«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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Stayed all Night

Once more into the frey A3 lowres

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

– Moiret Allegiere, 20.03.2019

_____________________________________________________________________________________

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Dread Mirror of Immediacy:

Enlightenment A3 Lowres

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

 

Unreasonable demands are sung by the choir offended. Thus the web is spun. Each strand of the web leading toward the centre, manipulated carelessly and needlessly by trophy-hunting participators carelessly and maniacally seeking exclusive inclusivity in the victim-cult by virtue of myriad victim-points gathered from simply being part of the choir, all trembling vibrato and blazing accusatory eyes and fingers lined with truth-defying morality. It don’t matter whether true or not, it matters whether moral or not. So sing the soloists of the choir offended. Whose and what morality should that then be, grand orchestrator of dubious virtue?

Madness infused in vivid cocktails are served brilliantly by bartenders seeking death, destruction and despair to gain bland and half-interested clicks by stressed-out social media-junkies poked and prodded into immediate infancy; opinions claiming to be news forced down the throats of a public personified by outrage extreme, quickly bringing the imminent rage to a boil.

Lo: the choir offended screech eternally in glorious visions of paradise purged of bigotry bastardized by sing-song leaders mirroring the immediacy and immaturity of their hangers-on and clingers-on. Outlined by shades of unseen cruelty and unsung myth; hatred so extreme and so all-encompassing that we need manufacture it in order to bring the stats up, oh boy, oh man, oh queen-bee mimicking truth and evacuating her bowels to sway public opinion this way or that! The dread, frosted mirror reflecting our morality show naught but a steaming pile of shit. Nevertheless, it persists. Nevertheless, the fables are served time and again immediately, never given consideration. Listen. Believe. Even when told obvious lies and shown clearly rigged reality. Even when doubtlessly manufactured. Listen. Believe. Do not question the song of the choir.

Built upon sand and upon raging roars of silence, and then drugged and dragged beneath the waves hidden from the searchlights and the spotlights and the death-squad-madness, truth is hidden from our eyes as all hide their immediate tweet and twatter when their so-called outrageous truths lose their masks and show their faces as definitive deceit.

Such virulent and viral hatred, vacuous and hollow, sucking the life from the hive-mind and escaping from the void where social media once shone its light and bared its fangs to manipulate and then create a mob of hatred and unreason so unjust as to assume to be just in a split-second of unthinking, unblinking, unseen sensations of rage. No poetic justice for the never-mind hive-mind. Merely denial of facts and hiding, hiding, always hiding – nah, I never said that. Sure enough and yes you did, you just deleted your tweet and denied and then reversed victim order in order to be viewed as the true victim of the madness which you inflicted upon the world with your virulent hatred pointed at the one and only group-identity now allowed socially to be hated and scorned and assaulted. Stating that all men should be killed or that all men are evil caused you backlash. Look at the hate and misogyny you received by wicked women-hating men, all for being an opinionated woman on the internet. Imagine that, foul fiend of sanity: wishing death upon someone for the circumstances of their birth bring mad and angry backlash your way. Imagine that: making yourself out to be the victim when showcasing severe bigotry and sexism and wishes for death and dismemberment upon someone for their gender. For some incredible reason, this is proof that men hate women. Not that women hate men. To say it in kindergarten-terms, since that is how this hive-mind communicate: You started it! Or, even more bluntly: You smell like poop!

Alas; the choir offended seek only to offend and claim offence where no offence is given. Alas; the choir offended seek only to justify their putrid and petulant existence by pointing towards morality exempt from values and exempt from reason; a wishy-washy sense of morality supreme as brittle as a slut walk G-string, ever-changing as the course of the mob flies hither and thither busy collecting pollen to add to the hoard of the hive, or busy catching flies to bring as an offering to the centre of the web where all virtue gather in heaps of insane sludgy waste, immediate and peculiar, a brand of justice so far removed from justice, so separated from reality, that it snaps, crackles and pops at the slightest tremble of the string or poke of the hive.

To justify the existence of the hive, the web, the imminent rage sprung forth, fingers point and throw shades of shame, shame, shame upon the so-called bigots in defiance of the gibbering mouth of madness drooling and dribbling on their shoes; their morality is far better than the truth. And so they shout and so they screech and so they scream and roar and rage and gouge out your eyes instead of responding or defending their position or explaining in clear and certain terms what this explosive rage is all about.

