Pictures of female victimhood sells books and magazines:

In memory of a whiskey hangover A3 lowres

Illustration: «In Memory of a Whisky-Hangover», A3, 2019, Moiret Allegiere


If you close your eyes and listen intently, you can hear a soft murmur on the wind, a rustling in the leaves and in the bushes.

It is a superb monosyllabic drool and dribble, so softly whispered that you can not be entirely sure you heard it. Yet, it is there, on the wind and the breeze and the affluent autumn leaves as they make ready to fuck off and leave.

Somewhere in time, sometime in space, a sheltered and shameless feminist flapped her bingo-wings, and the resulting push of air from the flapping created vast ripples in time and in space, reaching you now hundreds of years later. The bingo-wings flapped. Now, here come the storm, here come the chaos, unfiltered and unhampered by such things as reason and thorough thought.

It is a perplexing hallucination sent our way, carried on a storm of immense magnitude, and yet, subdued, as if designed and manufactured in such a way that no-one shall be able to see it for what it is. Intelligent design, fantastic world-and-mythology building so complex as to be completely and complexly stupid. Unchallenged, it rises, caught in the headlights of immediate gratification, in the deification and monetization of victimhood, in the current currency of our psychotic state of being.

Her voice, whispered on the wind, on the quiet storm, electrifying the air with spunk and splendour, tells us quietly, in trembling vibrato, that women are oppressed, that women are treated as cattle.

It tells us that women are led to the slaughter, silent and subdued. And, of course, that their voices are never heard above the constant chattering, the drone and background hum, of the voices of men.

Men, she claims, are herding the herd, leading the cattle to their imminent destruction through no ill will of their own, but yet through ill will of grand patriarchs of forgotten times, their viscousness and evil imprinted in their chromosomes and wicked testicles. Mad cowboys let loose to roam the ranch.

Men suffer from an inherited wickedness says she, so inherent and hard-coded, in fact, that men do not see it and women do not see it. Unless, that is, the wickedness is brought to light through the wonderful saints and prophets of the holy church of feminism, whose unbalanced mad cow musings have awakened and enlightened these saints and prophets.

Through their awakening the world shall be woke through the word of their holy spectrometer phantasm fantastic.

Slow and steady come the storm, then settles, then – it never leaves. The whispered voice, the beckoning call to save her and all other women like her from the conspiracy of gender which would see women sold in slave-auctions to the highest bidder were it not for her courage and bravery through victimhood fostered and from the mud of slavery grown.

Such nightmarish visions, such horrible and absolute displays of slave-race tendencies and slave-master dichotomy which all but the awakened martyred victims fail to see.

Soft and tortured voices, hardly more than whispers, rise in fantasies and lies grander than impermanence, weaker than their frail philosophical underpinnings; no longer herded, but heard, a whisper becoming a roar, the silent storm raging now, yet claiming submission, suppression, oppression, severe gendered suffering.

Oh, the heart weeps at how horribly oppressed they are. Oppressed despite the roaring of this so-called herd of cattle heard around the world; the shrill banshee shriek and woollen cry which all and one are forced to hear even through the veil of silence laid across the mouths and noses of these manic, desperate slaves.

How strange it is that this oppressed group is heard so loud and celebrated so openly, so obviously, so blatantly across the world…

How strange it is to hear the murmur, roars and rages of these oppressed slaves and herded cattle; to see it trample underfoot all opposition through tactical bullying, ballistic assault shaming and unbelievable blame-games based on nothing but a concept of original sin rivalling even the wildest and most self-flagellating fantasies of the tiniest Christian sects.

How strange it is to see the tantrums of the supposed slaves be taken seriously, despite the childishness, the lack of verbal communication skills, the lack of adult constraints which one would assume should be present in adulthood. Poor children, let us protect you from the realities of the world.

Far be it from me to mansplain the atrocities of this horrid patriarchy, but one should think that any group so oppressed as to be virtually slaves and literally cattle, should not be heard, would not and could not be heard through being subdued and whipped into silence by their grand patriarchal overlords.

Far be it from me to manterrupt their tantric tantrum tendencies, but it seems to me that their horrid oppressors would do all they could to suppress their voices and push them back into their pens and prisons; back into the nights Plutonian shore, as it were. Take thy beak from out my heart!

Far be it from me to manslam their docile rampant rage to bring a noble truth or two from the eightfold path of universal harmony to the subconscious dissolution of their collectivized egos, but one should believe that, were this group so oppressed, all would be done that could be done to herd them back to the ranch, to bull-whip them into blind and unthinking submission instead of letting their frenzied banshee screams be heard so loud and clear by all and one.

One should think that feminism, were their garbled conspiracy-theory whiplash assault on truth and reason in fact true and built on reason, would not have this stranglehold on everything, would not hold the monopoly on all things gender, would not be defended constantly from every side of everything when facing any kind of opposition and objection to their nonsense and vampiric behaviour. In fact: one should think that feminism would be forced underground, that it would be naught but a silent and silenced underground-movement, were their assertions and stupidity and assertive stupidity true.

