Why I am an Anti-feminist, part 7

«Selfportrait as a jester, a rogue and a bit of a bastard»

This wilful misunderstanding of the social game as well as the sexual game tuned us onto a frighteningly forceful application of new rules and guidelines that don’t really work in accordance with how human beings interact.

Quite a lot of our interaction and our communication is non-verbal, based on body-language… subtle hints and movements and changes in tone and mannerisms.

Which is why, for example, sarcasm is so difficult to read that Redditors tend to use that “/s” to indicate smart-ass sarcasm. Otherwise, it is taken as serious. For lack of body-language and tone of voice. Given that our communication these days tend to be more written than it is spoken, more digital than it is physical… I wonder if we have not removed ourselves too quickly and too hastily from physicality, confusing ourselves to believe that the rules of face-to-face communication need to mirror that of written communication, instead of the other way around?

Or – more frightening – that the lack of physicality, the lack of body-language has created a generation incapable of reading, using and comprehending body-language? To such an extent that a friendly touching of the arm or the shoulder can be interpreted as some terrible affront, something akin to assault – or sexual assault. As we have seen at least one dude – young, shy, awkward teen – be sentenced to a fine of 250 GBP and five fucking years on the sex offender registry for touching a girl on the arm and the waist on two separate occasions. What used to be normal human interaction is now considered a terrible trespass on someone else’s bodily autonomy…

This should be terrifying. It should be a sign that we – that is the western world – are declining rapidly into our own undoing. When someone can be judged and sentenced – by law – for something so minor, so petty, so insignificant, we are not on the right track. Not as a society, not as a civilization and not as a people. If we have become so frail that we can not handle normal human interaction without breaking down in hysterics, spending social resources… no, wasting social resources and time, we are manufacturing our own doom and demise. Now, of course, it is only women who are allowed to be so frail – men still have to put up with just about anything this shambling mess of a society can throw our way. Any complaints will bring shame and ridicule our way, and loads of non-arguments, stupidity and personal attacks from arrogant imbeciles floating in the steaming pile of their own hubris. That hubris has the same aroma and texture as grade-A Bullshit, by the way.

On Friday, the 25th of October, I was out walking my dogs. I was approached by a cute lil’ old lady. She seemed to be in her mid-to-late seventies, though she might have been older. This lil’ old lady was all smiles and laughter, complimented me on my beard – actually touched it, then proceeded to touch my arm and told me that she enjoyed seeing men having beards nowadays. On account of masculinity. We then chit-chatted for a little while, before we parted ways with a “good-bye” and a friendly waving of the hands. Body-language again.

This small chance encounter made my day, if I am to be perfectly honest. It was one of those slightly surreal every-day happenings that don’t mean all that much, but can bring about quite a lot of joy. It is those small things that make a difference. That is what ought to be cherished. And remembered.

Such small things – such tiny compliments – I believe, is particularly important to men who seldom – if ever – receive compliments on their appearance. Or compliments at all, for that matter. Which is a sad state of affairs all on its own. It says a lot about our societies, though I can not possibly comment on that without the inevitable “male tears” and “fragile male ego” nonsense from the very empathetic feminist squads hiding in the bushes and believing themselves to be above any form of criticism.

Such small gestures of kindness is just that – small gestures of kindness – unless you are caught in the throes of hysterics, lured into the belief that everyone is out to get you. Which is what feminism has managed to lure women into believing – that all men are out to get them, preferably for rape – with or without given consent (heh) – but quite possibly and probably also for violence and murder.

This is nothing but fear-mongering, akin to psychological terrorism, for all I care.

This fear-mongering is perpetrated to such an extent that what used to be normal human interaction – light touches, friendly gestures of intimacy, trust and bonding – or a friendly invitation to intimacy, trust and bonding – is now considered threatening, is now considered violence, is now considered assault or sexual assault… if it is a man doing it. And, no, intimacy does not equal sex.

To my eyes, this is nothing more than an extension, the natural end-game and only possible outcome of the old tattle-tale that men have only one thing on their minds. And that one thing is sex, I have been led to believe by scores of women who seem perfectly able to read minds, as well as being perfectly unable to listen to what men have to say on the matter. There can be no other reason for a man to touch a woman than a wish for sex. This despite how or where he touches her – intent be damned, context be damned, everything be damned but the subjective feelings of the woman. It doesn’t matter much what men say in regards to men, the male brain, the male body, male sexuality or what-have-you. It matters what a woman says. Doubly so if it is a feminist woman, and quadruply so if she is a professor of gender studies, feminist basket-weaving and underwater gynocratic ballet. Because this does make perfect sense, you see, in a society in which everyone is entitled to their opinion as long as they are not male, in which case they are not allowed opinions on this, that or the other. Unless they align with feminist thought and fancy, in which case they are almost entitled to their opinion on this, that or the other. Except this thing, that topic and that other thing.

