were caressed by globalist whips,
whose suffering were then reduced to political quips.

It is getting increasingly more difficult to not give a fuck.

The Psy-War is back in town again,
the opium-wars back in bloom again,
Thrice-removed, remodelled, yet the same again.
Thirsty multi-tentacled social justice rape-rage;
feigned political correctness, virtue, inclusivity, morality
is opium for the people by virtue of profane hypocrisy;
morally bankrupt castrated Marxist hay-fever songs
designed in nihilist postmodern utopia-bongs.

It is getting increasingly more difficult to not give a fuck.

The Opiate dreams back in form again,
the opined heroines heroin-dance in smouldered ruin again,
Thrice-overdosed and equal-opportunity-ravaged again.
Ten young boys with child-like drag-queen dreams;
society and civilization now reduced to edgy memes.
A pock-marked trans-kid, vegan-cat, imbecilic present;
a skull-fucked, brain-slapped, haemorrhaging slow descent
into catatonia and the high heavens of prolonged dementia.

It is getting increasingly more difficult to give a fuck.

  • Moiret Allegiere, 11.12.2019
  • Please like, share and subscribe

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

Howling at a Slutwalk Moon, a collection of previous blog posts:
Vol 1 Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/107571074X
Vol 1 Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07TZTPDPR
Vol 2 Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075714184
Vol 2 Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07TZR25NL
Vol 1 Illustrated Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075717094
Vol 2 Illustrated Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075723078

Other links:
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/

A Good Roll, a Decent Wobble and a Lengthy Tumble

«Bareback Insomnia»

Myths and superstitious legends take their toll. We had a good run… and a greater roll… and the lengthiest tumble… past glories are duplicated in a faulty paper-copier… to come out broken, ripped and torn in a weird copycat display… a shattered mirror reflecting freedom and liberty… where freedom is drawn hastily, outlined in strange dystopian prose, painted with the ink and trembling ire of surveillance through social and governmental power… Of course you are free and have your freedom, sir and saintly madam, as long as you don’t act free and act out your freedom.

The hard and the soft power combined, standing in harms way to harm the way and shatter sheltered minds a-plenty… To then permanently save them from shattering through rules and regulations designed so that no-one of the sheltered and the sacred shall ever have to hear anything they dislike… which, according to the whim of the double-speak fairy Godmother of supreme morality, may or may not include someone merely disagreeing. It all depends on the pre-designed political correctness of stated opinion or fact or truth. It is, after all, far more important to be morally and emotionally correct than it is to be factually correct. So spake the fleeting fairy of flimsy morality and flimsier virtue. Of course you are free to speak and express yourself through freedom of speech and expression… as long as you accept all these limitations on your freedom to speak and to express yourself… as well as the governmental penalties should you transgress and act out that freedom…

Hate-speech laws ain’t nothing but a slow, dark cloud of tyranny… it is a storm beating down on us from afar… an inevitable decline into compelled speech… of forced conformity of thought and of opinion. Making it illegal to say something must simultaneously mean it is illegal to hold that opinion. If you can not speak your mind, how can you possibly have a free mind? Of course I believe in freedom of speech, but freedom of speech should not extend to ideas which I object too….

On a superficial level, we stand free as free could be… to express whatever and whichever… to walk the path less trodden by feet less swollen… complete expression of self is absolutely allowed… though you can not express disagreement with someone else’s complete expression of self, should your values in some way align with the dark side of the force… And what is Light and what is Dark is decided in the dark by drunk hens henpecking social interaction to drunk, drugged and despairing death. Should your values not align, you are free game for the feral forces of the mob and of the pack. And the government, for that maddening matter. Slow death by a thousand pecks.

Hounded, de-personed, un-personed and disappeared loudly, with horns blaring, through the frenzy of the pack; the soft power of sublime social pressure… wild hens hunting the heretic by any means necessary… threats of violence and use of violence is all part of the game; no need to argue or discuss. Attack the person, not the argument. Superficial ad hominem… Reductio Ad Hitlerium, ya dig? All who do not fall into this is fucking Nazi-scum, alt-right pack-rats, fascist collaborators extraordinaire.

After all, the person is not a person any longer. The person is an object, an enemy, a scapegoat upon whose frame all scorn and hatred and ridicule may be placed and laid to rest upon the browbeaten skeletal frame of his simian shoulders.

