Limited not to escape:

Lonely parkbench blues lowres

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You kerfluffled yet?

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

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 – Moiret Allegiere, 05.06.2019

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Fear and Loathing on the Educational trail:

snackbreak lowres

Illustration: «Snackbreak», A3, Moiret Allegiere, 2019

 

There is a certain level of dangerous absurdity, or absurd danger, in education. Considering the climate in places of education – be that education primary, secondary, or higher – where men are concerned, one would be hard-pressed not to understand why men are dropping out of higher education at alarming rates. When all one is faced with as a male student is hostility directed at ones gender, either covertly or overtly, the easiest path to tread is to burn out, drop out and fade away into obscurity, leaving what could possibly be ones own brilliance in a field to rot in a vacant lot in some hellish ghettoised suburbia.

Higher education was not something that appealed to me in any way, shape or form. Lectures and sitting still and not doing anything for hours on end but listen to some holier-than-thou authority drone on endlessly does not come easy to me. I am far too fidgety. I also happen to be one of those arseholes who believe in autodidacticism in no small way. Chalk that one up to a high level of distrust in authority on my part, I suppose. May be a flaw, may be a strength. It depends on the situation at hand.

Either way – flaw or strength – the path I wished to tread through life was very clear for me from an early age. That path would be the thorny, bushy, broken and difficult path of art. Despite my love of literature and my love of writing, I find visual art to be the most appealing to me, both aesthetically and practically. It gives my nimble fingers and fidgety nature something to do, and provides a fantastic outlet for whatever is going on in my ramshackle psyche at that moment in time.

I believed, with all my thorny-bushy pride and artistic integrity, that studying art would be suitable for my nature; all anti-authoritarian dreamery and eccentric shaman-shape. I honestly thought that this would be a haven for just such a repugnant freak as myself. Now; studying art in any academic sense was out of the question; dry lectures on dry art history in dry halls with dry professors and dry paintings with dry interpretations beneath dry roofs of dry academic arrogance and humourless wisdom accumulated from dry and dusty tomes of prior dry art history did not appeal to me in the slightest.

I wanted the practical approach to art – as I do in most things; a practical and efficient approach to life in general. This is not to say that there is no room for theory – of course there is. I would not be reading and writing as much as I do, if I did not place value on theory. It is, however, the practical approach that appeals the most to me. And a practical approach to art means that I get to create art, which is – excepting writing, bending over in anguished pain, and producing alcoholic beverages – the only thing I’m any good at in life.

And so I applied to, and got accepted into a liberal art school of no ill repute. Judging by the reviews and this schools eloquent and fanciful self-promotional material, it seemed to be a perfect place for me to enter and so expand my nerve-twitching approach to art. I wanted to learn how to create, and also to be free to create. Considering my highly introverted nature and severe social anxiety at the time, I thought this would be a great place where such things as forced socialization so common in education – at least where I’m from – would not be in bountiful supply. I just wanted to be left in relative solitude to tinker with my things and to let others tinker with their things.

This is not, of course, to say that I do not enjoy being social. It means that I enjoy my solitude and enjoy the company of a few like-minded friends. There should not be anything wrong with this. And boy, how wrong I was in thinking this.

Opening the doors into this school was a learning experience in no small way. I ascended the stairs and in so doing descended into hell. This was prior to my red-pilling. At this point in time, through years of – quite literally – indoctrination and brainwashing from prior incarcerations in schools, I was a feminist. Why wouldn’t I be, considering the hardships and horrors women had to face whilst men had it so easy through life that we literally had no issues, and if we had issues it was due to other men and due to being men ourselves, which could easily be remedied by not acting like a man all the time. No easy task, to be honest, when one is born a man.

Now, this self-defeating philosophy of feminism instilled into me a self-defeating self-loathing which I could not name at the time for the simple reason that I did not know it at the time. It is a weird thing to ponder, considering my current stance on the cosmic horror that is feminism. I was blinded by the light and so did not understand that the light was only put in place to mask the darkness behind, beneath and above, engulfing all of the light. It was presented in schools from teachers not the least bit ashamed nor afraid to present their own personal political beliefs as the grand truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help me Jezebel.

Feminism had been intravenously injected into our very young and eager minds as the only path to equality between the genders; a steady drip-drop of arsenic concealed behind blissful morphine telling us that women had all the issues, men had none of the issues and so boys must do all they can to make the lives of girls easier. There is no gendered discrimination in treating girls better on a systemic level, we were told for years uncounted. Because that is nothing but levelling the playing field, dont’cha know, and that is all there is to it.

I feel stupid, falling for it and being ensnared by it for so many years, despite the evidence to the contrary of the claims of feminism being so prominent, so obvious and so right-in-your-fucking-face as to be impossible to not see unless one chooses willingly not to see it. But that is the power of indoctrination, that is the power of allowing one ideology to become so powerful as to be virtually untouchable, that is the power of being able to hide the dark, evil, bloodstained beast behind the inscrutable saying; the holy no-true-scotsman-fallacy of “not real feminism”.

As we all should know by now, there is no real communism, and there is no real feminism. “But that’s not real communism.” “But that’s not real feminism”. Spouted as sucker-punch jargon all the while the world burns and people die and nothing is done about it due to ideologues being completely blinded by the light fantastic. It is a frantic wilful blindness to the vapid insanity of ideology slowly becoming dogmatic religion; cult-like in thinking and so infused with either-or pictograms that it crossed the bridge of fanaticism aeons ago.