Oddly enough, I doubt the police would be willing to take me seriously if I told them that I felt violated and assaulted by this lil’ old lady touching me without my explicit consent or invitation. On two occasions! Oh, the horror, oh the humanity, and so forth and so on.

This is not to say that I think people should just ignore their own personal boundaries or the personal boundaries of other people. I believe nothing of the sort. Still, there has got to be an understanding that human beings – much like other animals – are physical beings first and foremost.

Our bodies, our stance, our unspoken language, communicate far more than our words ever will. It is easy to spot a liar based on their body-language, for example. Words can say this and they can say that and they can say the other. This does not matter if the language of your body says quite the opposite. And language – such as we have it – is a fairly new invention, all things considered. It is a great tool, to be sure and to be certain – though, admittedly, it may also be a barrier.

Is it not incredible to think that people who do not speak the same language, who do not even speak languages similar to one another may still communicate quite effectively, understand the other person and also make the other person understand them simply through hand-gestures, body-language and things of that nature? It might not make for the most intricate of discussion, but it is still enough to understand the other on small things.

I think it is absolutely incredible. Though I am going off on a bit of a tangent here.

What I am trying to get at is that I believe we have, in many ways, killed – or at the very least effectively subdued – a very normal and human form of interaction and communication through mass-hysteria – and possibly through an over-use of written communication. We replaced body-language with pictograms in the form of emoticons. Because we had to figure out some way to communicate body-language, pose and facial expressions to convey properly the tone and as such the intent of a message, of the written word.

Communication is dead. Oddly enough due to communication becoming more frequent, constant and easy. What a strange world we live in. The smaller the world gets, the more we are in touch with each other, the more we lose touch with each other. Drifting away, as it were, into self-contained bubbles of social media and other such maladies of the modern age where nothing much matters but the image we can present of ourselves – an image that is superficial… which may, at a single word, be shattered and broken like the illusion it is. For we present and reflect only the best of ourselves – or, rather, what we believe to be the best of ourselves, how we would like to be perceived rather than who we are. It is not so much deceiving other people as it is deceiving ourselves, duping ourselves into believing that who we present ourselves to be through social media is who we either are or who we really want to be. Or who we ought to be, empty virtue-signalling and hollow flashing of morals included. This can not possibly be sustainable. The best way – in my honest opinion – to get to know oneself is to seek solitude and meditation, to learn how to be alone, how to enjoy being alone. Which we seem to never be in this age of social media madness, constantly competing with our digital neighbours over petty things… my lawn is greener than yours. And my house is cleaner. And my virtue is greater. And my kids match my sofa. And I was groped twice by a stranger, whereas you were only groped once. I deserve more sympathy, more empathy and more of that sweet victim-cred. Pound me too, you malicious bastard. (Why won’t anyone pound me?)

This avoidance of physical communication is worsened quite a bit through the ridiculous weaponization of female fragility employed so effectively by the frantic forces of feminism, demanding every touch – however small and insignificant – be deemed verboten, considered a horrible affront and assault… if it is a man touching a woman. The same goes for a man merely looking at a woman in a manner she feels is improper. Cue the swooning, the sniffing salts and the whole shebang. I fail to see how this constant state of hysteria… of inner turmoil and frailty is a reflection of strength. But that will have to be as it is, I suppose. There is little personal strength in breaking down over small and insignificant things. Though, as I suspect is the case and the point, there is quite a lot of social power for women to present themselves to be weak and in need of protection. Which is where this weaponization of fragility always ends up; a call to change this and change that so women shall feel safe. With an emphasis on feel.

I am absolutely certain that women are far more touchy-feely than men in general. Where men punch each other on the shoulder in a gesture of trust and camaraderie, women hug. As an example. Not to mention that women tend to complain about men’s lack of intra-sexual intimacy… or intimacy at all… or complain if there is too much of it, for that matter.