…Insert Sure, Jan meme, for maximum efficiency in dismissal and put-down… rid yourself of toxic fuckaroos…

External appearance is now marvellously and magically, through smoke and mirrors, through wild and lengthy yarns spun in campfire-tales told frantically by mad-eyed unblinking hens, far more important than internal whatever… content of character matters little when faced with the overwhelming argument of skin-colour, sexuality, sex and gender. Ho-ho-ho, bloody well fuck off.

If you look like this, you’ve got to think like that… it goes without saying… tribal belonging through external appearance first and foremost… a subversive, a remarkably childish superficial take-over manufactured in myriad mind-melt manipulations… to think like this, you ought to look like that. Don that uniform and wear the insignia of the tribe, burnt and branded on your buttocks by your handlers… you’ll wind up without anything resembling true within… without within, within stands without. Shattered and shamed, tattered and torn, broken between a rock and a hard place… or between a cock and a hard face… You are not allowed that hair, buddy-boy, lest you swear allegiance to this tribe… nor that colour of pants… might as well tattoo a swastika on your inner thigh, you lowly, low class something-or-other.

Superficial values is identity-politics wish-wash. It is smoked reams of light masquerading as epiphanies to break the boredom of modernity. Grand words, the grand wazoo and much ado about abso-fucking-lutely nothing…

First world problems presented as profound difficulties… whimsical realms of absolute and acute madness; inflammation of the right and the left brain hemisphere… epileptic fits of tongue-twisting tattle-tales… the new academic lingo is speaking in tongues in histrionic fits of crazy ecstasy… a religious trance to last a hundred years… or two seconds flat, replaced seconds later with some new petty grievance-fuelled annoyance, presented in the same histrionic ecstasy… All hail the high Goddess Annoying Intellectual Ramble and her clouded descent into the babbled afterlife.

Ramble on, my wayward world… there’ll be cheese when you are done. Cheese and whine for maximum madness.

At times, I think we need a good old fashioned war. At the very least, please give us a small crisis… something substantial in this dawn of the insubstantial, in this doom where anything means nothing and nothing means anything, in this age of the great gobble-de-gook, the fantastic swoon, the hallowed swan, the wondrous woo, the gargantuan woozy whimsy of wilful vanity wandering wonderingly within the borders of our manufactured frailty… our remarkable parody of reality.

All who dwell within our borders are set to collapse at a moment’s notice, mind and sanity and inner strength bastardized and sodomized in equal measure… the fall, the oh so timely fall into superficiality and moral beastiality… excuse me, moral inner-species erotica… with not a smidgeon nor a shade of shame and self-reflection to be found or to be had.

We have grown depraved and decadent, bereaved of manual labour and drowning in automation… we have nothing to seek or reach… so few hurdles to overcome that we need to manufacture them for those whom we have considered worthy of having hurdles… and we need to neglect them for those we have considered unworthy of having hurdles… You can tell who is whom by their superficial characteristics, dont’cha know

Big Brother is watching… as is Big Sister; the hard and the soft moral bludgeon… one with a monopoly on violence, the other with a monopoly on social death and shame and decay… stray but a little from the trodden path, the accepted discourse and opinion, and the forces of the weak and of the frail – as they chose to refer to themselves – will beat down on you with all the frail force that can be gathered at the tumbling Touretted tick of an NPC, render you all but dead and imprisoned within the cage of what-is-ok-to-speak-and-to-say…

The age of conformity sprung forth from the grimy loins of political correctness, where facts don’t matter and matter is insubstantial… and something that sorely needs to be said and be spoken may not be said, spoken or discussed despite the importance of the thing… for it would be politically incorrect and so deemed verboten by the frail forces that dominate the discourse… do not say that; it could potentially hurt someone’s feelings, buddy-boy. Even if your brothers are dying, do not say that. For it will hurt the feelings of the frail forces that rule with an iron glove; the soft tyranny of manufactured pettiness and frailty… the sham that is the social game and social rulebook intertwined and conspired to smack you between the eyes, and then to lay eggs within your central nervous system. Spreading, inflaming your tissue and killing you slowly.

We’ve got the hive-mind hierarchy of frailty, also known as the progressive stack… You can be attacked in any manner if you are at the bottom of the progressive stack… or was that the top? It’s all so topsy-turvy, upside down and uncomprehendingly cunt-fusing.