In this school of art, I might as well have studied feminist dance therapy. I might as well have studied the eradication of masculinity. I might as well have studied shit under a microscope. Come to think of it; studying shit would have given me a far better understanding of art than my two years of art-school ever would or could. For one very simple reason: art was not the important topic in this school of art. Feminism, political correctness and what would later be dubbed social justice warriors were. The very simple pleasures of doing art took the back-seat as a sledgehammer approach to feminism took the front-seat, riding shotgun with all the radical feminist theory one could ever hope to have dripped in ones ears and forced down ones throat, or up any other orifice of ill repute.

Obvious disclaimer time; this is anecdotal. This is personal experience. I have no evidence to show for what I experienced but a re-telling of what I experienced. Looking to the stats, numbers and so-and-such in any area of education, excepting only a few, will prove without a shadow of a doubt that men are dropping out of education. Looking even further beyond the rainbow-coloured lenses of feminism and into the environment created on schools all across the western world by the forces of feminism, and one will quickly come to the realization that my personal experience is an experience shared by many a man bold enough as to believe that studying a field will mean that they get to study in that field, give or take some details.

Now, imagine if the world gave a damn about the experiences of men, be that one man as an individual or men as a whole. If that were the case, this blatant hatred of men would not be tolerated, would not be accepted and would not be celebrated. And yet it is, and the furious forces that be have the gall to claim, have the auspicious audacity to claim, that we live in a world where only the voices of men are heard, to the detriment of women!

What a wonderful, topsy-turvy, grand collapse of sanity one must celebrate and gather around to believe in this abhorrent nonsense when the evidence to the contrary is so obvious. That is what happens, I suppose, when one instils into impressionable young minds the damsel in distress trope and the chivalrous knight needed to save her.

…All the while complaining about the damsel in distress trope and the chivalrous knight needed to save her…

And then daring to brand this as something new, when it is nothing but the same-old-same-old expectations of gallant chivalry and male self-sacrifice we are so accustomed to seeing; demands placed on men to help women at the sacrifice of themselves. Demands placed on women to help themselves and other women at the expense and detriment and social de-valuing of men.

There is expected responsibilities for men to carry all the burdens of the world, and then some. There is expected freedom for women to place all the burdens of the world, and then some, on the tense and fractured shoulders of men.

Instead of responsibilities and liberties being shared.

All this granted by the holy goblin-ghost of feminism, whose stout and stalwart onwards march into the midst of our civilization have made them able to cease the means of production and create a global mythology that sees them – and only them – as the only force striving for equality, even when that equality means female supremacy; the hoisting up of one on the shoulders of the other. This trickling down into our schools and then into the minds of pupils and of students, is incredibly dangerous. It leaves no room for nuance, teaching only the absolutist thinking of feminism and portraying not only men, but masculinity as a whole, as the one destructive force in our world – the only negative and the core reason for all our woes and terrors. No Pandora’s box here; no multitude of reasons and complex complexities of humanity to contend with and to ponder and to consider. Nope. Only men as the problem. This it is, and nothing more.

But I digress.

The first six months or so in this school went fairly well. All fanciful introductions and clever displays of “look how free-form and free we are; how open-minded and so-and-such.” Of course, the feminist rage and hatred was very prominent, constantly boiling beneath the surface and the layer of scum, popping ever so often to the surface in swift and fell swoops designed to shame the men therein for being men, evidenced by needless meandering and monologues from the teachers – not labelled “teachers”, but “educators” for some reason – when they were to showcase their art, all ferocious feminist fancies and ill-conceived vapid silliness brought on by what I can only deem a wish and a longing to be oppressed and persecuted for their gender were they female, or a longing to prove themselves worthy men were they male.

After a while it became obvious that the progressive stack was in full fucking force within the walls and sheltered halls of this institution of indoctrination. Or, that is to say, it would have been had I the words to explain the situation and the madness at the time. I did not, and though it felt wrong at some visceral gut-level, I could do nothing but nod in dumb-struck agreement; to go with the flow of cerebral nothingness shown in so-called art and in so-called introductions to art where they – as feminist virtue-signallers are known to do – could not shut up about gender for more than three seconds at a time, using gender and political leanings as the basis for their judgement of art and not the work of art in and off itself.

I am doing my best not to reveal the identity of anyone. My gripe is with ideology and with bad ideas, not with individuals. As a general rule, I am not interested in going after individuals. I am interested in going after the ideas and the ideology, as that seems to me to be the best path to tread. Keeps me out of trouble, and keeps others out of trouble as well.

I find myself hard-pressed, however, in this instance. As revealing the position of certain teachers within this school might also reveal their identity. Thus, I stay away from revealing their positions as well. I think that is only fair.

Things turned on their head at around the six month mark, and the hostility towards men became more tangible, an electric buzz tasted at the tip of my tongue and in the back of my throat as the blood rose and the fever worsened. A madness seemed to descend upon the school; all gripped in the holier-than-thou attitude of being untouchable, and as such allowed to say and to spew whatever they wished, as long as it was said and spewed towards men, capitalism and some perceived beast of right-wing leanings.