Of course, the feminist hordes tend to explain this all away with this nonsensical screech of theirs that men have nothing to fear from women, whereas women have much to fear from men. For men are such terrible, vile and violent creatures that any touch, however slight, is an act of violence and of rape. Therefore, women may touch men and men may not touch women. Mental gymnastics to properly explain away why this call of theirs for equality is ever so lacking in equality. Odd that they fail to mention the scores of white knights that jump into battle to save m’lady from the horrible trespasses of the man, with a good ol’ fashioned arse-whooping of the beastly man the result more often than not. Oh well, never mind, no matter.

As proven, however, through the witch-hunt that is #metoo and other such trite and treacherous social movements, men have much to fear from women utilizing the government, social media and the press as their weapon of choice… in so doing, if there is no punishment by the justice system, there is sure to be social ramifications, rendering the man effectively dead and imprisoned, a social outcast from now until the end of time. It does not matter whether the courts find him innocent or not. The court of social opinion will still remember, will still pass judgement and will still punish. Add to this that the #metoo movement excluded men completely, thus creating the illusion that only women experienced things of this nature – as is, of course, most befitting of a feminist movement hell-bent on portraying men as terribly as possible and women as saintly as possible – and you’ve got yourself a decent firmament to build upon where the re-writing of the social contract is concerned, once again with women up front and centre. Women are victims, men are perpetrators. And so, women must be protected from men through implementations of laws that are anything but gender-neutral, even when feminism claims to wish for complete gender-neutrality. Interesting, is it not? Take a look at the recent alterations of the penal system in the UK, and you will see what I mean. Equality under the law has come to mean that the law favours women… by the letter of the law, not only the bias of any judge or jury in the courtroom. It is frightening. And it is spreading like a cancer.

…For that is sure-as-the-living-breath equal treatment of the sexes; one set of rules for one sex to follow, and a whole other set of rules for the other, be those rules societal or governmental, be those laws unspoken social contracts or written laws. Anything goes. And anything contrary to equal treatment of the sexes is for sure equal treatment of the sexes when seen through the frantic eggshell-frail enlightenment of the feminist hive-mind AD. the current year. Equality means whatever the hell the feminist forces of frail and fragile weaponized femininity say that it means at any given moment. And to hell with objections, logic, reason and other such trite trash from the patriarchal cis-white-heteronormative rape-brigades and their white supremacy, whether those that object be men or women, black or white. One is, after all, either a feminist or a sexist. And this is not totalitarian, nor is it tyrannical. For feminism told me so. It says so in the dictionary, remember.

You can find the definition of feminism directly underneath the word “manipulation” or the phrase “manipulation of language” in the dictionary.

I suggest a popularization of the term “Femipulation”. Because why the hell not? The feminist hive-mind gender terms for the sole purpose of insulting and belittling men and masculinity, so why should they not have a taste of their own medicine?

I am also very fond of “Ovary-acting”, “Cunt-fusing” and “Fem-steria”.

Besides; “Man-ipulation”? “Man”? As in “Men do this”? Bah, humbug – this will not stand. Men don’t femipulate. Only feminism femipulates with all the femcels they can muster.

Obviously, I jest. As much as I enjoy using such words in jest – to shine a light on the stupidity of words such as “mansplaining” and “manspreading”, I am not serious in my usage of them. Nor would I ever use them in any proper discussion or argument… should I ever poke my head out of this hermit-cave of mine to partake in a discussion, which I highly doubt… But see – see how easy it is – to feign outrage… to wilfully perceive something as something other than what it is. History, herstory, humankind, peoplekind, woman, womxn, womyn, whamyns…

We should never have graduated from being apes. We are barely domesticated primates, I think. Particularly so when watching the bars close and people file out drunkenly at night, all screeches, gibbering, roars and shit-flinging; body-language, touching, hugging, intimacy and all that jazz… which we seek to outlaw, eliminate and annihilate until we all live inside bubbles of bloated self-importance or tragic self-segregation, later to blow up from lack of oxygen or from overdosing on sniffing our own farts… until the whole thing goes down the drain in a cosmic gang-bang where only our lack of sense and empathy gets a taste of the good old fashioned willy-wetting and the humpbacked beast of a thousand backs… where mutual respect and co-operation is given a forced double penetration by the terrible beast of the apocalypse, this time wearing the wart-speckled face of political correctness and wielding the double-edged dildo; one dildo named “shame” and the other “ridicule”… And I looked… and beheld an angle…

All the while, the world grows ever more chaotic, society grows ever more confined and controlled and regulated… down to the minutest detail of our day-to-day lives being governed and censored. For the political must be personal and the personal must be political, to such an extent that people prod their noses where they have no justifiable reason to prod their noses, mingling in the affairs of other people and asking “why does she cook dinner, what do you do then?”… ignoring any and all which the man do in a relationship in order to shame him for having a partner that does anything in a relationship.