A for effort, fail for execution… dragged outside for a proper execution for failing to follow the flow of the fault-line of the frail and frantic few… the choir offended, my gooey goodness, how loudly they sing and shriek and whine and mutter most incoherently in the grimy greed and darkness of their silent superficiality… their vast calls for ideological superiority…

In the bubble, safe and sheltered, shameless and superficial, pointing to this and only this to state with absolute certainty that you are that and only that; a terrible straight white male – the worst of the bunch, a natural force of pure evil… Antichrist sprung from the loins of a fertile ball-blasted Basilisk Cock-goblin to wreak bloody havoc on the world and all that dwell within.

Boiled, and boiled and then reduced to the bare essentials of appearance; straight, white, male… or pale, male and stale, as the saying goes.

That is all you shall be judged upon, and to hell with anything going on within… within is out, ya know, ya see, ya dig; without is in – the hip, woke hipster squad deemed it so incredibly appropriate to appropriate stupidity in the guise of woke intellectualism, see. Now take your toxic whiteness, your toxic maleness and your toxic social construct heteronormative heterosexuality and kindly bugger off and die.

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  • Moiret Allegiere, 06.11.2019

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

Howling at a Slutwalk Moon, a collection of previous blog posts:
Vol 1 Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/107571074X
Vol 1 Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07TZTPDPR
Vol 2 Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075714184
Vol 2 Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07TZR25NL
Vol 1 Illustrated Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075717094
Vol 2 Illustrated Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075723078
Other links:
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/

Escape

Escape.

No ifs and/or buts. Escape. Turn away. Turn back. Go away. No ifs and/or buts. There is no point forward. There is no point back. Turn forward. Go ahead. No ifs and/or buts. Note nothing, notice nothing. Note everything, notice everything. Turn away. Turn back. Move ahead. Move back. Move forward. Move across. Go ahead. No ifs and/or buts.

The game is wired, mesh-like, social is as sociopathy does. Sociopathy does as the social game is. No ifs and/or buts. Turn in. Turn inwards. Tune out. Tune in. Drop out. Drop in, introspection. Externalize the internal immersion. And escape. No ifs and/or buts. Escape. Within. Then without. Without within, without is nothing.

Escape.

And turn around, turn aside, turn forward. Tune in, tune out, turn on, turn off. Simulate senses, stimulated, hardwired, firing on all the things neurotically. Bang. Bang. Turn on. Turn off. No ifs and/or buts.

Escape.

Migrate. Mediate. Meditate.

Migraine, mediocre, medicine.

Back and forth look the same within this shambled shame-blame-game. No ifs and/or buts. Progress is regression. Regressive speech-therapy, deep progressive psychosis, hypnosis, hypochondriac. High-strung, modern malicious modernity… Then death from cirrhosis of the liver and the brain-pan, pang-blasted into migraine—pain.

Escape.

Into and out of, away from. Mental breakdown, freak-out, freak down – another victim of class-action class-warfare lawsuit where neither is nor and or, or there or then. Trenches dug and society spun, dig-dugged into chlamydia from swarmed arcade intellectuals… auditoriums of play-pen pigsties pillaging intellectual rheumatism… gospels of the depraved and decadent sung high-and-mighty as claws reach growth then slip.

Escape.

No ifs and/or buts. Withdraw. And wobble ever forwards, ever onwards, ever backwards, ever inwards.

Escape.

Bang-hammer blast migraine-pain in back and neck. Mind stroked dead from lack of cock, cunt and clock.

Escape.

Sky is overcast, drowned in ink. Moon wearing silk-stockings, net-fish fishnets… streams of consciousness gibbering morosely, mockingly, adoringly.

Escape.

No ifs and/or buts. Get out. While you still can. Get in. While you still can. Get it. No ifs and/or buts. Sociopathy is socially accepted, ya dig… This social game digs sociopathic sociological telepathy… aerial brainwaves radiating from the eyes of lifeless life… ya dig? Ya dig-dug?

Escape.

No ifs and/or buts.

Merely freedom.

Complete.

Tarred and feathered. Songs through the epiphany, sounds of desolate deserts, tundras, siren-songs spoken in silver-spun buckets full of painted milk, claws of the cat and of the hound and of the hounded.

Escape.

No ifs and/or buts. And sing, stink, sting… brave blues in blue suede shoes march forward and turn backwards, ever out, ever in.

Escape.

No ifs and/or buts. Ain’t nothing but a hound dog. Hounded dog. And so loved. Eternal internal release, reprise, reprimanded, recollected, resurrected through escape.

