Truth in the age of Deceit:

We live in times of universal deceit. We can not tell the truth. Bit by bit, truth is being eroded beneath our feet, as is our ability to speak it. Speaking the truth is an act of insubordination, an act of revolution. The truth is becoming a fragment of the past, a remnant of times that were, that came and went and blew away.

The doors are shut for facts and for balanced discussion of said facts. Truth means nothing lest it comes from the gut-instinct, lest it stems from the high-strung emotional turmoil that shriek and punch the air with tremors that state “I feel like this, and so it must be truth”.

And don’t you dare question my truth, my lived experience as anything but complete and utter fact that everyone of my tribe experience and have experienced and will keep experiencing seven thousand times or more.

And don’t you dare share your truth, your lived experience as fact if it contradicts my lived experience and my truth felt in the cornucopia of emotion in my safe-space sheltered heart.

And don’t you dare provide evidence, the concrete fact, the truth-and-beauty of absolute beauty in truth that speaks truth to power and tumbles the tyrants down from their thrones.

For tyranny flows from the top to the bottom, it flows from the tremors and the trembles and the fake-and-fancy inner turmoil shared by those who have had it far too good for far too long, whose tongue-twisting nursery rhymes are still sung and whispered at their bedside by overbearing parents who have told them all their lives that they can never do anything but good, that they can never do anything wrong. That, no matter what they do, they are in the right and the entire rest of the world is wrong and must burn if it disagrees. If lacking parents, substitute hired government goons.

This frantic world of ours allowed the throne to be usurped by warmongers that peddle propaganda; whose tongues and teeth are brown and stained with coagulated blood drained from the throats of subdivided willing victims of a war that stem from trying to please everyone. That is; pleasing everyone who is considered by those who wield the power of deceit to be underprivileged and oppressed in true Marxist fashion. Carried on and carried forward by champagne socialists who do not know the difference between a shovel and a pickaxe, who never saw their cheap-rent apartments disappear and turn to dust from new governmental regulations that deemed them unfit to live in, yet whose silver-tongues that claimed to do good for those that could not be choosers never did think that this would limit the availability of apartments and never did anything to alleviate this, rendering the market ever worse for those that have always been forced to settle.

There is no mistaking it. This is a war. A war that is the result of a cuntural cultural revolution that has been going on beneath our feet for fifty years or more; that has been fought in classrooms with cheap hits dealt from subversive pedagogues whose dimwitted godly light and siren-song shone and sung its way into the minds and developing personality of impressionable children who caught the words and let them fester and spread within their own nuclear brain cavity. More pawns, more peons and peasants handcrafted in indoctrination-chambers to hunt the Kulaks.

To manufacture dissent. Manufacture chaos. To spread disillusion and disharmony to the hungry masses, presenting feels as reals and wiping away any remnant of objective reality to bring forth the new-found reality, the subjective reality where every instance of emotional turmoil on behalf of one and not the other is an issue that has to be dealt with, that has to be overcome by governmental over-reach to limit what we should say and can say and how to say it, to bring forth the hate-speech laws and make them so convoluted, so confusing that everything and nothing at all may be considered hate-speech on the whim and will of whomsoever feel offended by the voice and uttered utterance of those who are considered privileged by the privileged powers-that-be that dominate the discourse, never allowing dissenting voices to be heard. And that is dissenting voices not being allowed under pain of governmental punishment, under the majestic banner of the stately ban-hammer fantastic; the tyranny of governed speech deciding what speech is the correct speech, what opinions are the correct opinions, which -ism is the only -ism one should be allowed to follow in the gloomy grim funeral rite of our liberty.

We are being ruled, governed and drugged by television and media-conglomerates that spin their so-called truths in new-speak news that starve our brains of oxygen until we are close to passing out; that blast us with new information every five seconds so that we can not process the information properly, or never read beyond the click-bait headlines calling for our permanent offence and anger at the unjust nature of the beastly world we live in. That just so happen to only be unjust for the one and not the other, in the eyes of new-speak news and their cohorts that manufacture the perpetual war. Because war is peace. Freedom is slavery. And so forth. And so on.

It will keep us distracted, wilfully sheltered from what is going on behind the canvas and the cloth of looming tyranny that aims at uniformity of speech, of voice and of opinion. We are being ruled by fear and governed by terror to make us accept limitations imposed on our speech and our expression. To label it hate-speech laws is blatantly obvious manipulation of language, telling all that do not think beyond the headlines that any who oppose this set of rules is guilty of hating something or other, and are as such not a decent person, not a good person, not a proper person but someone improper, someone to be shunned and punished for daring to defy the whatever and what-not. Anyone who hates anything is not a good person. Excepting those who hate the ones who supposedly are the haters. They are good people. When they hate what the sheltered stately state have decided is OK to hate.

For a governmental body to decide what is or is not accepted speech is tyranny clothed as compassion. It is a government telling us, in so many words, that this and only this is accepted opinion. And any-and-all that disagree hate the oppressed and are, as such, an oppressor, a bigot, a beastly bastard for whom violence is but a censored Tweet away. And so, they deserve anything that may come their way and the government will not only look the other way, but take part in the punishment. The Kulaks must be dealt with.

And this by any means.

And that is the truth.

For that is the nature of deceit.

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  • Moiret Allegiere, 14.09.2019

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

Other links:
Redbubble shop: https://www.redbubble.com/people/Moiret/shop
Blog: https://moiretallegiere.wordpress.com/
YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC3IaCxAXE3pQd7PCdvHoaaA
Bitchute: https://www.bitchute.com/channel/EvbGZyTZSraY/
twatter: https://twitter.com/MAllegiere
Gab: https://gab.com/Moiret_Allegiere
Minds: https://www.minds.com/Moiret
Flickr: https://www.flickr.com/people/152465815@N04/

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Red Pill Rage, Wrath, Ruin:

«Heirdom», 2019, Moiret Allegiere

There is anger. Red hot and searing. Boiling and bubbling beneath the surface, in the blackened brain-contractions, in the dying and divided heart-palpitations, in the subterranean lungs nailed to the ribcage of those who have swallowed and choked on the proverbial red pill.

It lies directly underneath the skin at times, dragged up from the depths – wide-arching monorail pathways of the mind-that-learned and thusly changed and altered its perceptions of the space and time and views and lore of the world as the world has been presented in greyscale fragments born from schools with razor-blade fences used to lure the goons into the nest and entrap them in the hive.

At the first inkling that something is wrong, was wrong, always has been wrong in how the world has been presented, how history has been told, how the myths and legends of our time is sung; biased, full of half-truths and deliberately presented new-facts shown in the light of dim-cloud stars and suns that shone and shine in brutal burlesque-like blues from teachers and pedagogues presented as demigods who hold the truth and key and path towards free-flowing salvation for one and all, there is rage and wrath and ruin.