I think one anecdote is good enough to paint a decent picture of the goings-on. My art tend to be fairly personal. This is usually done to battle personal demons. Of course, I do my best to make the art look beautiful and be relatable to those who view it as well. Beauty is of no importance when it comes to art – as we all know, who have seen modern art devolve into a piece of shit within a glass-container.

I had done some drawing or other of a personal nature, drawing on my experiences with severe insomnia, only to be met with the judgement from one of the teachers that it was so personal that she felt sick looking at it.

Now, criticism is criticism. I did not expect to study art and not meet negative criticism of my art. That would be absurd. And so I did not think about this too much, until the very same teacher praised to high heavens a piece of art done by a female student, just as personal as the art I had done – albeit coarser and more, I would say, in-your-face than mine. If memory serves, it was not a bad piece of art at all. But that is not the point. The point is that she was touted as being brave and strong and courageous for creating something this personal and sharing it like she did. So; my personal art made the teacher in question feel “sick”, as she put it. A female student’s personal art, however, was praiseworthy for her courage in doing exactly what I did to make this teacher sick through my art. You get my point.

Men, being severely privileged by nature, can not have any issues worth anything to the mind of a feminist, and so when men have personal issues, they would rather not know about it. All empathy, understanding and praise must go to the female students, as empathy, understanding and praise is a finite resource to the minds of people who view everything in terms of power-dynamics and not in terms of mutual respect and equal treatment. Balancing their imagined scales by giving praise in the direction of women and scorn in the direction of men.

At around the same time – at the six month mark – I met my future wife in this school; we were in the same class and hit it off almost instantly. Both of us being highly introverted probably contributed a lot to us hitting it off so good. And so we became a couple. This, it seems, is the greatest grievance ever and the worst trespass I could ever have done both to this school and to this poor unfortunate woman who had fallen into my cunningly laid trap and been swayed into my arms and eager mouth, waiting to devour and corrupt her.

The teachers at this haunted mansion, infused with the essence of the feminine divine and the feminist gospel, did all they could to keep us apart and break us up. I wish I were joking. But I am not. I wish I were making this up. But I am not.

Some of our fellow students partook in this as well, which I find to be fairly interesting. Now – to be fair, I do not have any evidence that this was fanned by the teachers, or if they just felt the general direction the winds were blowing and wished to gain favours with the teachers.

Teachers pets are not an uncommon thing, and doubly so, it seemed, at this shack of a school, all Gothic towers and underlying sense of doom rivalling a short story from Edgar Allan Poe.

When teachers go on friendly visits to their students in their past-time, some foul smell of favours and corruption and favourable corruption is not exactly without their merit.

And yet, and of course, it must be mentioned that us both being highly introverted also meant that we kept ourselves to ourselves mostly, and so did not take part in the grand collective too much. This, by default and by definition placed the role of “outsiders” upon us. Which is kinda funny considering the archetypal outsider-role of the artist generally speaking.

When once one is deemed an outsider, it is easy to also earn the wrath and the ire of most. Somewhere, somehow, upon someone, fault must be laid and blame must be placed. It seems very human, in all honesty. It is a tale as old as time. However; when teachers, who are supposed to treat all students equally, misuse their authority and take part in the caning and the shaming of the outsiders, something is lost and broken which should not be lost and broken. And I would dare make the claim that it is not the job of teachers to meddle in the personal life and affairs of students. In particular when those students are of age, and are mature, and so should be left alone to do with their lives as they wish to do with their lives and with their time of study as they wish to do with their time of study. As long as whatever is supposed to be done in study is done, that should be the extent of their meddling.

This was not the case. And the mutual introverted natures of my future wife and myself were enough for the teachers to pass judgement most foul upon me for being a man so horrid and so offensive as to dare be in a loving relationship with someone of the female persuasion.

As time moved on, the hostility became ever more apparent. And so did the attempts to keep my future wife and me apart.

I could go on and on about lectures, supposedly about art, bringing up feminism and male-female power-dynamics, and the horrors of masculinity ad infinitum. I could go on and on about the shaming of men so common now, and so common then. I could mention the feminist seminar which which was taking place, prominently advertised at our school, and the shaming of a male student who wished to attend this by a female teacher who made it very clear that she did not think he had any place there. I could mention the visiting artist supposed to have a presentation showcasing his artistic endeavours being browbeaten by a teacher in the audience for daring to state his support of the state of Israel, halting the entire presentation in order for this teacher to showcase his moral superiority and derailing the entire presentation into a mass-shaming of this poor artist who just wished to talk about his art.

The political correctness ran rampant, and I was stupid enough to take part in the political correctness. I was suckered into the follies of the PC-police, despite being assaulted by it at the same time. It is the powers of indoctrination, of brainwashing, showcasing itself yet again. The horrible, nagging feeling of this being wrong was overshadowed by the glorious sensation of being in the right, of doing something good and proper and true.

I am ashamed to admit it.

But that is the way it was.

Now, in my defence, I did not verbally assault anyone. Nor did I act like we now see the hive-mind social justice warriors do. I did not reach that point of insanity, not by a long stretch. But the foundations were there, laid down after years of schooling showing no nuance and teaching not a semblance of critical analysis of a situation. I had to learn that on myself.