One should think that they would not, under any circumstances, be given all this might, money, power, influence and unthinking support. Were feminism founded on facts, we would not hear the banshee scream as loudly as we do. They would not shriek and shiver and roar and rage and be so bold and arrogant as they are. Were women as oppressed as feminism claims, each and every feminist alive would be in jail. Instead, feminist fury forces shutdowns, shut-ups and severe social – and legal – punishment on those who disagree with feminism.

I think they’ve got the skinwalker-blues; they sound human, they look human, but underneath their skin and frazzled hair, the sounds from their mouth-holes manifest gut-wrenching horrors, their shapeless forms hide terrors from folk-lore and legends, old warnings, old truths, old manifestations of the evil that lurks beneath the skin of all and one.

It is the weirdest oppression I think I have ever seen. The weirdest and strangest slavery there ever was, where the voices of the slaves hold more sway than that of their supposed masters, wicked and cruel as they are. It has to be the dumbest fucking slave-owners in the history of slavery – which, by the way, is not limited to Africa and the wicked Europeans you nincompoops – who have forgotten how to master properly, who have forgotten the core tenets of slave-ownership – to put the slaves in their rightful place. That is: to not allow their slaves to write bestselling books about their oppression, elevating them from the depths of slave-poverty to the ranks of the rich and the famous. To not let their slaves create and control a vast global industry, where their chattering voices are heard constantly, albeit somewhat muted by the clinking clank of them counting money! And, of course: to not grant their slaves the power to change the letter of the law to their god-damned, seat-splitting, fat-assed benefit and theirs and their fat-shamed voluptuous shapes only.

Gentlemen, we are doing a terrible job at this patriarchy-business. I move that we discuss this, and possible solutions to this, at our next bi-weekly meeting of the patriarchy. I would also like to inform you – on a personal note – that I have yet to receive my certificate of membership in the patriarchy. I would very much like to see this remedied, as I can not participate in the furthering of the patriarchy without being a card-carrying member of said patriarchy. Thank you in advance. We sure have a lot of cleaning up to do. We’ll have to take it up with Dave from accounting.

The beast of feminism spawned an industry. It gave birth to an industrial complex of self-congratulatory whimpers and whispers, constantly generating money, wealth, power and control through the most brutal means available to them; through preying on our very emotions and our very humanity. To protect and to provide for women.

And never mind the men.

To sacrifice the men.

To count on the self-sacrificial nature of men to protect women to such an extent that they are elevated above men, to be viewed as an unerring aristocracy whose social and moral purity is undeniable and as such the guiding light, shining ever-and-always into the future.

To not have men and women on equal footing, but to have women far above men and claim that it is equality.

To not build upon the different strengths and weaknesses of men and of women, but to claim there is no differences between men and woman and that any difference in outcome is nothing but a product of sexism inherent in the patriarchy, designed to keep women down and keep men up.

To not understand that biological truth trumps socialization, despite playing this biological nature of the thing and things like a fiddle to get exactly what they want.

To not cooperate, but compete, constantly and chronically and claim that anytime a woman does anything for her man, she is oppressed and anytime a man does something for his woman, he needs to do more for her and expect nothing in return.

Through a brilliant play of smoke and mirrors, by creating a reflection of itself as some poor and oppressed creature, our sympathies, our empathies, our love and compassion, protection and pampering go to the rabid beast that is feminism. With all our love and heart-felt apologies, we cave and we do all we can to ease the beasts burden of life.

Pictures of female victimhood sells books by the millions; vivid and vivacious displays of victimhood, whether real or no, whether manufactured or no, sells books and generates money, which in turn generates wealth, which in turn generates power, which in turn generates influence, which in turn generates societal change based on their totalitarian stance of this-is-it and all-or-nothing.

The strange power of feminist-infused female victimhood is such that all will do all we can to stop and to hinder further victimisation of the poor victim, victimized by the brutality of the world around it and the oppressive nature of the system which it inhabits, designed to hurt it as much as it possibly can and – simultaneously – doing all it can so that it shall no longer be a victim.

It is a peculiar paradox; a loop-de-loop of perplexing mental gymnastics and round-a-bout ways of telling us that it is oppressed, despite sitting on a hoarded wealth of gold and riches, despite being in complete control of the discourse, of the debate, of the narrative. Despite governing and controlling and having vast amounts of influence over any-and-all political process. It punches you in the face with full fucking fury, and complains to you that your face hurt its fists. It reaches into your chest and breaks your ribs, then complains to you that your broken ribs cut their flesh. It eats your heart and complains to you about the taste.

It is nonsense.

It is madness.

It is insanity.

It is completely unhinged, separated from any strand of reality we inhabit.

It is a giant fraud that can not stand up to any kind of scrutiny.