At the moment that the veil across the eyes is ripped and torn, as the first seam split and the light appears to be less clouded, fuller, brighter – at the first glimpse of a full spectrum light, bright and brilliant as the day or horrifying, terrifying, grim and serious as a fully haunted witching hour night, there is rage and wrath and ruin.

And in the slow-choking, breathtaking, stunning death of all that once was known as truth and fact, at the point where the bitter red pill is caught and held in place at oesophagus-height to be marvelled at, to be slowly released into the system, to be slowly devoured, slowly dissolved, slowly part of the self, there is no breath, there is no air, there is nothing but rage and wrath and ruin.

For to see the wilful blindness of the world and weary worm-filled void in place where truth and beauty once was said to hold court is dementedly infuriating, inconsiderately anger-inducing perfect fixtures of rage-fuel for those whom, once they strayed from the trodden and accepted path, saw the shape of true enslavement manifest as me, myself and I willingly chaining I, myself and me to the plantation to be presented as permanently penitent for the grim and ghastly crime of masculinity.

There is rage and wrath and ruin at every ill-conceived flash-flood of fast-food-news presenting limelight-studies from the chosen-and-presented-as-our-one-and-all babblelogue hordes that babble needlessly and grunt noisily about the latest branch of outlaw-statistics made to present their side, chosen for their deliberately worded wordplay, their yellow-bellied gelatine juggling of the numbers and the truth to present the statistical anomaly of those who are beaten and brutalized and ravaged and raped as far worse than is, as affecting the one and only the one, perpetrated by the other and only the other, never affecting the other and never a deaths hand dealt from the one, who, so innocently and gifted with all the worlds wordly charm, blame the other for the trials of the one and only one, whose pointed fingers subtly or overtly finger only the other who just so happen to be me, myself and I.

Where the true truth is seen as the surface is scratched and the world reveals its phantasm mask and spectral shape of filtered lies and hand-spun songs to sing, there is a revelation and a personal transformation, a logos rising from within and the Godhead taking form and shape in the chest and in the beating hearts of death-defying murmurs in the wishy-washy void as the programming and the programs both drip out the ear or drip as drool from parched, cracked and dried lips, revealing the self, the ego, the me, myself and I in the eye of the beholder that is I – and I, you come to comprehend – is pissed right the fuck off.

Doubtless, righteous and justified anger at the past-present-future dance which we have danced to faulty tunes and ill-informed tempo-changes the likes of which not one can follow without fault, yet which will still ensnare its dancers with its primal beat that sways the fertile hips of those who danced the dance before, who sung the song and rhymed and timed the rhythm to beat in tune with pre-conceived ideas and ideals of what they once were told to believe and so believe eternally despite concrete, objective, observable and obvious evidence to the contrary presented ad infinitum from those who transcended the trials of rage, wrath and ruin and came out the other side more whole than ever they were before.

For anger is an energy, a pure and primal force of creativity if channelled properly, if focused and delivered with split-seamed righteous poignancy – if dealt in deadly doomsday blows to the ear-splitting siren-skulls of simian society, the domesticated primates going with the ghostly flow of the tribe as the tribe is, who have not yet dealt with the suffering and the rage, wrath, ruin that rises from the notion that – hey, now, wait a minute, something isn’t right here.

That is to say: anger is an energy, a focused beam of clarity and vision and clarity of vision when once anger is transcended and the first immediate roar and grunt of dissatisfaction has passed and gone and been let loose within the chained and shackled sleeping self.

Anger is an energy when once curtailed, when once subdued and controlled and transcended; when once turned flat on its side or on its head so that the destructive becomes the constructive, fired from all barrels of a fully loaded cerebral gun at the core and beating, festering cancer-sore of the brave blue world, or when let loose of all its chains and made to seek its source to take comfort in the fact that once it was misguided, unfocused rage, wrath, ruin, yet now it is not.

Quite the opposite, in fact. When channelled neatly, focused extraordinarily, it may become the driving force behind the change that transforms beast to man and man to Self. Then anger dissipates, dissolves, disintegrates and makes room for the calm, the tranquil, the self-assured and satisfied.

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  • Moiret Allegiere, 07.09.2019

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

Other links:
Redbubble shop: https://www.redbubble.com/people/Moiret/shop
Blog: https://moiretallegiere.wordpress.com/
YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC3IaCxAXE3pQd7PCdvHoaaA
Bitchute: https://www.bitchute.com/channel/EvbGZyTZSraY/
twatter: https://twitter.com/MAllegiere
Gab: https://gab.com/Moiret_Allegiere
Minds: https://www.minds.com/Moiret
Flickr: https://www.flickr.com/people/152465815@N04/

Rebellion? We can get it for you wholesale!

When I was twelve years old, I received my first ever punk-rock record as a gift from my father. The record in question was “Nevermind the Bollocks – Here’s the Sex Pistols”; a record that is now legendary in both reverence and ridicule, loved and honoured by punk puritan snobs and self-important music historians of the same snobbishness just about as much as it is loathed and lambasted by punk puritan snobs and self-important music historians of the same snobbishness.

I think it would be safe to say, with no exaggerations, that this record completely changed my life. It was that raw energy and anger, the blaring guitars and pure piss and vinegar speaking directly to my dormant, yet slowly awakening teenage rebellion from thirty-something years before my time. It was an absolutely amazing epiphany for me at the time; pure rebellion roaring, screaming and snarling at me, forced out of my very poor and tinny speakers that did nothing but add one more layer of anti-musician musicianship to the severe lack of musical talent on display within their Rotten ranks and Vicious vulgarity. It was pure bliss. I had never heard anything like that before.

To this day, I still own that CD. And a first pressing on LP. And on Cassette. Would have gotten the eight-track as well, were it not ridiculously expensive last time I checked. Probably sounds odd that I had never heard anything like that before, considering that I was born in the eighties and grew up in the nineties; the decade of heroin, cynicism and grunge, that saw punk-rock become a mainstream pop-phenomenon, with all the corporate-sponsored pseudo-rebellion a boy could eat, telling kids that it is quite alright to rebel, as long as you do it within the hours of five pm and ten pm and then only in a manner acceptable to your parents and your corporate overlords.

And only if you wear the clothes associated with this particular brand of rebellion; bought from these selected stores (trademarked) that are the only accepted purveyors of edgy teen angst and melodramatic middle-finger t-shirts aimed squarely at the establishment. That is – the very same establishment whose clothes of overpriced wholesale edginess generates a vast amount of money for them. And only them.