Lucky break of random chance, then, that I am a strong believer in autodidacticism and so read ferociously and feverishly all manner of books and articles critical to the school of thought driven and promoted and – in many ways – owned by the feminist hive-mind.

Lucky break of random chance, then, that I should suffer this horrible treatment by feminism, insisting they work for equality but showing quite the contrary, and so making me doubt the very foundations of my education up to and including that point in time.

Lucky break of random chance, then, that the feminist hive-mind behave the way they do and in the manner they do, so as to make someone like myself who was so ensnared, so shackled and chained by the programming break free from the programming by witnessing them doing exactly the opposite of what they claim to do.

The roots of my eventual red-pilling draw their sustenance from my years studying feminist dance therapy. By which I of course mean art.

At the start of the second year, the teachers at this school quite simply refused to give me any feedback on my art. I received no guidance, no education, no feedback, no nothing. I was – it would seem – un-personed, a non-person, a non-existent nuisance, a blemish on the gigantic arsehole that was this school. My crime was being introverted and having a girlfriend who also happened to be introverted.

This was made very much evident at the six month mark of the second year at this school, in which each and every student were supposed to have the art they had produced during the previous six months evaluated by the masters of indoctrination and feministing. I produced a fairly decent amount of art – some good, some of it not exactly good – but quite a lot to be evaluated nonetheless. And so I brought bags upon bags of my art, as well as some short films I had made into the hall of judgement, prepared to be taken behind the shed and shot like some mongrel dog. What greeted me behind the doors of this elusive hall of judgement were two teachers who, quite obviously, had conspired together and laid plans for their strategic assault on me as a person, not my art, not my output, not my creativity, but me, myself and I.

What followed was a long lecture on how wicked I was in not being social enough, and in not being social enough also forcing my girlfriend to isolate herself from the rest of the school. For sixty minutes, give or take.

It was a completely pre-planned fervent assault on my horrid character: the patriarchal oppressor doing all in my power to oppress my would-be-wife in the most horrible way possible. That is: by refusing her to mingle and be social with the rest of the over-social mad and positively over-acted gleeful scoundrels at this school.

It became obvious after five minutes that they were not in the least bit interested in viewing my art. Not at all. They were there to judge my character. A deeply disturbing act, to be perfectly honest, as I could not for the life of me comprehend where this vacuous hostility, these illogical assumptions, these nonsensical sentiments stemmed from.

In hindsight, I know precisely where they stemmed from, of course: it was the feminist ideology at full force, wherein my would-be wife was viewed as a weak and useless victim of my absolutely fantastic authority – in their fractured hallucinatory fantasy, my would-be wife, by virtue of being a woman, had no agency of her own and so could only do what I commanded her to do. Which is very peculiar, obviously, considering feminism proclaiming to work for the right of women to do what they wish with their lives. This, of course, only ever extend to women doing precisely what feminism wants them to do with their lives. Obviously, my would-be wife did not do what the frantic forces of feminism would have her do; she did not act as they expected a strong, powerful and independent woman to do and so the fault must of course lie with some man or other. This is clear, as feminism perceives women to have no agency of their own; being crushed beneath the weight of the thumb, cock or balls of whichever man they were unlucky enough to have in their lives.

They had not spoken with my would-be wife on this matter. They had just assumed that her lack of social participation was due to me and my introverted nature coupled, of course, with my severe social anxiety at that point in time. A social anxiety, I must add, which I thought would be remedied by forcing myself through studying in some place I believed would be good for my mental health. Obviously, it was not. It made it far worse. At the very least, it laid bare the view feminism hold of both men and women.

As the highly moralistic assault on my very character continued, all I could do was stand there in jaw-dropped silence as these two pre-programmed androids kept lambasting me with this and with that, having no mind or no concern for what they were actually supposed to do. It was clearly pre-planned, wolves circling their prey and slowly, slowly, ever so slowly, closing in for the kill. As the assault neared its end, they suddenly remembered what they were there to do – that is to say – what they were actually receiving fucking pay-checks to do.

With one swift swing of the sword, with a baring of the teeth, one of the synthetic wolves snarled that I should show some of my art. I showed one piece, which was – with no exaggeration – laughed at. Loudly. Mockingly. Childishly. That is one piece out of probably fifty or so which I had brought with me, expecting to have reviewed and judged on their merit. Now, obviously, this mocking laughter combined with the scorn and the shaming I went through in this hall of judgement, did not exactly fill me with high spirits and some hope for what the morrow would bring.

Quite the contrary.

I do not think it unfair to assume that in a review of ones art, one would expect to have ones art reviewed. I do not think it unfair to expect a level of professionalism from supposed artists posing as supposed teachers at a supposed good school for studying art. I do not think it unfair to assume that the personal and/or romantic life of students should not be scrutinized by moral busybodies with no grasp on reality and no understanding of anything but their own preconceived notions, their own pre-programmed ideological definition of male-female power-dynamics. I do not think it unfair to expect to not meet this level of hostility, to not be met with baseless assumptions in regards to my own romantic relationship, painting me as some horrible oppressor and my would-be wife as some horribly oppressed poor damsel in distress needing the teachers to save her from me and my forcing her not to be social. Especially not when the only thing that was supposed to be reviewed were my art, my work and the sole fucking god-damned reason I was in this hell-hole to begin with.