There’s roars all around and revolution in the air, some poor bastard is chewing his tongue out in the corner for defying the pack, force-fed mediocre daytime television talk-shows all his life and dropped straight into the middle of a god-damned reptile-zoo, and someone is giving booze to these god-damned creatures. There is no survival to be had in this pack of frenzied and bloodthirsty beasts, lest one submit. Submit or be crucified, submit, or be burnt alive to be cleansed of your sins! We need revolution, for fuck sake! And no fucks given that day; the revolution will not be televised. It will be tweeted. A revolution of immediacy, change and progress for the sake of immediacy, change and progress. That is progress perceived as progress by those who consider segregation to be a virtue; who consider superficial traits more important than personality and character. Change sought due to boredom and dull complacency.

Someone polluted our air with neurotoxins, greatly affecting our intelligence. Then they poured a honeyed poison in our ears to make us frightfully afraid of something-or-other, a mythical monster from the fabled days of yore. We have to be at constant war, we need our bogeyman of the day and of the night to fight, lest we relax and feel good about ourselves. War is peace.

Should we let our guards down for a second and start existing in the present moment such as it is, we lose. Or so it seems. Somehow, some way, we need to get our fix of anxiety for the day, we need to get our fix of constant validation for our moral courage and justify our bastardized simplistic view of the world: group A good, group B bad, group C protected from all, particularly from group B. Submit, or be called a bigot and a liar by the forces thriving on bigotry and lies.

 – Moiret Allegiere, 20.02.2019

_____________________________________________________________________________________________

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A Farewell to Charms

transcendence 3 lowres a3

Ill: «Transcendence #3», A3, 2019, Moiret Allegiere

 

The nightsky is ripped in half by a flash of lightning. The streets below are brightly lit for a split second as rain pours down in buckets. In this split second we see, marching through the streets uniformally, groups of men, grey of skin, wading in electrically charged rainwater reaching their knees.

A torrential downpour from moody skies, vivid vivisections portrayed on monumental televisionscreens anchored to cosmetically challenged greyscale buildings interspersed occasionally with the simple words «Obey!» and «Submit!».

The sidewalks and pavements are all cracked and broken, dilapitated from feet trudging along day after day, year after year, on the same path towards mindnumbing oblivion. The wear-and-tear of mind-and-soul-breaking monotonous routines. Left foot. Right foot. Onwards, ever onwards towards the same uninspired goal.

Whispers from loudspeakers anchored underneath the ground rise up, amplified through the water and through the bones and flesh of the men marching there, so as to emulate their own internal monologues in a bewitching sing-song voice of poisonous charm and thinly veiled contempt.

A constant stream of sentences, fragmented, disjointed, yet somehow maintaining an illusion of internal consistency as the core message remains the same, summed up in a coarse, hoarse, rude and rudimentary misconception of compassion: «Some of you are all well and good, but you could still do better.». Whispered in a seductive, alluring voice resonating through tides and times of evolutionary guidelines, being carried through the bloodstream of this marching group of men from their feet, through their balls and cocks, straight up into their brains, minds, souls. In brilliant unsung unison repeated by the grey marching masses: «We could still do better».

Swiftly now, swiftly, the water is rising, and as their arms move in splendid synchronicity with each other, we see the water evaporate from muscles and tendons rotting from external empathetic malnourishment as the arms rise from the water and plunge straight into the water again, repeating the process over and over. And sweat flows down their faces in the cold air; a sweat born from constant toil and stress, not from warmth nor from heat, internally or externally. A anxious cold sweat wiped away by the constant rain; emulating windshieldwipers moving to the rhythm of the unseen whips constantly caressing their backs, leaving red and inflamed lines resembling dried-up riverbeds. Wounds left to never heal, opened and reopened and then opened again.

Confined to small spaces in small hours of sleep granted graciously by the powers-that-be, nailed to restless sleep in beds lined with lead, the whispered voices remain in concrete-dreams and are absorbed by neurological impulses, ingrained falsehoods now internalized and taken as concrete truth: «You and only you can do better».