Now, there is a very simple reason for me not hearing anything like it prior to this record falling into my pimpled pubescent lap and waxy, sweaty ears. No satellite TV, no cable TV, no MTV and no internet. And a distaste bordering on the manic for radio-transmission. For some strange reason.

As a matter of fact, I did not get a stable internet connection until I was about 25 years of age, for reasons of me moving from one cheap and shitty bedsit or apartment to the next in my wandering and rambling student-years where I did my best to get myself an edu-ma-cation, only to drop out and become the splendidly bearded pseudo-hermit you now hear or read before you, muttering something into your ears or eyes about these god-damned kids of today and their fancy new genders, music and interwebs, whilst I’m still clinging to all the artistic ambition and illusions of literary talent I had back when I got that record in the first place.

Ah, memories, nostalgia and grumpiness.

The DIY aspect of punk-rock was promptly forgotten in this era of heroin-infused cynicism or bubblegum-pop naivety, leading us down the path upon which we now tread I suspect, where the concept of rebellion is bottled and sold wholesale and in bulk to young men and women with more disposable money than sense, and more wretched solipsist self-aggrandizement than the ability for introspection and self-awareness. Or doing anything themselves, for that matter.

Selling, buying and shouting slogans is all well and good, I suppose. If one have no arguments beyond the slogans shouted as supposed shut-downs of severe and sanctimonious magnitude. It looks good on camera and on social media to oppose this and oppose that, to oppose the high-and-mighty establishment from deep within the claws and clammy hands of the establishment; saying in a voice that is echoed by one and all – including the political and corporate establishment, which is more or less the same thing in this honky-tonk timeline of ours – that I oppose the establishment, brave rebel without a cause that I am.

The establishment of course being the patriarchy, the kyriarchy, that foul and terrible nest of pale, male and stale cigar-chomping, manspreading and mansplaining oppressors these bought-and-sold-by-the-pound rebels against other peoples god-given right to have opinions imagine in their minds eye. These foul oppressors that have made the western world so wretched to live in that they not only have the freedom to protest an invisible and made-up enemy, but also have the disposable income to buy all manner of edgy clothes and hair-dyes to really showcase their rebellious nature, and of course being able to pay for the internet as well as the overpriced Apple-products they use to bitch and complain in their witch-hunt-ways on well established social media like the pawns of the establishment that they are, bought in bulk from corporations and celebrated by established flingers of shit-laws and piss-pot-hate-speech-introductions, feeding the beast that sees fit to limit our ability to express ourselves and thusly our ability to rebel.

Now, ain’t that something to consider?

These newly fanged and founded rebels of our day and age are rebelling against freedom and liberty. Against the right of other people to speak their mind and state their opinions.

Whichever hate these rebellious rodents of corporate glee and establishment splendour wish to spew, they should be free to do so. Hatespeech is only ever something that comes from other people, and social justice is something that only happen to other people. There is no hatespeech in their throats and periodontitis mouths. For some groups must be protected above other groups, for equality and equity, dont’cha know? And the groups that are not protected from speech which they may find offensive are the privileged groups, by popular decree and governmentally sanctioned fear and loathing. Whereas those groups that have special laws in place to protect them from speech which they may not like are not privileged, despite having private laws being more or less the definition of privilege.

But lets not get into that, shall we? This is the current year, and my sources tell me that reason and objectivity has no place here. Nor, it would seem, is there place in this current timeline for people being treated equally under the law. That would be oppressive, ya know, ya see, ya ought well to have learned by now. Now check your privilege and fuck off.

Social justice and the oppression-olympics have come to mean that a feminist stating that all men are rapist scum that should be killed as a preventative measure, reduced to and maintained at about ten percent of the population is not hatespeech. Should one, however, add the word “black” in front of “men” in the sentence above, one has a problem on ones hands. For that, dear misogynist mansplaining friends, is hatespeech.

Or a social justice warrior urchin of pompous arrogance and aristocratic allegiance may state, quite blatantly, that white men is the greatest problem this world has ever seen; the cause of all the terror and the trembles and the nausea he or she or xe or xim may feel whenever their bigoted eyes fall upon the lack of pigmentation on his foul rapist-face, labelling them all bigots and racists and sexist scum, seeing no hypocrisy in xers xrandiose xatement. And this is not considered hatespeech by this den of thieves and liars.

Worrying about Islamic terrorism, however, is deemed hatespeech by the terrible forces that be trembling at their knees at anything opposing their chosen narrative and chosen hero of the hour; that hero being whomsoever these establishment-financed-and-sanctioned rebels against the state and the establishment and the state of the establishment have decided is the most major of minorities currently crawling through the sludge of our sewer-system societies.

The oppression-olympics is in full fucking swing. There is currency in perceived oppression, and those who dabble in the black-magic-arts of the oppression-olympics are fully aware of this, using this currency for all they can in order to gain power over both society and those whom they consider their enemies, winning the war and gaining ground by shame and ridicule instead of reasoned arguments. For opposing hatespeech-laws and the infantile reasoning behind it on grounds of liberty and freedom and justice for all must necessarily mean hating those who currently reside at the top of the oppression-totempole. Otherwise, one would not object to rules and laws and regulations regulating what people may say and – by extension – what opinions people are allowed to hold.

Any society under whose rule one is not allowed to utter certain opinions… any society under whose rule speech is dictated by governmental rule is not a free and open society. Opposing governmental limitations on speech on general principles of freedom and liberty for all does not mean anything but wanting people to be free to speak their mind, whomsoever these people may be and whatsoever they may hold as their opinion. And this wish for absolute freedom of speech is one I hold as one of my core values; that each and everyone should be free to say and to speak and express whatever they so wish and desire. No matter if I myself agree completely or disagree vehemently with what is said and expressed. For that, my dear children of the post-2012 apocalypse, would be treating everyone equally.

Extending everyone the right to speak, the possibility to have their speech challenged and to hold whatever fucking opinion they hold regardless of skin-colour, political belief, religious belief or lack thereof, regardless of sex and gender and other arbitrary factors that have become the go-to defining aspect of ones life in this preposterous auto-cannibalistic holographic image of reality we inhabit, is treating people equally.

Generating laws and regulations designed to protect certain groups of people does nothing but elevate these certain groups of people above the plebs and peasants; to treat them as some manner of unerring aristocracy which one must never contradict or ridicule, whose statements, however faulty, may never be challenged for fear of punishment by the state. This can not, under any circumstance, be regarded as people being treated equally under the law. For people to be treated equally under the law would mean no special protection under the law for those groups of people whom we have decided in our imagined kindness-and-inclusivity are deserving of some manner of privilege and pampered protection under the grand and majestically swaying tits, inflamed ovaries, neutered balls and flaccid cocks of the governmental ban-hammer fantastic.

