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.

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

Lost at sea lowres A3

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

 

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

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

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

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

You may believe that they won`t.

But they will.

Come time, they will.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Transcendental Blues A4 lowres

Ill: Transcendental Blues, A4, 2018, Moiret Allegiere

 

 

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

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

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

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

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

A rant about violence.

schools lost A3 Lowres

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She still has a career.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shame on me otherwise.

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

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

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

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

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

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

_____________________________________________________________________________________________

Some Links which may be of interest:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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