As this was completely unexpected, I could do nothing but stand there and feel that old sense of dread; that anxiety welling up and coursing through my body and my mind as blasts of misplaced adrenaline ran through my body, numbing my skin and my mind and my senses and clouding my comprehension of the situation at hand. Were I not as anxious as I was back in those days, I would have done something or said something or complained or, well, whatever. As it were, the real nature of this encounter did not sink in until it was too late to do anything about it.

Anxiety is such a weird thing to suffer from, and to explain it is impossible, I think, to anyone who has not experienced it first-hand.

Then, push came to shove. My feeble psyche had withstood all that it could endure during that year and a half within this glorified gulag, this re-education camp for horrid male oppressors and their flaccid and weak-willed victims. I suffered a full and complete nervous breakdown.

Keep in mind that there were several individual instances of similar nonsense which I have not mentioned for the simple reason that this would be a never-ending ramble were I to do that.

Keep also in mind that I had struggled for years at this point with mental health issues of no small impact. This nervous breakdown came complete with dissociation, with a worsening of my insomnia, never-ending nightmares, panic-attacks and wild and vicious exhaustion and fatigue. For which I was given, until the line at the psychiatrist opened so that I could receive mental health “treatment”, as many bottles of Valium as I wanted with the instruction to take up to five pills a day.

Yeah.

That was the level I was at, and the state of the treatment I received prior to the waiting-in-line was done. A full four weeks of medically granted sick-leave was also given me, which was not enough. Of course, I should have quit that god-forsaken place instead of letting it drive me insane. Quitting was not an option, however, as I had dropped out of education previously. For much the same reasons, in fact – not personal attacks on me, as was the case in this school, but the over-reaching feminist indoctrination and control of these schools which constantly vilified men, making it a fucking chore to study when, just around the corner, some cleverly veiled assault on masculinity was waiting and ready to pounce.

I can not, for the life of me, fathom how the ideology of feminism is viewed as such a grandiose and beautiful thing. Its most ardent followers are quite clearly living within a world of their own delusional design, wherein all choices a woman makes, if not done in a manner accepted by feminism, must mean that the woman is oppressed and unaware of it herself, being too weak and too frail and too stupid to be aware of it.

Feminism, it seems, does not exactly have a high opinion of women.

At the same time, I can not fathom the depths of unthinking assumptions being made by feminism wherever men are concerned, painting men as all-powerful and, in being all-powerful, corrupted by their own power to such an extent that they do not see their power for their, well, power. Which, clearly, causes all men everywhere to oppress women, even if they don’t mean to do it. This just lies in the nature of men, according to feminism, and so we must be taught not to act like this just as women must be taught not to act like that.

Feminism, it seems, does not exactly have a high opinion of men.

Feminism does not like anyone or anything, except feminism. And those who do not align with their rigid guidelines are either forced to the fringes of society, metaphorically killed or whipped until they submit to their world-view, their dogma and their ideological and narcissistic drivel. You are either with feminism, or you are free game. Conform, or be killed. To quite the Borg: “Assimilate!”

And it is so odd and it is so strange that, for all their gooble-de-gook about female empowerment, they are completely unable to accept a woman behaving in a manner they do not consider proper. A woman not behaving as feminism would like a woman to behave is oppressed, even if she does what she wants to do. She just does not know it – as stated before.

The only possible explanation that a woman does not behave like feminism would have her do, is one man as an individual or all men as a collective keeping her from doing what she wants to do – that is, what feminism wants her to do. There can be no other reason, and if she does not see this for herself, it is up to the good forces of feminism to do the work for her, to emancipate her from the horrors of a loving would-be husband who is just as introverted as herself.

You see, there were parties at this school which my would-be wife and myself did not attend for wanting to stay at home instead. In a normal world, this would be accepted. This, however, was not a normal world. This was the world according to the gospel of feminism. And so not going to these parties were brought up in my time of judgement as evidence of me keeping her from being social. Which, of course, was an absolutely absurd statement, considering it was my would-be wife who most of the time expressed interest in staying home instead of attending the parties.

Odd, that the assumption was that it was my fault – this lack of gleeful socialization. I wonder if they would have considered it her forcing me not to be social, were they to have been informed of this?

Of course not.

They would probably not have believed it, for the simple reason that their view of the world does not allow for such a thing to occur. Or they would have, by some magical mental gymnastics or other, found a way around it.

Now, to make myself perfectly clear – my would-be wife did not force me to not attend any parties either. It was very much a mutual decision, and it should be respected as a personal choice. To a feminist, however, personal decisions does not seem to matter too much. The personal has to be political. Even when the people involved don’t want I to. It especially does not matter when some victim and victimizer power-play can be manufactured to their hearts content, power-fetishists as they seemingly are. It seems the only thing that brings any form of meaning to their dishevelled lives.

Now, of course, that is just me being mean.

I am sure they find lots of joy in other things. Like for instance filming three women standing on a bridge pissing, forcing us to watch it, and calling it art.

Luckily, my time at this school came to an end and I attended the graduation-ceremony, such as it were, stoned to the max on Valium and being almost unable to complete structured thoughts due to long periods of sleep deprivation and the wonders of Valium turning me into some weird and pervertedly enlightened Benzo-Buddha.

Believe it or not, this usage of Valium was not even me intending to get stoned on them. I just did what the doctors said that I should do. Which, I later learned from another doctor, was highly irresponsible from the other doctor.