In upside-down-land, “equality” have come to mean treating some groups with special privilege and others without. For we have been lulled into sleep and hypnotized by ideologues who tricked us into believing that certain groups have always been privileged and so, to balance the scales, other groups must receive the same amount of privilege they imagine these other groups have. And this must be written into law. If no law exist to protect your group, you are by definition privileged. As opposed to those who are privileged enough to have private laws guaranteeing their special protection for being a precious and more worthy segment of the human population than you and your group is.

These are strange and mysterious times, dangerous and damaging. If our societies carry on with this downward spiral into censorship of speech and thusly of opinion, what once was beautiful will be completely lost. More so than we are at this point in time. When we are stuck with an entire generation that see no problems arising from limiting the rights of people to speak their mind; an entire generation that have been spoon-fed a certain kind of pseudo-rebellion that aims to imprison the mind instead of liberating it – for make no mistake, limiting what people are allowed to speak will also impact what and how people think – we will end up with a mono-culture. That is: a culture in which all thought, behaviour and speech is uniform, synthetic and mechanical. Where each and every response to anything is pre-manufactured and doctored to be the correct response, lest one should fall foul of some nefarious wrong-think and be cast out and imprisoned. One would, if one was so inclined, not be completely amiss in thinking that the political establishment have no second thoughts in governing peoples individual lives in minute detail. For they have willingly sought power, have they not? And anyone who willingly seeks power is, in the opinion of this majestically handsome juggler of words, one to be looked at with some severe suspicion.

Where once rebellion sought freedom of expression, sought the liberation of the individual, to cast off the restraints of society such as they were… rebellion now seek to curtail expression, imprison the individual and force new and fresh restraints in place to chain the individual to the collective so that the individual is indistinguishable from the collective… taking part in a certain subsection of society – that is, a community of like-minded people with the same interests aiming for a common goal – will be forgotten in place of identity-politics that force one to take part in a collective based upon superficial traits instead of similarities of interests or of thoughts or of opinions. The cerebral have been replaced with the visceral; the psychological replaced with the physical. The freedom of the individual being forgotten and neglected for the safety of the collective. And that is safety only for some collectives, leaving only enmity and rage left for other collectives.

Against this, one should and one must rebel. As long as one is able.

…Don’t be told what you want, you want/and don’t be told what you need/there’s no future, no future/no future for you/God save the Queen…

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  • Moiret Allegiere, 21.08.2019

Links:

My book – Howling at a Slutwalk Moon:

Vol 1 Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/107571074X
Vol 1 Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07TZTPDPR
Vol 2 Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075714184
Vol 2 Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07TZR25NL
Vol 1 Illustrated Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075717094
Vol 2 Illustrated Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075723078

Other links:
Redbubble shop: https://www.redbubble.com/people/Moiret/shop
Blog: https://moiretallegiere.wordpress.com/
YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC3IaCxAXE3pQd7PCdvHoaaA
Bitchute: https://www.bitchute.com/channel/EvbGZyTZSraY/
twatter: https://twitter.com/MAllegiere
Gab: https://gab.com/Moiret_Allegiere
Minds: https://www.minds.com/Moiret
Flickr: https://www.flickr.com/people/152465815@N04/

Peculiar Prescription Predicament (Or: I’ve got them ol’ Psychiatry-blues again, mama):

poppy red

All windows barred and shut and closed and covered. Silent swansongs from afar seek his ears and drool upon his knees and folded hands, folded now as if to pray, yet releasing only the golden voice of drowning whispers that might, on second glance, have been a scream of abstract epiphanies or rejected freak-ideas. Chewed, shot, regurgitated and shell-shocked, he lies there beneath ominous clouds of benzodiazepine-blue above, pining for release.

Masques line the walls of his single-celled organism living room cell, eyes that gaze and see nothing but blue-streaked shades of blues and the malevolence of benevolent pill-tyranny from shutter-bug masques and cliques that never once revealed their own face or true shape, yet claimed allegiance to the holy lost tradition of past healers mystical path.

Modern-day shaman rites in therapist couches and classrooms overrun by borderline infantile infanticide; Xanax double-takes that see young boys and men Xeroxed and ritualistically Ritalinized into completely oblivious oblivion. Or stroked and stoked into opinionated opiate-ponderings where and when all else fails on the long and winding road towards a cure for their peculiar predicament prescribed and defined as such from long-fingered hang-tooth nailbiters chewing on their last whistleblowing efficacy delicately, mulling the plight of their patients over in their heads above industrial-sized governmental coups in cocktail-party conversations with the best and brightest purveyors of rare drugs and synthesized herbal refreshments.

Or else euthanised euphorically and lovingly with Lithium and her alarmingly alluring grace; assorted whites and yellows and heavy metals; aluminium coils wrapped neatly around his neck and twisted tenaciously on the back of his tongue, spreading the woefully woke and aware inflammation further through his central nervous system, assaulting his brainstem and his neural interface, waking now and seeking madness, rampage, full frontal fevered frenzy.

…but succumbing to alluring traits in couch-lock cock-blocked bliss-and-blues as the medics and the healers both state with defined certainty that tribal states and views and love are not for him or his. For in his future lie naught but a blissfully unaware lifestyle-choice of hermits in the hermits cage and cave, built by the hands and hungry pens and mouths of vicious freelance isolationists and sanity separatists with concerted Ritalin or Concerta-grips around his morning bathroom routine, tangled in the lonely web of spiked-drink-greens upon his walls and consciousness that dread and die and dared defy the soothing chill and body-buzz of Venlafaxine-induced hyper-aware hyperactivity.

That lack of sleep from spiked brain-processing brought up from the depths of Effexor and her spectral shape mimicking amphetamines that kick-started body rush and muscle spasms, lockjaw-pains and clenched teeth and facial muscles… that then fed into an acute and immediate psychosis of delightful rarity and delicacy exploding from the shattered force of the tranquillized child lost deep within the mad-mind-maze of this spectral spectre spectator spectacle flooding the body with unknown chemicals and neurotoxins which were then to be quelled and conquered by the psychotics dream of anti-psychotics; graceful Zyprexa and her ruby lips injected into the tongue or corners of the eyes to kill the roaring madness and woefully misplaced energy whipped to a torrential monsoon by Venlafaxine. Oh boy.

Better soothe them nerves, old boy, to sleep and then to slumber some; take this casket or this suitcase or this ancient hearse filled to the point of structural collapse with alluring chemical remedies for your peculiar plight and predicament; uppers or downers of our choice by our hand and lingering pen-pal prescription delivered straight to your mailbox; instant Nirvana, instant enlightenment, instant radiant bliss, chronic constipation and a lingering impotence manifesting in the shape of a limp-noodled pinhead-dick.