No ifs and/or buts. Release. Escape. Meditation, reflection, soul-sphere, eye-blind I-candy for me myself and I.

Escape.

No ifs and/or buts.

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  • Moiret Allegiere, 30.10.2019

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

Howling at a Slutwalk Moon, a collection of previous blog posts:
Vol 1 Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/107571074X
Vol 1 Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07TZTPDPR
Vol 2 Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075714184
Vol 2 Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07TZR25NL
Vol 1 Illustrated Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075717094
Vol 2 Illustrated Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075723078
Other links:
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/

Lonely Train-station Blues; A Collection of Poetry

Oh my gobsmacked goodness; is it that time again?

Well, OK then.

And I am not any good at this. In my infinite wisdom and finite cleverness, I have committed yet another book. A full frontal assault on poetry this time around. Even when it is a well known and long established fact that poetry won’t make you any money, it will only make you mad, I can not for the life of me stop writing it. Or reading it, for that matter. Which just goes to show that some wretched shrivelled and clinically insane person out there will pay actual money for poetry. For reasons of madness.

The collection is titled “Lonely Train-station Blues; Poetry for the Lost Boys”. And it is more or less exactly what the title says that it is. Though the focus in this collection is more on the personal and the spiritual than it is on the gender-stuff which take up most of my time and creative endeavours, it is safe to say that gender still plays a part. For the poetry within is very much written for the Lost Boys of our era and of our decrepit day and age.

If poetry ain’t your thing, the collection at the very least has got some very decent cover-art, even if I do say so myself. Any income from potential sales go straight into keeping me alive, kicking, loaded on caffeine and full of piss, vinegar and ram-jammed rebellion for further blog-posts and channel updates. In short; it supports the blog and the Tube-channels.

After round and about six months, I think, I will start posting the poetry within to the blog and the Tubes, one poem every two weeks. Probably on Mondays… because I can’t stand Mondays, and so I need to get some enjoyment from those wretched days. I have mentioned before that nothing I do will be behind a paywall. This includes fancy frivolities and deep dives into such pretentious dribble as poetry.

The collection is available as paperback and for Kindle-devices. No illustrated edition this time around, I am sad to say, as I lost my faith in visual art some time back and have only recently started getting it back. Better to lose faith in visual art for a while than it is to lose faith in humanity as a whole, I suppose.

Hope you will buy it and enjoy it. I find the collection is best enjoyed alongside a bottle of finely matured red wine, a handful of Valium and a chainsaw.

Get it here:

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

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

Until next time.

  • Please like, share and subscribe
  • Moiret Allegiere, 21.10.2019

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

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

Howling at a Slutwalk Moon, a collection of previous blog posts:
Vol 1 Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/107571074X
Vol 1 Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07TZTPDPR
Vol 2 Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075714184
Vol 2 Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07TZR25NL
Vol 1 Illustrated Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075717094
Vol 2 Illustrated Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075723078

Other links:
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/

A quick announcement and a question:

Here I am, breaking the chains of regularly scheduled uploading to bring you this quick announcement, as well as to ask those of you who read or listen to my content fairly regularly a quick question.

In a few months time, aiming at November, I will be publishing a collection of poetry. Well, I call it poetry. Probably, it is prose presented as poetry in order to give myself some pretentious credibility within the literary world. Granted, this being a postmodernist society, anything is art and anything is poetry as long as the artist or poet points at it and labels it as such.

All semantics aside, though, it will be published as a collection of poetry. The title is “Lonely Train-station Blues; poems for the lost boys”.

The title “Lonely Train-station Blues” is the title of one of the poems within; a terrible labour of love which I laboured over for close-to three months. A beast of some 4000 words. An epic, free-form poem written in the current year where no-one in their right mind writes or, for that matter, reads epic poetry. Inspired by the likes of Dante Alighieri, John Milton and Charles Bukowski… if you can believe that. I can’t. But that is besides the point; this poem is one that I am fairly pleased with, even if I do say so myself. Which tend to mean that no-one else will enjoy it.

The topics explored is much in the vein as my other writings, though with more of an emphasis on the personal and the individual. That is – my personal and my individual experiences, with some slightly spiritual stuff thrown in there for good measure, as I stumbled upon the spiritual path some years back and am just about as confused with that as I am with everything else in this weird and wacky world of ours. Best to just walk it with a smile and a raised middle-finger, I think.