Which, I suspect, is why this cult-like industrial complex and complex industrial cult of feminist-dominated female victimhood do all they can to stop it being scrutinized. By telling the world that all those who object and oppose simply hate women, that they hate the oppressed and wish for nothing more than to oppress them further, all the while hating, shaming, blaming and guilt-tripping men into silent subdued submission by their might, their power and their severe influence.

Nothing shuts down a discussion quicker than a claim of foul misogyny. Which, of course, begs the question: how can one claim to live in a culture that hates women when the mere accusation of hating women is enough to shut down any opposition?

And it is so strange and it is so odd and it is so peculiar that those who are so horribly oppressed are the ones who dominate, who govern and control, who have the power to shut down the opposition at their will and their whim and their fancy.

It is almost as though, one would think, this group is not in the least bit oppressed.

A simple thought strikes the vigilant minds and hearts of vigilant men and women that, hey, now, wait a minute – something isn’t right here.

How did we come to this point, where the supposed oppressed and downtrodden are the only ones allowed to speak on this, on that, on tit and on tat, on all the things and do so, all the time, whether we want them to or not?

How is the oppressed the ones who wield the power?

The whole world’s gone upside down, topsy-turvy, weird and wacky.

This can’t be right, surely?

Surely, this can’t be right, truly?

How, in all the cavernous echoey emptiness that is the cranial cavity of feminism, can people look to feminism, the way feminism behaves, the laws they push in place, the rhetoric they spew, the hatred and absolute insanity, the lies and the slander, the filth and the fury, the violence, the bomb-threats, the shutting down, the harassment they do, all without facing punishment, without facing any consequences for their actions, and say – with a straight face, or believe – with a straight mind – that women are oppressed, and that feminism is the counter-cultural force for good and true truth and justice and equality?

It makes no fucking sense.

It does not stand up to even the slightest bit of scrutiny.

It. Makes. Not. A. Lick. Of. Sense.

Yet, the claim is that it is right, that it is correct, that all men hate all women. That, in hating all women, all men do all they can to belittle and oppress women. Even when women as a group are free to say and spew all their abhorrent hatred of men as a group with no social ramifications and consequence.

When the supposed oppressed class are free to say and to spew all their hatred of their supposed oppressors with no social ramification and no consequences, the narrative of oppression is nothing but a smoke-screen.

When the supposed oppressors can not say anything against those whom they are supposed to oppress, the mirror of reality is broken. We are through the looking-glass here, people. There is nothing but madness and stupidity on the other side. Lets not go there. It is a silly place.

The madness from the whispered banshee shriek has spread, and all the world has fallen to its beckoning call for help and aid. When pointing to clear instances where women are, in fact, advantaged, are in fact privileged, are in fact given opportunities, chances, breaks and treatment far better than what men ever have, or ever will, get, this is used as evidence of oppression of women by the nonsensical wail of feminism. Sour grapes do, in fact, make the best whine.

Women getting shorter jail-sentences than men for the same crimes? Nah, man, that means women are oppressed. Because of course it fucking does. As long as that picture of oppression can be maintained, as long as the victimhood-banner can wave high and proud and mighty, flapping on the wings of the feminist storm, everything is oppression of women. Even that which evidently, clearly, obviously is not. Because, women have it worse. No matter what it is, women have it worse. Of course they fucking do.

Help us.

Save us.

We are weak and meek and ever-so-oppressed.

Help us.

Save us.

Because pictures of women’s victimhood sells books and magazines and gives us might and gives us money and gives us power and influence and powerful influence through money, wealth and power granted us by our oppression gathered from our oppressors, our slave-masters; these hate-filled foul misogynist patriarchs who hate us so much that we have to hate them in turn based on naught but their gender. That we rationalize and defend our hatred of one gender as them being sexist.

Painting period-blood pictures of nonsensical wailing for the sake of wailing nonsensical. Complaining for complaining, so as to be seen as a victim and get them sweet-sweet victim credentials and be taken care of and seen as brave, as clever, as good, as part of all those horribly oppressed who have gone before on the easy path of claiming victimhood so as to gain a foothold here, there and everywhere.

In painting women as weak, powerless, frightened, fearful, anxious and helpless creatures, feminism has created a goldmine.

By their core philosophy, they have manipulated the world and ruined cooperation, ruined the mutuality, the duality, the cooperative nature of man and of woman. The Yin is overshadowed by the Yang, the Yang is eating the Yin, there is not a semblance of balance left in this manufactured wild goose chase that is the war between the genders which is, really, nothing but feminism fighting the concept of gender as-is through emotional manipulation easily summed up as a long and drawn out whine. Funnily enough, they do this by playing on the same gendered archetypes and stereotypes they claim to fight. Men as powerful and dominant, women as weak and submissive.

I can not think of anything more belittling to any group of people than to claim that they are weak and stupid and incapable of doing anything without the help of some external force or other; to claim that they are so small and weak and powerless that they are unable to see that they are oppressed, that hey can not see their own life and lives and value and values, and as such need some other entity to speak on behalf of their life and lives, to decide for them what is or is not their values and their value.