And have we told you of our healers way, our ancient traditions brought to the front-and-centre of our world and dreary days; culture born from our holy ghost and divine presence; pop-psycho-babble amazingly popular in these streets named now after pharmaceutical companies dealing in bliss-by-the-bottle-and-the-handful salvations; four bucks a pop and we will promise transcendent pit-stone euphoria in blissful remedial Remeron sleep-and-slumber. We can promise Benzo-Buddha beauty and benevolence; numb and unfeeling, uncaring, a stoics dream and vital lifeline handcrafted by mechanical interventions in the deadlined supply-line and brought to life by starstruck seashore sellers of sensual sanity.

Or else we do have Prozac and Xanax, Cipralex or kiss-my-arse and various other tonics and bitters and swamp-snake snake-oils for your immediate release onto the loving bosom of God, in order to bring you to your knees praising God and his divine eternity in permanently persisting paradise; entire civilizations drugged into compliance and forgotten, lost within the murky swamps without a guiding light, with no need for guiding lights when there are no place to which one should wish to be guided.

Just flow and just feel nothing in this chemical bliss and castration of your muddled murky masculine mind blinded by insufferable individual ideology.

Soothed to the point of imaginary tentacle extraction and playtime alien brainwave interference by our galaxy of pop-goes-the-weasel pills that promise all and deliver nothing; all at once. And we can deliver salvation and we can deliver bliss and we can deliver you to the gates of paradise by scribbled lines from pens and needles in your feet and in your stomach and your heart and spine and soul and all.

For immediate release, in this day and in this age is prescribed from immediate need, from lack of patience, for lack of accumulated strength and wisdom to stand still in the coming storm, to call the storm to play ones own part and then become integrated into one self – conquered and defied, leashed and curtailed within and subdued by ones own strength of will.

The mouthy masques of psycho-babble babblelogues do babble on, solving issues of severe substance with substance-abuse court-ordered and mandated by vast and vague wishes of state-sanctioned uniformity – prescribed psychiatric prophylactic psycho-pills to conquer all and mend the beast – or, failing that, at the very least hiding said beast behind the merchant masques that stutter and then stammer so, to turn the beast within a docile, slumbering mess. Yet still being there within the brain and the fluctuating chemistry therein, it will once in a while pop up and come out to play, prompting us to crawl back into psycho-thematic couches and chairs to be prescribed some more and then some more, time and time again.

Or else be met with disbelief and stark defiance should we propose a differing solution to the drug-induced lazy euphoria of couch-lock-bliss and energies curtailed or wired or both at the same time, drowning in chemicals that tell the nervous system to do diametrically opposed things simultaneously; to be wired and to be subdued. To be fully aware and energetic, yet to be unaware and unconscious.

In this haze and marvelled madness lies he still; subdued and pill-popped, pondering his peculiar prescription predicament by the hand of God and the Government, merging, melding and meddling, becoming one and the same, indistinguishable and wonky and clad all in white flowing gowns.

 – Please like, share and subscribe

 – Moiret Allegiere, 17.08.2019

___________________________________________________________________________________________

My book – Howling at a Slutwalk Moon:Vol 1 Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/107571074X
Vol 1 Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07TZTPDPR
Vol 2 Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075714184
Vol 2 Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07TZR25NL
Vol 1 Illustrated Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075717094
Vol 2 Illustrated Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075723078

Other links:
Redbubble shop: https://www.redbubble.com/people/Moiret/shop
Blog: https://moiretallegiere.wordpress.com/
YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC3IaCxAXE3pQd7PCdvHoaaA
Bitchute: https://www.bitchute.com/channel/EvbGZyTZSraY/
twatter: https://twitter.com/MAllegiere
Gab: https://gab.com/Moiret_Allegiere
Minds: https://www.minds.com/Moiret
Flickr: https://www.flickr.com/people/152465815@N04/

Deliberately obtuse and lazy; hiding behind drivel to ignore facts:

kikkande på framtiden baklengs

Illustration: «Gazing at the Future Backwards», 2017, Moiret Allegiere

Being woefully, wilfully and deliberately obtuse does not befit anyone. It is not a good look for anyone, nor the tribe of anyone. Laziness is not a good character trait, especially when someone uses this trait in order to dissolve opposing sources shown to frantic virtue-wavers flagging their flannel-shirted self-flagellating morality atop ivory towers wherein lie the indoctrinated, inoculated, sheltered and echoing chambers of self-assured moral superiority.

For someone who is supposedly educated, who is supposedly intelligent, to act and to behave in a manner successfully proving the exact opposite is not exactly behaviour that generates any manner of trust in the soft-spoken or angrily shouted words of vain cotton-mouthed slurred-speech-enablers of the tongue-tied-and-twisted-variety.

And yet, when reading debates on the animosity of the sexes; on the victim-cult of social justice wherein self-proclaimed academes of supposed academic rigour stand silhouetted against the divine light of decades long studies on the emancipation of the mind and spirit through intellectual curiosity, the internalized, the mad and brilliant self-imposed obtuseness floats underhandedly to the forefront of their shiny and pimpled forehead, painting themselves as lazy and incompetent manufacturers of mindful fault lines within the messy mind of echo-chamber rhetoric where arguments that do not fall in line with their orthodox religion driven soul-lessly by dogmatic conviction are never once considered, never once taken into account and added to the vast databank that holds all their prefabricated retorts.

Self-choosing and picking paths to walk that are easily stumbled through by shouting regretful tear-duct-rape forced upon their bleary eyes by having to read something with which they disagree on a base-instinctual level, on a plainly emotional level, no matter how true or factual – they fall into lines of shivered spinelessness and pretend to misunderstand the argument or the facts and sources presented within the argument so as not having to take the act of disagreement based on truth into their cataclysmic cranial apocalypse.

Purposeful misunderstanding of the lines presented as a counter to their repeated-ad-infinitum statements makes sense within a tribe of people whose very being is existing in a state of permanent dishevelment gently prodded into their throats and gutless guts by years of indoctrination in lavish halls of lackademia.

The notion that anything might go against the grain of their ideology imprinted in their minds with hammer-and-sickle would mean that all that they have been taught, all that they have been told and all that which they have paid – or their parents have paid – exorbitant amounts for have been either false or heavily biased bile meant to drive a social movement forward, not the curious nature of man.

The arguments – or plain facts – disproving their metastasized cancer ideology can not properly be filtered through their lens of intolerant orthodoxy, and so can not properly be understood, and so must be wrong or they must have heard it wrong or it must have been written wrongly, giving cause for confusion in their minds so sprained from the free-form association of faulty academia that they stand unable to comprehend the perceived gibberish from opponents to their teary-eyed view of the world as is exactly as they experience it, nothing less and nothing more.