It will be published through Amazon, as my funds don’t allow for anything but that. Just as Howling at a Slutwalk Moon was published. One digital, one paperback. The difference being that, barring one or two instances, nothing in this book is published previously. As I am weary of keeping anything behind a paywall, I plan on releasing each and every poem in the book at a monthly basis. For your reading or listening pleasure. That is – one poem a month after the book has been out for some time. Not entirely decided on how long to wait before I start publishing them, so that will be something I have to consider. It will not interfere with my regular upload schedule, which is once or twice a week, depending on the length of the beast I am writing and the amount of research needed and so and such.

Now, I am aware that poetry won’t make me money. It will, in fact, only make me mad. I am not expecting many sales on it, is what I’m saying. Yet, in order to torture my poor and tortured artist soul some more, I will release it into the wild. Because, why the hell not? There can be no more harm in that than there is in what I have already released into the wild.

Work is also moving forward, albeit slowly, on a book chronicling my experiences with psychosis and psycho-pharmaceuticals and the personal transformation and eventual red-pilling that came as a result of that. I am about half-way through a rough draft. This is one that I plan to release in a similar manner, though that will not be until sometime mid-or-late 2020.

I have a few ideas for other books as well, in the red-pill philosophy vein, in the men’s advocacy vein. None of which will interfere with my regular upload schedule, but all of which are too big in scope to be blog-posts first and foremost. They will require more structure than that. These will also be published in the same way, with the book first, then each chapter at a monthly basis after such-and-such a time.

That would be all the announcements.

Now, for the question. A very simple question for those brave and heroic few who watch or read my content on a regular basis – all 20 or 30 of you.

Of course, I jest based on the size of my channel and my blog and what few views I get – I very much appreciate you taking the time to read or listen to my ramblings. I think it is very humbling that you find enjoyment in these things that I do. And so I would very much value your input.

And the question is a simple one, as these things go: are there any particular subjects you would like me to write about? Not that I am running out of things to write about, quite the contrary. Suggestions are a damned good thing to have and to receive.

And that is that.

Until next time:

Take care!

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  • Moiret Allegiere, 09.09.2019

Howling at a Slutwalk Moon, a collection of previous blog posts:
Vol 1 Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/107571074X
Vol 1 Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07TZTPDPR
Vol 2 Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075714184
Vol 2 Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07TZR25NL
Vol 1 Illustrated Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075717094
Vol 2 Illustrated Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075723078

Other links:
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/

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/

Beneath the Streets; A Song of Male Sacrifice:

Blue light spasm lowres

Illustration: «Blue Light Spasm», 2019, Moiret Allegiere

Beneath the streets of our civilization lie the burnt and mangled corpses of men. Centuries of rotten carcasses piled beneath our feet, upon whose skulls we trample and whose broken ribs forever carry the brute weight of our desired rampage towards the sunset.

In the midst of our rivers and our sewers flow the blood of men, coursing through our quick-and-easy lives as the pulse beats in our chests and juggle in our jugulars, cut deeply into our shared destiny and yet snap-chatted into complete and utter oblivion.

The smell of sweat mingled with the smell of molten metal; volcanic eruptions of steel-farms-and-mills tingling the spine of our calculated wreckage of the scenery—apocalyptic graveyards grey and industrial in streets naked and unafraid, unashamed.

Rising like the heaving chest of an asthmatic; black oozing smoke from coal-fires or explosions in mines underneath the feet of our history analysed by puritans in wretched excess—now forgotten, now pushed away as damage done to nature more than men.

Or perplexingly perceived to be damage done by men upon the face of earth; scars cut into her beating heart by the uncaring hands and terrorist actions of men wielding knives sharpened to pick-axe-points to dominate and destroy, to exterminate and terminate.

Drawn as damage done by pure malice, by ideological disinterest in the ecosystem and its careful symbiosis with the floral fauns of ages past; prophetic visions not of mechanical necessity but of the three X’s – Explore, Expand, Exterminate, building not on hope but upon hate.