The scars ran, and still do run, deep. This school opened the doors for me to venture even further into the whimsical world of mal-practiced psychiatry. A world which I had, prior to attending this school, all but quit for feeling better, getting better and wanting to cope with life without the aid of mental speech-bubbles labelled therapeutic help.

It is the sole reason I was put on so many psycho-pharmaceutical drugs that I can not even remember the names of half of them. Shortly after this school ended, I completely lost faith in art. Not only art, but in my own ability to create art. By extension, I also lost complete faith in myself. This, in turn, caused more need – or perceived need – for psychiatric help, which fanned the flames of the feral drug-industry of the mental health services, prompting ever more drugs to be thrown in my general direction. These drugs were thrown my way along with diagnosis of various and sundry, each more dangerous, clinical and serious than the rest, prompting more drugs, and so forth and so on. That is, of course, another story waiting to be told. And I am writing a book – believe it or not – on this particular branch of madness, this weird halting of my life for six years, abruptly ending by an abrupt ending of the drugs. Well, the book is more focused on the quitting of the drugs than what led up to it.

It was very clear through the madness of psychiatry that the core reason for my eventual breakdown, the root cause of it all, was of no interest. Any mention of the negatives of feminism was shooed away, and it was clear that this was not a topic to be discussed. At the very least not in any depth or detail. Just throw drugs at the problem, and it will all go away.

And I find myself thinking, all these years later, after clawing my way through hell from medications and from quitting medications, through piss-poor treatment at school and from teachers supposedly there for my benefit, being there solely for their benefit and the benefit of feminism and the perceived benefit of my poor and oppressed wife-to-be…

I find myself thinking that there really is no wonder why men are dropping out of education, failing to launch and failing to live.

There is no wonder in this at all, as the places of higher indoctrination do all they can to make sure that no man shall feel safe or feel fulfilled or feel anything but a deep-seated sense of shame, regret and remorse for being born male.

Feminism has dug its claws so deep into the skin and neural interface of education that they can not be removed without tearing the skin, ripping the flesh and damaging the nerves.

Without tearing it all down and rebuilding it without the political indoctrination, the call for ideological purity, the unopposed forces of feminism so prevalent in any-and-all corner of this throat-tearing silliness called education, it can not be saved. At the moment, it is only men paying the price. In just a few years, however, it will be all of society paying the price.

I paid a not insignificant amount of money to attend this school. This, I think, is akin to having to pay for the rope to be used when one is sentenced to death by hanging. It is having to pay for the toxins in ones lethal injection. This school did, directly and indirectly, mess up the trajectory of my life in no small way. It brought me six years of complete and utter drugged-out apathy. Why should any man wish to do this? Why should any man be forced to do this; to pay in order to be told that they are evil incarnate, that they are doing nothing but causing distress to all the women around them? Why should any man pay to go to a place of learning dominated by women to be told that more must be done to get women into higher education, despite women making up a severe majority of students in higher education?

Why should any man pay to be – in short and in essence – discriminated against for their gender?

It does not make any sense.

And the senseless, heedless, needless downplaying of the needs of men is only surpassed by the severe display of lack of compassion and lack of empathy; the clear and blatant hatred and shaming of all things masculine, of all men in all areas of education. And this is labelled as a quest for equality! It makes me sick to my twisted stomach and trembling oesophagus.

It makes for a better grasp of oneself and ones sanity, such as it is, to not partake. It is a survival tactic, this, to not study, to not attend higher education, to not attend education at all, but to fade away and burn out – a flame being snuffed before it managed to burn.

A candle that burns twice as bright may very well only burn half as long. A candle that is snuffed before it is allowed to burn does, at the very least, not stain the carpet with melted wax.

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 – Moiret Allegiere, 11.05.2019

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(Filler-poetry) Micro-Dystopian Junk:

Blame it on rembrandt A3 lowres

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What ya saying, humdinger?

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

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

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

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

We die, laughing maniacally.

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

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

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

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

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

We are going back.
Backwards in time.

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

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

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

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– Moiret Allegiere, 08.05.2019

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We Swim in Silence:

Meditating cynic 2 A3 lowres

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

 

We swim in silence;

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

We swim in overwhelming silence;

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

We swim in exhausting silence;

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

We swim in radiant silence;

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

We swim in washed-out silence;

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

We swim in deafening silence;

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

We swim in dilapidated silence;

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

We swim in absurdist silence;

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

We swim in pregnant silence,

In decadent decay,

in obscure relativity,

in relative obscurity,

we swim in nonsense, reaching only death.

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 – Moiret Allegiere, 04.05.2019

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«Filler Poetry»: Monsoons

Easter Sunday 2019, A4 lowres

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

 
I dreamt monsoons as a kid

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

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

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

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

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

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

with

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

drip

drop

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

Repeating repetition
repetitiously

same as before
as a kid.

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

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

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

as a kid.