…Or exactly as they have been told that they experience it. Whether this tale of experience is true or not becomes completely irrelevant when ones mind and processes of thought have been beat into compliance with the governing rule of the lackademic tribe, all shining armour and trembling battle-cries, whose first and foremost governing rule is that those who take offence are always right if their tribe happen to align with one or other of the supposedly marginalized tribes of rampant hysteria and hypocrisy.

In not wanting to show any manner of intellectual weakness in the face of such a horrid thing as truth-fact-reason, truth-fact-reason of course being the name given to the three-headed dragon of their mythology; a fabled beast who is sent to bring forth Ragnarok and crush underfoot all who oppose evil and its mighty influence upon the world of men, they refuse to read the sources presented them that disprove their toxic victim-ways and calls for power and complete dominance. Thus, they feign being too lazy to read the sources just at this moment presented them so that they do not have to take into their laundromat-minds anything countering their fruit-flavoured views on the governing topics of the day.

Because being seen, deemed and considered lazy by all who live and work and interact with and around oneself would be a far better prospect than having to alter ones deeply ingrained views of the world and how the world actually functions, that being in wondrous and mysterious ways.

Being a lazy and dishonest bastard then becomes a virtue in and off itself, something to celebrate as it completely shelters one even more from the radical and frightening consideration that the world is far more nuanced and complicated than they or their tribe would like to paint and present it; a dubiously checked and lazily sealed envelope containing lavish words and long, ridiculous sentences full of mirth and fluff, saying nothing at all but giving the illusion of saying something profound.

Cheap excuses to hide the imminent truth somewhere in the back of the mindful and painful cavity that is their mindless minds, within the vortex created by the constant gnawing doubt in the back of their birdlike flutter-by minds created and maintained by the rigorous rigmarole of their echo-chamber and the dilettantes that spit and splutter in their footsteps to be granted inclusion into the holiest of holies, into the inner sanctum of acceptance and inclusion gained from the tribe and from the cult and the orthodoxy which constantly generate new rules of conduct, new dogma to adhere to in a constant flow of self-assured assuredness where no other thoughts or ideas are considered but the ones that their blatant blooming mediocre laziness pick-and-chose from the nebula generated in their black-hole-halls.

Such is the ways – in free fall – of cult-like thinking and behaviour; an absolute and absurd inability to see anything but that which is right at the tip of their noses, that which they have been told repeatedly is the only truth there is, which they have been shown repeatedly as being the only thing that exist, patting themselves on the back for their cleverness and closing their eyes and ears and mouths to anything not confirming their ways, their view, their world and their hollow holiness; their saintlike ascension into the highest reaches of their wordly paradise, a paradise wherein supreme morality reign supreme – that being supreme morality viewed through tribal allegiance and collective guilt, stating quite clearly and succinctly that my tribe good eternal, your tribe bad eternal, and may nothing ever change that view, that truth, that simplicity, amen.

 – Please like, share and subscribe

 – Moiret Allegiere, 03.08.2019

Beneath the Streets; A Song of Male Sacrifice:

Blue light spasm lowres

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 – Please like, share and subscribe.

 – Moiret Allegiere, 27.07.2019

_______________________________________________________________________________________

Links:

My book – Howling at a Slutwalk Moon:

Vol 1 Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/107571074X
Vol 1 Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07TZTPDPR
Vol 2 Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075714184
Vol 2 Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07TZR25NL
Vol 1 Illustrated Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075717094
Vol 2 Illustrated Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075723078

Other links:
Redbubble shop: https://www.redbubble.com/people/Moiret/shop
Blog: https://moiretallegiere.wordpress.com/
YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC3IaCxAXE3pQd7PCdvHoaaA
Bitchute: https://www.bitchute.com/channel/EvbGZyTZSraY/
twatter: https://twitter.com/MAllegiere
Gab: https://gab.com/Moiret_Allegiere
Minds: https://www.minds.com/Moiret
Flickr: https://www.flickr.com/people/152465815@N04/

Vile cacti sodomy: A ramble on the empathy-gap:

rock n roll will never die lowres

Illustration: «Rock’N’Roll will never die», 2019, Moiret Allegiere

 

In this weird and strange hay-stack world of ours, where all manner of elusive illusion reign supreme, one figment of fantasy tower above all other. That would be the illusion – the phenomenal fantasy – of some grand global network of conspirators aimed at making men the privileged sex. This is dubbed the nefarious patriarchy, thriving and revelling on the subjugation and enslavement of women.

The claim that the voices and concerns of women are never heard is so ridiculous given the state of things that wilful blindness is the only possible reason for people to make this claim. Personally, I much prefer the reptilian conspiracy to that of the patriarchy. I think it makes way more sense.

The fact of the matter is that the shrieking tunes of the feminist death-squads and marching bands are heard and given credence no matter how absurd and ridiculous their claims, no matter how much their statements are debunked time and again by people far more clever than both them and myself. If it is a problem predominantly facing women, you can bet your pontificating arse and snivelling snoot that heaven and hell will be moved in order to fix it. Or at the very least alleviate it. Even if it is a ridiculous first-world problem easily mended by taking some more responsibility for one self, as is the case with the horribly sexist air-conditioning; a non-issue and personal pet-peeve of mine, remedied quite easily by the woman or women in question putting on more clothes.

Imagine that.

Considering that the dress-codes for men in workspaces where air-conditioning exist tend to be far more rigid than they are for women, business-suits of course being the only acceptable form of clothing for a professional man, there is little wonder that men in these workspaces would be far warmer than the women in these spaces. A business-suit is a hot thing, warm as the devil himself. And not being allowed to wear anything but this suit; no shorts, no shirts, no nothing of the sort… All to give the veneer of professionalism sorely needed by the company, it would be fair to say that the air-conditioning should keep the space cool and that the women being cold should maybe do something as simple as putting on a sweater or wearing pants or something of that nature. Radical notion, I know. But that is what happens when you get radicalised by the horrible patriarchal reptile forces of the internet.

This is, of course, an incredibly sexist and horribly misogynist thing to say, as women should be free to do whatever the hell they want to do, even if that includes blaming other people for their problems of feeling a slight chill in the workplace when the only thing needed to do is to put on one more layer of clothing. I assume this will be held forth as a shining example of a man trying to control what women do with their bodies; not taking into account the dress-codes for men in these spaces.

This does not matter, obviously, because men being uncomfortable in the stifling heat and lack of oxygen in the sauna-like room temperature that seems to be preferred by women everywhere is just another manifestation of primeval male toxicity calling for the governance and patriarchal regulation of female body-temperatures. Where will it all end? At some point – men may be so rough and domineering as to keep the temperature of the room at a level where they are comfortable.