And all the corpses maligned and magnified that line our streets and pampered pockets died in vain and—in some strangers eye—a pragmatic parasite to be displayed as archaic tools of oppression for doing what they had to do, not what they wanted to do…

…and all the blood pumped to and fro our synthetic urban symbiosis, picturing the city as an organism, heart pounding, carrying vessels to and fro to do the work and duty that need be done; heroes hidden in the everyday soot and grime of displaced malcontent…

…and all the dead and all the dying whose hearts and souls were lost in permanent war, worn down and torn asunder by outside forces in chivalrous regalia marching to defend and to protect their very own ifs and buts and homes and hopes and dreams…

…all our eyes turned away from the crucified and martyred millions who died and are still dying for ideals and for ideas which they did not understand or maybe even share, but whose heartbeats beat for all and one all at once; who was called to sacrifice for some wicked strangers dream…

…all our eyes turned away from the loss of innocence and loss of life and glimmer in the eyes of those who fell in line and fell into entrapment permanent within the grey brick walls of soul-sucking industry for their lives and the lives of their family in near-yet-forgotten history…

…all our eyes turned away from soul-crushing sacrifice done by men whose wish and will were for others to be better off in the future than he; whose calloused hands and blackened lungs illuminated by the fires and spasms of industry paved the road upon which we walk carelessly…

…for all who fell into the flames of indentured servitude, who made their mark upon the world and who were forgotten and unsung – we turn our eyes away and shake our heads in dutiful neglect to forget and sing a different song to different tunes…

…for all whose arms and legs and backs were beat and broken in picket lines naught but a century ago, who cut the dried umbilical cord of industrial infancy to raise the standards indefinite are now cut and dried in the scorching sun of vain and vacuous whining…

…for all whose tedious toil in the grubby mud and soil whose song should be sung and celebrated are left to die in the annals of history as burdensome and oppressive tyrants; patriarchs of unchecked privilege existing at the cost of the suffering of others…

others whose toil and blood and meagre existence were hampered not by him but by the society in which they co-existed in dire circumstance and need, burnt by the scorching rain of dehumanized elitism in serfdom mimicked and mirrored in the days as the days were then…

…we sing of him and they and them as de facto Machiavellian tyrants, wielding uncensored power with machinelike efficiency, heaping scorn and ridicule upon the memory of past-time struggles where times were hard for all and one, not merely for her…

…we sing of him and they and them as all their struggles are all but forgotten in the moonlit glow of easy times birthed by his struggles and careless self-sacrifice done in the daring glow of the hope that is the new daze of new days dawning in the unforeseeable future…

…we sing of him and they and them as simplified black/white explorations of history viewed through binocular lenses cracked and covered in soot by a generation – give or take – of easy living relative to the past whose presence we have dutifully decided to forget and revise…

…we sing of him and they and them as were he and they and them enemies of the women and children for whom blood were spilt for the sake of them and of future generations; for whom backs were bent and bones were broken on the road to better living…

…we sing of him and they and them as if they matter none in the building of our easy day-daze societies, where we now find ourselves lost dancing in the silver light spat upon us by the moon under whose streaks of silver we have fallen into thankless, dubious, immediate lives…

…we sing of him and they and them as relics of some former era of male supremacy under whose boot and heels all who were not men were crushed and smothered into relentless compliance with his governing will and steel-tipped iron glove of rape…

…we sing of this and of that, remembering little and knowing even less, permanently googling the eye of the beholder as though the eye of the beholder matter more than the beholden who wore the rags of deep despair and desperate danger to save others at the cost of himself…

…we sing of this and mumble about that, understanding little, and caring even less, about the men upon whose shoulders we grandstand to amplify our virtue by caring about everyone but him and his life, his sacrifice and premature industrial accident or war-planned death…

…we sing of this and celebrate that and forget – in our relative ease of living, in our somewhat simple lives – the many centuries of dead and broken men below our feet where we walk with ease, carrying Instagram-models in our pockets and thinking no further than our memes…

…we celebrate this and sing of that, as all our shared struggles and all our historical nuance and difficulty and nuanced difficulty is flaccidly flashed into unblinking social-media existence dragging on into our self determined societal suicidal samba…

…we forget this, as we shame that which we should remember with reverence and respect; our water still poured from sinks by the blood of men, our pocket computers built upon the rotting corpse-hands of those men who died for our lives, whose lives and memories we now shame.

Beneath the streets of our civilization lie the burnt and mangled corpses of men. Centuries of rotten carcasses piled beneath our feet, upon whose skulls we trample and whose broken ribs forever carry the brute weight of our desired rampage towards the sunset.

 – Please like, share and subscribe.

 – Moiret Allegiere, 27.07.2019

_______________________________________________________________________________________

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/