Feminism says, in painted words magically manufactured to make the listener turn aghast with beauty: “Women are so dumb that they need us to speak on their behalf. Women are so dumb that they do not know what they want. But we know. We know what women want, and if women won’t do what we demand, we shall make sure that they do what we demand because, it stands to reason, what we want is what they really want, they are just to stupid to see it.”

Conjure confusion.

Conjure mass-market paperback confusion, in fact, a drug-store book bought to read on the train, the bus, the flight to nowhere from an oppressed class free to spew all the hatred they ever wanted, and then some, against their horrid oppressors. And their horrid oppressors, in turn, do all they can so that the oppressed shall never experience anything even remotely resembling difficulties.

Believe women. Because women never lie. Women are above that, women are not human beings, the feminist hive-mind concedes. Because women are incapable of moral wrong.

If women do something morally wrong, reprehensible and horrible, it is not the fault of the woman, because women are too damn frail, fragile and stupid to take responsibility for their actions and far too meek and weak to act on their own accord. Blame must then be outsourced. And the blame falls on men. It falls on the society that men built all alone on their lonesome, with no input whatsoever from women of course. This despite women always wielding severe social power and influence… “Lips that touch liquor shall never touch ours”, the white feather campaign, and so forth and so on – all social influence, I will add, gained by shaming men into submission. Much the same as now, in fact.

And the beast, the storm, the roaring rage of feminist doctrine forces women to do this or do that. Even when women do exactly what they want. This is the feminist view of women; a stick-figure with no self-ownership, with no agency, incapable of doing anything for herself and by her own design, instead being led and guided by unseen hands because she is too damned stupid to do anything else unless she is awakened to the holy banshee shriek of feminism, who shall blame and shame her until she becomes one of them and takes part in the age old feminine pecking order.

Bow down before the queen-bee, MS. mean girl supreme, the feminist goddess of shrieks and hysteria, of borderline pathology and daddy-issues galore, who tells all other women that they are just as horrible as herself, that they are not at fault for anything, that they are free to blame men – or the society men supposedly built – for anything, and that they shall demand everything without having to give anything in return.

Because women are too damn stupid to know that they are oppressed you know, you see, you feel with all your trembling manufactured anxiety, and men are simply too damn evil to do anything about it.

And women, says feminism, can not understand humour and are too frail to take a joke.

And women, says feminism, do not understand logic and do not understand context.

And women, says feminism, can not make their own choices due to oppression, so feminism must do it for them.

And women, says feminism, must do the work and hold down the jobs that feminism demands of them.

And women, says feminism, are so strong and powerful that they are permanent victims.

And women, says feminism, must live in a state of constant anxiety and fear of men.

And women, says feminism, do not really love their husbands.

And women, says feminism, are stupid and incapable of thinking for themselves.

And women, says feminism, do not know what they want, what they really, really want.

And women, says feminism, are nothing but helpless children.

And women, says feminism, can not handle criticism, can not handle being told that they are wrong. Even when they clearly are.

Because pictures of female victimhood sells books and magazines by the million. Manufacturing victimhood in order to manufacture brave and heroic women standing up in defiance of said manufactured victimhood sells books and magazines by the bucketload, even if the bucket is also filled with shit and piss and puke and period-blood.

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  • Moiret Allegiere, 27.04.2019.



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«Filler Poetry»: Monsoons

Easter Sunday 2019, A4 lowres

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

I dreamt monsoons as a kid

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

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

I dreamt tall trees
blasts of air
drunk death
behind waking
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
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


Calligraphy-lips sealed by
sounds of sweat
and whispered breath



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

Repeating repetition

same as before
as a kid.

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

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

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

as a kid.

Weird surreal dreams
wicked wide-eyed
white-out absurdities
went premeditatedly
in a wishy-washy
wishing well
white feather fantastically
brighter than the
brightest flame
deep within the
great wild yonder
smoke signals
varied visions
as a


– Moiret Allegiere, 24.04.2019

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Stubborn Potato-headed Hopelessness:

unknown soldier Lowres

Ill: «Unknown Soldier», A3, 2019, Moiret Allegiere


On this bleak and desolate Thursday in mid-February, I woke with a potato for a head and a stuffy nose, some three hours ago. The potato is still in bed and my hastily assembled IKEA-body is manspreading majestically beneath the grey and overcast skies of this weird morning; a morning still clinging to winter as if wishing spring should never come. Some semblance of spring is found in small sprouting plants eagerly, perhaps too eagerly, poking their heads out of the ground and out of my flowerpots in anticipation of better days of less bleakness and of far less potato-headed heaviness and despair.

There is a sense of incredible weight resting on my shoulders and festering in my chest; a sudden and sobering sensation of hopelessness in regards to the whole human experiment and experience. It seems as if never a day goes by without some new manufactured outrage or some new blatant hypocrisy from the seekers of “equality”, constantly reminding us that some animals are far more equal than others, and thusly should be treated as such by the laws of the land – extending ever more privileges to the unfortunate underprivileged undesirables residing in the underworld of our altruistic confusion.