Cor blimey, governess, we can’t have that, now can we – men can not, under any possible circumstances, be expected to be comfortable? Holy hell and shining madness – soon you’ll be expecting they be allowed to sit comfortably as well… soon, you’d be expecting men to sit in the manner their biology dictate… and we’d see a horrid rise in episodes of vile and violent manspreading. Best get that man-spread-combating chair of monumental stupidity – designed by a feminist apparently considered a hero by the frail and fragile forces of frantic and frazzled feminism – rolled out to meet and greet the world at large. Knock it into the law-books; manspreading to be punished by public castration. That sounds good! YASSSSSS! Slay QUEEN!

…And various other ululations of feminist preposterous pandering and self-congratulations; patting themselves on the back on their path towards irredeemable and superfluous obsolescence.

Anyone not currently basking in the radioactive glow of unlubricated feminist sodomy lovingly delivered by the strap on cacti-dildo of some-odd dominatrix, should be able to see the lack of empathy where men are concerned scrawled across the crossword patterns of our wretched and decaying civilization. Born as much from men being the disposable sex as it is from lobbying feminist activities and academic institutions indoctrinating young minds into the victim cult, it is everywhere. Right out there in the open for all the world to see. If only all the world were willing to see it. The pain of men is unfortunately taboo to the vast void of the world, and so men who suffer and who struggle are shunned. They are told that there is something wrong with them for being men; that they deal with their emotions all wrong and so need to open up and talk about them. Only to be met with ridicule, shaming and god-knows-what when they do. Toxic masculinity causes men to not share their feelings and emotions. And fragile masculinity is the terminology of choice used to shame men when men do. Odd how that works; almost as though the ideology and preposterous ideas therein are manufactured to paint this picture that men are wrong no matter what and how they do.

See, women in general don’t seem to want this emotional openness in a man. And men know this. More oft than not, they know and learn this by experience, the moment they go from being boys to being men and get met with far less understanding and cozy comfort. So men learn how to process and handle their emotions on their own, in their own way. By and large.

When being told that this is the wrong way to go about it, and being shown that trying to talk about their emotions the way the feminist-infused school of thought demand brings nothing but the same feminist-infused school of thought crashing down on them with all the horrid power of the ancient ones, the breaking point is closing in.

And damaged people damage people.

Snap, crackle, pop.

Everyone has a breaking point.

In seeing how much protest any-and-all conference aimed at the issues men face meet, not only by the awesome might and fury of the feminist forces, but also by society at large – so much so that they are shut down, forced to change venues, forced into obscurity – one can not help but wonder how the claim that the voices of women are never heard can make any manner of sense. Nor how it makes any manner of sense that only the voices and concerns of men are heard. Consider the backlash to Cassie Jaye’s documentary the Red Pill, where genderless gender-studies professors of – apparently – no ill repute prop up their terrified and trembling forms on television to completely and utterly lie about the men’s rights movement and what it represents, sculpting clay-models and straw-men of men who want nothing but to be free to rape and plunder like Mongolian hordes. Consider television hosts in Australia admitting to not seeing the film, but bashing it nonetheless… consider screenings of the film being shut down on feminist insistence… and tell me, with a straight face, that issues facing men are taken seriously; that only the voices of men are heard to the detriment of women.

When the voices of the men’s rights movement are shut down at every turn and men are being constantly bombarded with negative messages regarding their sexuality, their sex and their masculinity.

Like the APA guidelines for dealing with men and boys, in which the finite and infant-like wisdom of the dominant ideology reign supreme, putting into place the notion of masculinity as some form of toxic and destructive ideology. IDEOLOGY. The psychiatrists will then, of course, deal with the issues boys and men face when coming in to seek help by telling them that it is their masculinity – that is – their identity as boys and as men that is the main problem facing them, nothing more, nothing less.

So, one would have to wonder – why is the suicide rate of boys and men so high? Not that we hear that much about the suicide rate and how many men kill themselves, of course. Because women attempt suicide more, so that must be the focus point of our societies in which women are hated so-so much. Never taking into account that the women who attempt suicide survive and the men that kill themselves die. Not taking into account that women who attempt suicide may be crying for help – something that, I absolute believe, should be taken seriously, but which is a far cry from actually dying by their own hand. Nor is it taking into account repeat attempts at suicide by the same woman, boosting the numbers some. Or “simple” self-harm documented as suicide attempts. Nevertheless, it is painted as some preposterous problem facing women first and foremost, as are all issues. Even when men are most affected, it must be somehow twisted and turned so that women are the main victims. Men dying don’t matter. Because women didn’t die. It makes perfect sense, of course. When one sex receives empathy and understanding and the other sex does not.

Yet, the claim is there: the empathy-gap does not exist, as we all should well know by now. It is for the lack of the empathy-gap that women who snap and kill their children or their partners prompt us to feel sorry for them, opening for dialogues of immense importance in regards to mental health and how horrible the state of women’s mental health is. Women are, in other words, and by the insistence of the dominant feminist forces in our society, crazy.

You will excuse me giggling like a rabid schoolgirl.

In so doing, they are creating all manner of ways in which the partner of the woman may be made to be the perpetrator after the fact, being that he most assuredly abused her to the point of her snapping and killing him or their children or both. What a splendid thing, what a tremendous stroke of luck, that he is dead then, and with no possible ability to defend himself. Victim-blame much, you trite troglodyte?

Sounds like the rhetoric of an abuser to me, but what the hell do I know? Men can’t be abused by women, after all. Because feminism said so. And since they said it, it must be true. Proven, of course, by the severe lack of domestic violence shelters for men… or for boys, given that boys above a certain age who are abused are not allowed within the premises of these shelters for women and their children fleeing the horrible and tyrannical patriarch at home. A son is only to be sheltered as long as he is a boy and not a man. For, when being a man, he clearly can take care of himself – as women are absolutely incapable of doing, apparently. The train of ridiculous logic that follows is circular – there are few – if any shelters – for abused men – there are many shelters for abused women – therefore it follows that women are abused more and men are abused less. This is despite the fact that feminists have protested and done all in their power to not have shelters available for men. This goes all the way back to the first shelters created by Erin Pizzey – a woman I have an immense respect and admiration for, and whose experiences I recommend any and all to read – in which she quickly learned that women who sought shelter were just as, if not more, abusive as the men from whom they sought shelter.

She then tried to open a shelter for abused men, and got met by a campaign of harassment by the feminist forces that is difficult to believe in a society in which feminism is painted as a force of good and nothing but. But that is the way of revisionist history and historians; she who controls the past controls the present. She also controls the future.