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

 

– Moiret Allegiere, 24.04.2019

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Poetry: In Vacuum

Dualism paradise reclaimed lowres

Illustration: «Duality/Paradise Reclaimed», A4, 2019, Moiret Allegiere

 
Vacuum in
vacuum spreads

together and
separate, vacuum
spreads in
vacuum
sealed and insulated,
indoctrinated and
in throves

spread in vacuum
vacuum values
virtual supremacism
in hindsight:
blind immaculate misconception
misconstruing niceties
hidden in
folds of valium-vacuum
as Benzo-Buddha arises
in hazed mind,
hosed and enlightened

peculiar deeds and
misdeeds
seen as such in
vacuum-values
valued vigorously
with no minds
and little matter

as long as
noone says anything
in vacuum
folds of
folky vacuum
we grab coronations
or disparaties of
coronations
to construct
social equality
vacuum-wise

in vacuum everyone
is equally
miserable and in
vacuum and under
the same sun:
vacuous and vague
exposing
nonbinary reality
misconstrued as
factual evidence
oh, do behave.

  • Moiret Allegiere, 03.04.1029

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We still remember laughter

A rose by any other name A4 lowres

Illustration: «A rose by any other name would still give you a hangover», A4, 2019, Moiret Allegiere

 
We still remember laughter, we, who once felt alive beneath the blue and slightly shimmering skies of never-ending summer vacations, we who spent our teenaged years poking fun at the absurdities and oddities of it all, we who were alive in this fantastic past; in the summers that seemed to stretch into infinity and then beyond infinity, transcending invisible barriers seen and felt by none and all.

We still remember laughter, we who used to hang upside down by our legs from the street-lamps, bottle in hand, roaring with laughter as midnight came crawling in. We still remember laughter.
We who came to grips with reality through the very simple understanding that we should not, would not, could not take this weird and wacky ride of life too seriously, lest we lose our minds and marbles in the abyss right below our feet.

We still remember fundamental humour – the fantastic sensation of being able to detach from and, through heartfelt and bellowing laughter, transcend, comprehend and come to terms with the grimmer aspects of life – to get to grips with the shadow side of humanity through humour blacker and gloomier than the goth-infused melodramatic doom metal of our formative years.

We still remember being able to laugh at ourselves, to have that shining spark of self-awareness, of self-reflection, of self-irony that made it possible to simplify the process of bettering the aspects of our selves worth bettering through self-deprecating humour; all in jest, and yet serious behind the mask and glowing veils of laughter hitting us all in the chest and mouth and face and ears with joy exuberant and bountiful, telling us in sensual whispers that the most important aspect of humanity is to laugh at oneself first and foremost; that laughter is the one unifying force of the universe.

We, who processed death and suffering just as much as we processed life and pleasure through the same fantastic metaphysical optics of laughter and humour as rejuvenating as the fountain of youth – we still remember laughter.
We, who accepted and came to terms with the grim and horrid spectacle of death, of depravity, of despair, of torture, of tragedy and of terror through laughter and morbid, grim humour, bringing tears to our eyes both serious and simple, making us able to find pleasure and solace in one simple fact of this absurdist theatre that is life: life makes fools of us all, and laughter separates the enlightened fools from the fools living in perpetual denial.

We still remember laughter.

We, whose sense of fun and of humour and of laughter even in the face of personal tragedy were enough to get us labelled as strict nihilists, even in our teenaged years, as depraved, jaded cynics, as unfeeling, uncaring sociopaths with no empathy for, nor understanding of, the plight and pain of others – even when the opposite is, was and always will be the truth.

We still remember laughter.

We who knew, without even having to think about it, that humour and laughter is, was and always will be the greatest weapon humanity has ever had – the greatest tool in existence to tear down the walls between us and the vast empty void of existence – to separate us from the empty black pit of despair that lies lurking just behind us in times of trials and of tribulations. We still remember laughter.

Oh yes: we still remember laughter, we who dwell in the realms of unsolicited giggles, sniggers, snorts and various ululations of merriment and joy.
We who still remember giggling in principals offices when, having been caught in some trespass of authority or other, the hammer of judgement was coming down and we cleared our nervous system of nervous trepidations through barely contained humour, perceived, perhaps, as lack of respect, but being quite clearly a mechanism to detach and deal and cope.
Oh, yes: we still remember laughing at the absurdity of it all, at the great abyss that awaits us all at the end of our life. How should one – no – how could one come to grips with the finality of death without being able to laugh at it? How does one keep the joy of life alive when faced with the absolute inevitability of death?

Remember laughter.

We still remember humour.
We still remember laughter.

And we still remember the hushed voices, the looks of discontent, of disbelief, of quit-it-you-punks from those who did not see, nor care to understand, the amount of elation and salvation lying hidden in the simple act of laughing and seeing the light shining through the darkness which seemed to be coming down in full fucking force – to laugh, to laugh, to laugh and as such to understand, comprehend, process and become whole once again after tragedy struck and then be prepared for when tragedy will strike again. A coping mechanism for the enlightened individual, who has realised how laughter is used and at what – or at whom – it is aimed, when and where and how it actually works, a fantastic ability to find something to laugh at, even in the grimmer moments of life, even when the entire world crumbles and falls to the ground around oneself – this one core strength of humanity stands unbeaten still, in the era of censorship and hurt fee-fees.

Still we will remember laughter.