It seems not a day goes by without some frenzied assault aimed at boys, men and masculinity, imploring us to be better human beings and treat others better than we currently do. For only men do bad. For the whole of a man is evil incarnate; toxicity coursing through our shared masculine bloodlines, inherited violence and sexual assault and most definitively hatred of women, though they fail to point out where and how and whom and when and so and such with any clarity. The hammer falls, the sentence is passed, and the definition of sexual assault becomes so muddled and confused as to be practically anything – whenever it is a man doing something. The same rules do not apply to women, of course.

Remember: drunken hookups where both man and woman are drunk means the man is a rapist and the woman is a victim of rape, though logic should dictate that they are both equally guilty of raping one another. Or, maybe both are engaging in consensual sex. Imagine that. Clearly; the feminist hive-mind of virtue and sanctity do not consider women to be as responsible for their own actions as they consider men to be. Men are considered, when drunk, to take responsibility for their own actions as well as the actions of drunk women, whereas drunk women are not considered able to take responsibility even for their own actions. I wonder if this extends to drunk driving as well? Would a woman be considered responsible were she to beat someone to death with a hammer in a fit of drunken madness? After all – drunkenness implies lack of responsibility for the actions of a woman. How far are they willing to take these randomly sowed seeds of logic? Seeds sown in the dirty end of winter. Frazzled, puzzled, poking out and dying where they are strewn.

Of course; the man in the drunken hookup being the rapist and the woman being raped, despite both being drunk can not possibly be anything but proof that male sexuality is viewed as predatory, as a destructive and simplistic primal force, devoid of emotion, compassion and a longing for bonding which clearly characterizes female sexuality; clean and holy and unspoiled as it is. She is seduced by him, and by his seduction she falls from grace. In the eyes of the orthodox; in the eyes of feminism. The female, being infused with the essence of childlike innocence, can not possibly be expected to respond responsibly to the pressures of the powerful male, being infused with the essence of the primeval, the kill-or-be-killed, subdue-or-be-subdued, the reptilian primacy burning at the tail-end of his barely awakened consciousness. He is the snake in the tree; his primitive mating call being also a challenging call to arms and cry of war: to command, to conquer and to dominate!

Societal double standards are at the root cause of the hopelessness festering in my chest in these bleak mornings; so blatantly obvious and yet unseen. They are hidden in plain sight by the very same double standards – a horrible beast hiding in its own shadow, devouring the world around it and at the same time claiming to build the world around it.

Starting with the assumption that all men have oppressed all women throughout all of history, floating misogynist-like and toxic endlessly down the river of time, due cause and reason is given to the constant hostility levied at boys and men and masculinity; the unholy trinity of the church of the Grand Dragon Patriarch. Stemming from this nonsensical assumption, original sin is born and the name of the sin sprung forth from the tree of knowledge and the trembling hips of feminism is “men”, is “manhood”, is “masculinity”. Bringing this notion into the limelight, into the forefront of our barely conscious mass-media for decades, the wickedness at the heart of men is the reason given for the full frontal assault of hostility and hatred aimed squarely at the hearts and minds of boys and men and masculinity itself. And within this society which, we are told, so openly and clearly hates women; within this society in which women are viewed as inferior and in which women are in constant danger from the wicked hearts and groins of men, all buckle down and do all they can to help, to protect, to give aid to women no matter the truth, the facts, the cold hard logic of the scenarios depicted by fear-mongering propagandists masked as seekers of equality and truth and justice.

In a society which hates women as much as the claim is, one would believe that feminism would not have a stranglehold on the discourse and on the piss-lined streets of our societies. One would assume that feminism would not be listened to and would not be allowed to spew their contempt, their vitriolic hatred and constant shame of boys and men and masculinity in a society which so openly and clearly hates women.

But, of course – reason and logic have no place here. This is ideology. This is a set of ideas painting men as eternal oppressors of the eternally oppressed, and women as eternally oppressed by the eternal oppressors. And the oppressed have all the right in the world to hate their oppressors. Yeah. It is nice and it is grand and it is glorious to have a ready-made and pre-assembled excuse to explain away ones own vibrant contempt, hatred and bigotry as anything but contempt, hatred and bigotry. “No, no, it is not about hating men, it is about equality. We only hate the oppressors. As is our right.” Well then – painting all men as oppressors will then give them the goddess-given right to hate all men whilst denying the hatred at the same time. Their collective tongue is forked and their fangs are venomous.