For the simplest and most profound example of the empathy-gap, one could simply point to male genital mutilation being allowed and – in many cases – recommended, whereas female genital mutilation is illegal, in order to best showcase the glaringly obvious presence of said empathy-gap. But that don’t matter none, because mutilating the penises of baby boys ain’t no problem. Boys don’t have bodily autonomy, my little pumpkin. And that is quite alright; nothing sexist or horrible about allowing one sex to be genitally mutilated at birth – shaming those who oppose it – and making it completely illegal for the other sex. Nothing wrong with using these severed foreskin in facial creams, for the vanity of women either. This is just to be expected; fresh baby-facials for the women, and shame on you if you disagree, or find this a bit icky. These women have all the right in the world to smear severed baby foreskin on their wrinkly faces, you boorish blue-collar slobs. As if the genital integrity of boys mattered more than the unwrinkled countenance of some past-her-prime woman in superficial distress; woe betide you, should you dare oppose the facial gluttony of the barbarian queen.

Honk, fucking honk.

I could go on and on about this. This is just a rambling introduction to the empathy-gap; a roguish ballad sung by a bearded bard riddled with spontaneity, insomnia and sudden bursts of insanity. There is a lot to unwrap, to ponder and consider in this silly world of ours.

I will leave you with some more thoughts on incels, which I touched upon in an earlier piece – “Shame and Ridicule on the Howling Plains of Twitter”, available on Bitchute, YouTube and my blog. Incels have been on my mind quite a lot lately, and I am pondering doing some larger piece on the phenomena of inceldom, if I find more thoughts on this accumulating within the vortex of my cranial madness.

Norway has a television channel very much like the BBC, which of course is far more than a television channel now. Funded by the population by force and the government by choice. It is also infected very much with the vampiric forces of regressive progressivism and the holy ghost of feminism, obviously making them less-than unbiased. Even when they claim that they are unbiased.

That is the problem when people are so engulfed by their beliefs and convictions that they do not consider it properly – they do not see their own bias. This is a very human thing. For itself, there is nothing wrong with it. We all have confirmation bias, one way or the other. It is wrong when something that everyone is forced by law to pay for does not represent the interests of the population in any objective way, mirroring only one set of beliefs, values and convictions and claiming this to be unbiased, thus colouring the mainstream view of the thing by presenting itself as nuanced and unbiased.

Some years back now, they had a news-article on their website about a woman in a wheelchair complaining that the lack of interest she received from men – when sitting in a wheelchair, as opposed to pictures where she was not in her wheelchair – on tinder was a form of sexual harassment in itself, as she felt herself ignored by men for being in a wheelchair. Hardly worth doing an article about, I thought then and I think now. There followed a few lines about her being just as deserving of love as someone not wheelchair-bound.

Maybe she should have used some of that baby-foreskin facial cream. That might have helped. Probably not though. Wouldn’t have helped. Not with those legs.

What sticks out here is, of course, that she sounds very much as though she is involuntarily celibate, forced into a state of permanent singlehood by forces beyond her control. As though she is one of those disgusting incels we’ve been hearing so much about. You know; the ones who feel as though they are entitled to companionship and to sex. Those horrible people whose situation in life has been turned into a quick and easy insult for disgruntled feminists and their orbiting white knights to pull out at their whim and fancy whenever arguments are lacking.

If said incel is a man, of course.

If a woman shows up and acts as though she is entitled to love, companionship and sex from men, she is met with empathy and understanding. To such a degree that woe-is-me type news articles pop up from the wood-works and make themselves heard to make us feel sorry for her and do all that we can in order that her plight of being single – that is, being an incel, is alleviated. For how could any man be so horrible as to have romantic and/or sexual preferences on their own? Men are not allowed this, you see. If a woman shows interest in a man, the man is expected to reciprocate in kind – lest he be considered a superficial arsehole. Does not matter whether the woman is fat, or in a wheelchair, or whatever it may be that throws the man off and makes him not turn on the testosterone-fuelled rape-cannon below his belt – if he shows no interest in her if she shows interest in him, there is something wrong with him. Some would maybe call this behaviour entitlement, but what do I know? The inverse does not apply, but that is part and parcel of life in the strange purgatorial afterlife we have inhabited since 2012.

This is not the only article I have read in which female incels are shown care and compassion that male incels have never been shown, nor ever will be shown.

I sent a complaint to this state-sanctioned, populace-and-government funded channel of ours regarding this article. I worded this complaint properly, of course. Thinking that – since I bloody well pay for this mass of propaganda and nonsense, I have every right in the world to complain.

In this complaint, I asked them if they would publish the same kind of article were it a man complaining about – in essence – not getting laid due to circumstances beyond his control.

They never replied.

As they usually never do whenever I complain. I have sent them a few complaints in my time. Only when their bias is clearly shining through, proving that they do not for one flat-farted second represent the interests of the people who are forced to pay for their spewing of biased bile.

There is that which is so strange to me; that mist floating out there on the horizon, within which all manner of ghosts and ghouls and terrors roam; that outpouring of empathy and understanding where women are concerned, that majestic lack of it where men are concerned. Men, who feel a lack of companionship and of sex are scorned and shunned and ridiculed; are told that they are not entitled to sex, nor are they entitled to a woman’s time. Which I, admittedly, agree with. I also agree that women are not entitled to sex, romance, companionship or what have you.

However; women who feel entitled to this are given empathy and understanding; are given a place in our government-funded public broadcasters of propaganda and sanitized trash to vent their frustrations in regards to this, to lay all the blame on men for not wanting to bang her, for not wanting to enter into a relationship with her for her being in a wheelchair.

And it is not that I don’t have empathy for her. I actually do. Just as I have empathy and understanding for men who are in a similar situation to her. It is that society at large demonize men who are in that position – men who long for meaningful relationships, men who long for physical touch, who long for anything beyond the purely platonic. It is that our newspapers and our public broadcasters paint these men in a horrid light; as haters of women and as rapists-in-waiting, as potential mass-murderers and whatever they’ve got to throw their way, whilst simultaneously making empathetic fluff-pieces about women who act just in the same way that these so-called foul, horrid, basement-dwelling, neckbearded, fedora-wearing incel-bastards do.

Women who feel entitled to sex, love, romance and relationships are to be listened to and understood. And be allowed to shame men for not wanting to fuck them, love them or caress them.

Men who feel entitled to sex, love, romance and relationships are to be shamed and ridiculed. For wanting to fuck women, be caressed, or loved by women.

And yet, there is no empathy-gap to speak of.

And all men’s dreams are torn asunder.

And all men’s love denied eternal.

And all men’s pain invisible.

And all men’s all lost.

And still, men are supposedly the ones whom all the world listen to.

 – Please like, share and subscrive

 – Moiret Allegiere.24.07.2019

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