And then – what could be better? They could crawl through broken glass in broken streets lined with broken dreams and beat their own chests bloody with sharp rocks picked from the rabble of values and virtues they used to have, chanting as a liturgy that «We can still do better!», and they would still be told that – yes – you can still do better.

There is no sharp and brilliant end-goal in mind; merely a fleeting unending demand for change, to change this, change that, change everything and then change it back. There is no pleasing the demands, and apologies only makes it worse, wildeyed wonders staring out from underneath a jumbled, confused mess of wordsalads changing goalposts eternally and seeking ever new and ever fresh hunting grounds for conceived ills and faults and flaws in slick post-reason city streets and alleys.

In the gutters lie broken men, shattered, forgotten and left to die as the men marching on looks on or ignores, marching ever onwards to the beat of the drum fantastic, thinking that these dying men did not heed the call to change and so did not change and so got what they deserved. And the music and the sentiments rise up and engulf them in strategic strikes of pen and paper, torrents of abuse and buckets of piss to clean the wounds which, the claim is, the men brought on themselves by being men incapable of just and needed justly needed change.

A life in servitude and constant change, days of stress, devoid of stability and devoid of meaning and devoid of reason as heads nod, down, up, nodding, bopping, bobbing up and down as every demand is met to change and reinvent and do again that which was done yesterday to soothe the aging illness of the world inhabited by mad despair, wild desires and the wickedness of men.

The boots and bots go stomp and stomp and stomp. There is no rest to be had from the constant flow of self-contradictory and self-congratulatory information running wildly through the wild interconnectedness of our internal internets; everything is a issue that needs to be dealt with and everyone shall be damned sure to know this and to say this. And all demands shall be met and damn the demands that are already met as they are damned near never met anyways because, it is proven, it is never good enough. That demand belongs to yesterday. This demand belongs to today. In absolute contradiction to the demands of yesterday, but still containing the same definitive shame and sentiment yesterday as today.

So try and try again, and fail and fail again and be met again with the constant reminder of your moral inferiority and lack of compassion, of virtue and understanding, for refusing to change even as you do change and even as the sweat pouring down your face is replaced with blood from open gashes in your forehead created by a mind rupturing from the inside due to the stress in attempting to understand the what and how and when and where, subsequently failing to submit to the change needed to be a good man, a man worthy of love and fornication and subsequent procreation to drive the geneflow onwards and keep the bloody goddamned thing alive and going for a few centuries more.

And try and try again to not buckle under the constant misinformation and malignant assaults as you march in piss reaching up to your ears and trickling into your mind, wanting only to please but never succeeding in pleasing and never reaching destination unknown; a destination changing every day as new information is absorbed from the lightning cracking the sky manifested as birds chirping, tweeting, flapping their wings and viscious beaks. And then internalize the emotional violence from up high in the castles of unimagined horrors beset with jewels and encased in death and despair and destruction and wild-eyed confusion and a thirst for power so extreme that nothing penetrates the walls of the castle but that which is already considered good and pure and proper and true. And that which is already considered good and proper and true is the old calamity disguised as the new, and a paranoid kick in the womb sets the whole thing in motion to drive the stake into the hearts of men; intravenously injected neuroticism in women to make them blame men constantly and seek men constantly to provide for them and protect them from the constant evil force that is men who are, hopefully, not you.

And, as a bone thrown to the dogs, we are told the fable of the few good men so as to believe that we have something to strive towards; that we may maybe be viewed as one of these «good men», and that we are as such deserving of the good charms of a woman if only we could tow the party line and consider our very nature as toxic as we march through these streets doing what we do, ever trying to change in our attempt to please and to serve, no matter the pleasure sought, to be accepted and viewed in a way that is less hostile and less damaging to the inherent good and pure of womanhood.

Marching as we do, with our heads submerged in water, we have not yet realised that the beats of the drum which we march to in these grim nights and days are that of a slow and sombre funeral drum. And we have not yet realised that there is not a few good men scattered here and there, but a few bad men scattered here and there. And these bad men are stopped, and have been stopped for all time, by the everyday goodness, kindness and compassion of everyday man.

– Moiret Allegiere, 23.01.2019

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Eulogy for the lost boys

Eulogy for the lost boys Lowres A4

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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