Do our bidding, men, say the feminist hive-mind. Do our bidding, for you hate us. Disregarding facts running counter to their arguments, they claim the world to be a place of immense hostility and danger to women. Even when men are more at danger in any-and-all situations, being the main victims of homelessness, drug-addiction, alcoholism, violent assaults, death at work, death from illness, suicide, murder and so forth and so on. This does not matter. This is of no concern to feminism and it is of no concern to society at large. The plight of men and the mental health of men is disregarded and ignored in this society in which women are hated and treated as second class citizens by the very forces that cater to every whim and flight of fancy which the feminist ideologues conjure forth from their ancient, dusty and decaying grimoires. Do our bidding, but do not dare to tell women what to do. Women are free to do as they chose, and any judgement passed is evidence of misogyny. Excepting when it is the feminist finger-pointers telling women what to do or not to do with their bodies and with their lives, of course. One rule for thee, another for me.

And so we get the Gillette-ads, the “where have all the good men gone” articles, the toxic masculinity, the APA-guidelines for dealing with men and boys, the thriving domestic violence industry painting domestic violence as the violence of men and only men against women and women only, despite recent studies finding near parity regarding genders and domestic violence, despite Erin Pizzey saying this since the seventies, despite facts and despite reason. Men are evil, women are innocent and men must be fixed, changed and altered to suit the needs of women; that is: feminism.

Men must do for women.

And women must do for women.

And no one need do jack shit for men.

Because men must be on their own and expend all their energy in helping and aiding women.

Because all men are bad, and the men that are good are even worse, since they don’t even know that they are – at heart – bad.

Damned if you do and damned if you don’t, and don’t you dare complain because then you are the exact reason why our societies need feminism. Circular logic. The lack of faith in God show us why we need the church. The lack of faith in feminism show us why we need feminism. And the lack of focus on the well being of boys and men is clear-cut evidence of why we need feminism, because focusing on boys and men for one single second is proof undoubtedly of a society in which women are hated and men are privileged and pampered.

Now, in this climate, why in the world would so many boys and men have this unyielding sense of absolute hopelessness and despair? Why – after being told to step down, to shut up, that our issues don’t matter none at all – should we feel as though there is no hope left? Why, after being told by teachers at school and by politicians and by manipulative mass-media and by friends and by family, that we are the cosmic iceberg floating through space sinking every ship that comes our way, should we feel a loss of hope and faith and love and glory? Why should we not turn our backs on society, drop out and drift away when we have been told for years uncounted that we are not only not needed, but that we are evil incarnate and that our very nature is wrong and faulty, that our masculinity is toxic and that femininity is the only force of nature that is good and pure, and that which all should strive for?

Gender is, after all, a social construct. Or so we are told. And since gender is a social construct, it goes without saying that the social construct of femininity, with its nurturing nature and calm manners, is the true root of our humanity. Even if that is also a social construct. Even if everything is a social construct, even the theory of social constructivism, should we adhere to this construct and this only. Everything is relative. Except this. All else is toxic. Except when that toxic masculinity is called forth to protect and provide for girls and women; he for she, you know. Everything is a social construct and is not to be trusted. Excepting this social construct, which is a more natural social construct than the other social constructs which are not natural social constructs.

Our societies considered it a good idea to throw boys and men under the bus over and over again, to drown us in a sea of phoney victim-tears and lay the blame and lay the faults of the world on our shoulders, claiming that we ruined everything and demanding that we fix everything at the same time. Being considered a force of evil by nature and simultaneously being the force tasked to fix it. Mixed messages of such contempt and of such ludicrous demands, forgetting or throwing away our humanity as well as our inherent goodness, is enough to bring the strongest of us into dumbfounded confusion, despair and absolute hopelessness.

Men, you are evil.

Men, you are not needed.

Men, you need to show that you are good.

Men, you are needed to fix this.

And this is, for some strange reason, something we put up with. This is, for some strange reason, something we bow our necks and fall to our knees for. This is the reality of the world of boys and men, and no one is able or willing to see it excepting those who have been scarred – often deeply – by these forces of so-called good, or those that are able to tear the veil from their eyes and view the world from a place of reason, wondering why in the world are we not treating the genders the same?

And the hopelessness accumulates and the hopelessness grows, festering in the soul and in the soil, and people try talking about it and are shouted down, disrupted and dispersed by the forces of perceived equality. The very forces that proclaim loudly their allegiance to equality deny the voices of those who wish to see the notion of equality from a vantage-point not shaded by ideology and not shaded by hatred and blame-games based on arbitrary characteristics, but based on facts and based on reason and based on evidence.

And the ideology of feminism permeates everything, growing in power ever stronger and becoming immortal, growing and spreading quicker than the malicious tumour growing on my sanity when facing down these abhorrent pieces of absolutely gendered hate, bigotry and contempt.