We remember still, in nightmares fuelled by grim spectres floating by and atop and underneath us all, the voices telling us to not laugh, to not crack jokes, to not bring our sense of despair to a fantastic boil-and-let-the-steam-go through bursts of unhinged, unbridled, unstopped emotions, bellowing at the top of our lungs, roaring with magnificent laughter, grim as grim may be maybe, but turning the grim realities of whichever topic was at hand on its head and making us understand and come to terms with it. And the cultural fever-dream we inhabit dare make the claim that men do not deal with their emotions properly! Maybe it is them who do not deal, but choose to hide neuroticism and inabilities to cope with difficulties behind a mask of severe offence; telling others to not cope as they see fit because they themselves are unable to deal with their emotions in a functional and healthy manner; making others submit to their will and whims and flights of fancy instead of learning how to deal with things themselves.

We still remember laughter – Even when displeased looks from teachers or from parents or from passers-by made it clear that this was not suitable, this was not the proper way of dealing with things – that it was, in fact, better to keep the mask of silent subjugation in place and not to laugh, never laugh, never crack jokes darker than the dried up chambers of a politicians heart to lighten the mood and turn it upside-down and inside-out for our benefit and for the great and grand and glorious lightening of the mood.
There are plenty out there who do not deal with life, who take life far too seriously and as such are unable to comprehend the extreme pleasure, the fantastic catch-and-release of emotion that laughter, humour, merriment and dark, morbid grim and final jokes make possible.
Those who cling to suffering like the last few drops of wine cling to the side of the bottle, refusing to come out and play.
Those who are scared, who are trapped within a prison of their own design, who will not, can not, dare not transcend difficulties through laughter and as such refuse others the joy of transcending, understanding and coping through laughter.
Those who wish to subjugate others to their will instead of appreciating the perspectives and coping-mechanisms of others, those who impose their will and lack of humour and understanding and remembrance of laughter upon others because they deem themselves to be above those who transcend the realms of suffering for subconsciously wanting to stay trapped within suffering.

Those who do not gaze into the darkness will never see the light shining within. Those who are unable to laugh or to let others laugh for lack of understanding and of comprehension of the very human urge to transcend tragedies, travesties, torture and terror will never understand and will never fully see the full release of terror from themselves, because they refuse to see themselves fully and wholly; they refuse to understand that laughing at suffering is not a mockery of those who suffer, but a mockery of those who make others suffer. That laughing at those who make others suffer turns a tyrant into nothing but a fleeting joke, an effigy that burns just as easily as any other effigy, that laughing at evil acts and deeds is not a laughter aimed at those who are made to suffer from said evil acts and deeds, but a disarming of the evil in and off itself; a way to make the darkness less dark, a fleeting candle in the dark which will light the way and make the darkness easier to get through.
Comprehension of the dark through the shining beacon of laughter is a very real thing, and something that should never be made to disappear.
Why do you think that tyrants always crack down on jokes made at their expense? Why do you think that humour is the first to go in the great purge, and yet the first – maybe even the only – thing that survives and raises its head once again from the remaining ashes of the purge; blowing, as only it can, on the embers of hope?

Oh yes; we still remember laughter, we who were told that our jokes and our humour was unsuitable, we whose jokes and whose laughter was suppressed by miniature tyrants who themselves were unable to crack a joke or smile a smile at the expense of themselves first and foremost, whose neuroticism enabled them not to have a crack and a go at themselves, but enabled them to crack down on the coping mechanisms of others because the mechanisms of others did not align with the un-lubed mechanism of their selves, all fragility and hopelessness and despair when faced with others who made coping with the dark and the shadow and the abyss a simple matter of catch, release, let go through laughter.

We still remember laughter, even beneath these oppressive skies of do-not-laugh, do-only-weep and do-not-be-humanity.
We still remember laughter, even in the face of those who wish to make fully automated machines of us all, who wish to dictate what is and what is not funny.

We still remember laughter.

And we still remember the class-room saints who proclaimed loudly for one and all that they were offended – highly offended – by our fits of laughter when watching videos or hearing tales read from ancient dusty tomes of wisdom of some tragedy or other, be that tragedy personal or societal, from something that happened and which we, through our laughter and through our cracking of jokes made easily digestible and as such something possible to understand, something whose claws would not dig deep into our shoulders and make a burden of itself and thusly a burden of our life.

We still remember jokes and humour and laughter and – most of all – being happy to be just where we were.

We still remember laughter.

Even in the here-and-now, where it is nigh impossible to laugh and nigh impossible to smile lest the full frenzied fury of the mob comes cracking down.

We still remember laughter.

Even in the here-and-now where the politically correct madness is rampaging through our very humanity, being arrogant enough as to proclaim that our way of coping with difficulties is inappropriate, even when the justice legionaries takes a sledgehammer to our teeth and vibrating diaphragm.

We still remember laughter – even when facing down totalitarianism reaching into the core of our being, cracking down on jokes said to be offensive as if those who are able to laugh in the face of tragedy are the ones at fault, not the ones who are unable to do anything but sneer and frown and grimace with self-aggrandizing dissatisfaction.

We still remember laughter, those of us who were able to, and are able to, come to terms with the very simple fact that we are all going to die, and as such, it is best to enjoy oneself and deal with the suffering and pleasure of life simultaneously, drawing strength from the one fantastic force that we all have in common, the force that ought to unify us and make us see both each other and our selves mirrored in a shining smile, overcoming any-and-all through laughing at the absurdity that is life.

We still remember laughter.

 

  • Moiret Allegiere, 27.03.2019

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