  • Moiret Allegiere, 23.02.2019


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She claims me to be filthy

Guilty A4 lowres

Ill: «Guilty», A4, Moiret Allegiere, 2018


She claims me to be filthy. Words like hers cut through flesh and bone and then follows through by grinding straight down to blood and stone. Struck blind by calligraphy-stillness, radiant concentration evaporates from her mouth, quivering monotheistically. Believe,she says, as she claims me to be filthy. Words rising from the gutter, reaching straight into the sun, fragrant dew settles cold-like and still on my forehead as I find myself labouring under the unaltered presumption of guilt. Crawling, creeping, yearning, the ooze of condemnation and damnation creeps in, closer now, closer still, towards the end. She says that I am filthy, clinging wildly to aerial telepathy; weird, unplugged daytime television psychopathy. Myriads of canned laughter and fragile upbeat hysteria, a cacophony of ravaging screeches. Her words are words, and so truth is spoken: hammer down, beat by beat, sledgehammer, cold whammer, straight to the slammer. Hoho. Bam. Bam. Muscles ache, mind melt, then break out into frantic spasms; odd feverish sacrificial rituals unfold behind my closed eyes. Assisted in her words and deeds by frenzied media outlets building up undefined ferocity in public eyes, bloodshot and close to catatonic. She claims me to be filthy.

She claims me to be guilty. Never have I ever heard words with such incredible power. Unbelievable, downright inconceivable in their unchallenged might! Her malignant madness made manifest through her manic, mischievous magicians words, would see all and one bow down and accept her unfounded words as absolute truth. No doubt. No need to pause and consider. No doubt. Wondrous world, how sweet thou art. How innocent and flowerlike, how like a willow whipped by the wind. How her delicate petals have whilted. Should I compare thee to a… long fingernails like claws dug deep into my brain, escaping yet the clutches of paranoid delusion, but only just. Grasping, no, clinging to a juvenile past of forgotten fancies, flushed down the drain and drawn exhaustively from the dying of the light. A ferocious claim of bygone guilt dragged up from the deep recesses of time immemorial. A past galloping, passing by, bygone days, forgotten eras of the here-and-now where here-and-now mattered and clumsy teen angst passed as charmed offense, given, not taken. Memories fail, come time. She claims me to be guilty.

Frightened and whipped mercilessly in the town square for all to see, I float away on the certainty of my innocence. Strange discourse, strange words, stranger sentences still grip my throat, squeezing, squeezing, choking. I have become unknown, undecided, unwanted, leper-like and shunned. Smell of print and tabloid-press, absurd unproven claims demand the headlines, claim the discourse, claim the papers printed on demand to feed the raging manic mobs, the hate, the smug selfrighteousness of society gripped by moral outrage, clinging to aerial telepathy, the psychic insights told it so: «He is guilty». There, in the spotlights: my name and face plastered on every wall in a wide world where there are only ever walls, to bash ones head against. Ready for judgements harsh, unthinking, unblinking. She claims me to be guilty. And so we feed the wolves, throw my name to the beasts and see them tear it limb from limb in bloodsports historical and histrionic. Enter the arena, enter the gladiators. We who are about to die, salute you… No trial, no verdict. Guilty by guilt assumed and by gender made. Guilty by nothing but her transcendent magicians words and squirmy, snakelike form, presented in drooling tear-like manners; woe is me. Goddamn, goddamn, where did it all go? Strung up in trees and lynched by frenzied pitchfork wielding maniacs unable to complete basic sentences due to their bloodlust-roars interrupting their anxious mental processes. «YOU UNCULTURED SWINE!» Anger feeds the hordes, anger selfrighteous and dubious at best. Enter barbarian hordes at mid-level societes forlorn and lost in the fight to do perceived right, to fulfill the need for perceived justice. Forgetting, in the heat of the fragmented moment of untettered lunacy, the undeniable rights of the accused. To be kept anonymous, to be considered innocent until proven otherwise. To be awarded basic humanity, a shred of common decency. Frightened now, so frightened. Be subservient. Be calm. Be focused. Don`t lose your cool. Don`t lose your… anything. Stay calm, collected, concentrated. Anything can be used against you, will be used against you, will become a knife to slit your throat with. Your own anger is immaterial when measured against the furious anger of the unquestioning and unquestioned hordes. You have no right to be angry, get upset, show emotion of any kind. Emotion is their right, not yours. Float away on hollow prayers and drowning wishes, spreadeagled and crucified long before truth and justice done and potential sentence served. And yet, and yet, I am innocent. I claim. I know. Might as well piss my words into the wishy-washy wind of the abysmal void. The court of public opinion deemed it so: guilty. Looming over me, shadows and blood, dust and bones. `cause the presses told it so, presented it so. No anonymity, no safetynet, no nothing. They claim me to be guilty.

They claim me to be guilty. Hungry wolves unleashed. Fangs glinting in the light of this eternal wolves moon. Howling outside my doors, the choir infernal towards damnation calls. Hoofprints in the snow. Drooling madness and calls for punishment, calls for my head, detained, then smashed, then destroyed. Trample, trample, skull and bones, death and destruction, assassination of character, of personhood and humanity. I have become none, have become noone, have become persona non grata ungratified. Still on the wind: laughtracks galore. Canned laughter turning to spinechilling howls. An entire world told what to think by biased presentations, even now clinging to aerial telepathy. Over and over. On and on. Do not presume, for one moment, that you will be allowed anonymity. Do not assume, for one moment, that you will be considered innocent until proven otherwise. The blood seeps into the ground, the wolves lap it up, then pray for more, more, even more. And here we go, rollercoaster rides, the signalling come, the virtue done, holier than thou and clean, on earth as it is in heaven. So clean, so clean as to be elevated to sainthood and later godhood. They know me to be guilty long before a trial, long before a sentence, long before I get to present my case. Barricade the doors, shut the windows, close the curtains, dim all lights, disappear, do not appear, do not call out for them to hear. They will not listen. They will not see. They refuse. You will not speak. They refuse. The world is faulty calamity, weird whines and howls. In the heat of the moment, at the pitch of the note, we forgot due process, the presumption of innocence, the right to not be locked in the laughing stock and pelted with rotten fruit. At the turning of the page, we forgot to think and so we skipped three pages, or more, glued together by drool and righteous dribble. Jumping straight to the conclusion, no further evidence needed, your honour. Filthy, guilty. And yet, there we go and here we are: there is no sense of right no more, merely justice legionaire, plentiful, hysterical. My name is broken, ruined, raptured, ravaged, long before any reason came out to play in gardens green and lush. My bones are fractured, eyes gouged out and tongue ripped out of my mouth by thongs burning with the flame of maladjusted societal upheaval. She claims. And so it must be true. No bouncing back, no coming back. Life is ended, done and dusted. `cause she claims me to be filthy, and they claim me to be guilty. The courts of public opinion, driven by the whips of their ascended god-emperor mediamasters, decadent and above criticism, have deemed me guilty and thusly raped my name with barbwire-dildos cut from treelike cacti.

Bedridden. Anxious. Shaking. I think I`ve lost weight. Haven`t slept for eighteen months. Colder than hell. The walls are closing in. Her words still ring through loudspeakers, maniac presence, crazy eyes and doctored voice. Still there, in waking, still there in sleeping. The circle is closing in. There is no escape. There is nothing left. She claims me to be guilty, fatigued, drained of colour and drained of love and life and love for life. My name still howled at the coming of the harvest moon. Drag me to the altar, drive the knife into my heart. No matter to go, no where to go, now where to go? This endless loop, a M.C. Escher drawing of a hangmans noose. The wild and weird and wacky adventures of evidence unseen. Somehow hidden, somehow forgotten, somehow not considered. I cling to warm memories, the ebb and tide of time and life. Lost. Just another lost boy. Old lost boy. Aerial telepathy. Seeing mouths move, hearing noises, weird guttural groans in lew of words. Understanding nothing. Babble, rabble, dust and cobwebs. Babble, rabble, claims and snakes. Arms and legs shackled. Stuck to the floor – Words flow, words shine, words trickle down and trickle up. Holy hell; what a circus, what a grandiose display of power unmoved, untouched, unquenchable, unchallenged! What a gigantic farce. And still, she claims me to be filthy, guilty. They claim me to be guilty, filthy. Crime. Punishment. Meet our demands. Bring us our sacrifice. All meaning is lost in the vortex. Longing for justice, but what kind? Mob justice. No other kind.

Here we go. Courts in session. One, two, three, four. Come at me. Coming at me. Skull smashed. Coming at me still. Eyes droopy, gaze unfocused. Bags under my eyes. Aged seventeen years in a week. Wasting away. Skin gone pale, translucent even. I`ve turned into a shadow and a shade, a whisper on the wind. Have become unseen, unheard, invisible. Evidence presented, evidence without question. No doubt. No guilt. Beyond the wildest shadow of a doubt: there is no guilt. There is no truth to this, that I am filthy, nor that I am guilty. There is nothing further to be said, nothing more that needs to be said. Free to go. They deem me to be clean, they deem me to be innocent. Cleared of any and all charges. Leave this room. Hammer down. Hammer down. Echoing, reverbarating through my body, shining through my bones and aching muscles. Uplifted. Elevated. Ascended. Clean, clean and so free, free! Laughter forms, but turns to weeping. Cold body, hands, arms, feet, legs, cold and numb. Feeling elated. Grand. I am cleared. My name is cleared. I claim her to be filthy. I claim her to be guilty. Justice shall be served.

They claim me to be guilty still. They nail themselves to the selfsame aerial telepathy, unaccepting of the unaltered truth. Once a victim; once a sacrifice. This never changes. Life is over still, even when I am cleared and the slate whiped clean. There is no doubt, no doubt at all. My evidence to the contrary of her claims where perfect, flawless, diamond-like and vibrant. She lied. She lies still. In the back of my head, a mass of filth, cancerous and gibbering, spreads. As it does through the pack, a pack of wild wolves still howling for blood beneath the harvest moon. They claim me to be guilty still, and I will never be completely clean. She claims me to be filthy still, and remains never to be guilty herself. Justice will never be served in the grim and stonefaced apocalypse of life no longer lived. They claim me to be guilty. They have all but killed me.

Totalitarian tango

Ørken lowres

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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