We are not on the correct path. We are breaking down. Bit by bit, we are eroding and slipping into the sea. Caught in self-aggrandizement, hollow virtue-signalling, petty squabbles and this constant state of confrontation, resentment, anger and self-importance to the point of absolute absurdity. Everything has become vague and wishy-washy, washed out with bleach until nothing means anything and anything can mean everything. Because nothing matters any more. We have had a good run of relative stability. And now it all comes crashing down. With a whimper and a shiver, not a giant explosion, not a gigantic bang.

Here ends part seven. Join me next week for more of this cruel and unusual ramble, lest I fall into the singularity and get swallowed by cocaine-covered clowns. Makes about as much sense as anything, I suppose. Honk. Honk.

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  • Moiret Allegiere, 09.11.2019

Lonely Trainstation Blues – Poetry for the Lost Boys, Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07ZB6K2JX
Lonely Trainstation Blues – Poetry for the Lost Boys, Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1692495518

Howling at a Slutwalk Moon, a collection of previous blog posts:
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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
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A Good Roll, a Decent Wobble and a Lengthy Tumble

«Bareback Insomnia»

Myths and superstitious legends take their toll. We had a good run… and a greater roll… and the lengthiest tumble… past glories are duplicated in a faulty paper-copier… to come out broken, ripped and torn in a weird copycat display… a shattered mirror reflecting freedom and liberty… where freedom is drawn hastily, outlined in strange dystopian prose, painted with the ink and trembling ire of surveillance through social and governmental power… Of course you are free and have your freedom, sir and saintly madam, as long as you don’t act free and act out your freedom.

The hard and the soft power combined, standing in harms way to harm the way and shatter sheltered minds a-plenty… To then permanently save them from shattering through rules and regulations designed so that no-one of the sheltered and the sacred shall ever have to hear anything they dislike… which, according to the whim of the double-speak fairy Godmother of supreme morality, may or may not include someone merely disagreeing. It all depends on the pre-designed political correctness of stated opinion or fact or truth. It is, after all, far more important to be morally and emotionally correct than it is to be factually correct. So spake the fleeting fairy of flimsy morality and flimsier virtue. Of course you are free to speak and express yourself through freedom of speech and expression… as long as you accept all these limitations on your freedom to speak and to express yourself… as well as the governmental penalties should you transgress and act out that freedom…

Hate-speech laws ain’t nothing but a slow, dark cloud of tyranny… it is a storm beating down on us from afar… an inevitable decline into compelled speech… of forced conformity of thought and of opinion. Making it illegal to say something must simultaneously mean it is illegal to hold that opinion. If you can not speak your mind, how can you possibly have a free mind? Of course I believe in freedom of speech, but freedom of speech should not extend to ideas which I object too….

On a superficial level, we stand free as free could be… to express whatever and whichever… to walk the path less trodden by feet less swollen… complete expression of self is absolutely allowed… though you can not express disagreement with someone else’s complete expression of self, should your values in some way align with the dark side of the force… And what is Light and what is Dark is decided in the dark by drunk hens henpecking social interaction to drunk, drugged and despairing death. Should your values not align, you are free game for the feral forces of the mob and of the pack. And the government, for that maddening matter. Slow death by a thousand pecks.

Hounded, de-personed, un-personed and disappeared loudly, with horns blaring, through the frenzy of the pack; the soft power of sublime social pressure… wild hens hunting the heretic by any means necessary… threats of violence and use of violence is all part of the game; no need to argue or discuss. Attack the person, not the argument. Superficial ad hominem… Reductio Ad Hitlerium, ya dig? All who do not fall into this is fucking Nazi-scum, alt-right pack-rats, fascist collaborators extraordinaire.

After all, the person is not a person any longer. The person is an object, an enemy, a scapegoat upon whose frame all scorn and hatred and ridicule may be placed and laid to rest upon the browbeaten skeletal frame of his simian shoulders.

…Insert Sure, Jan meme, for maximum efficiency in dismissal and put-down… rid yourself of toxic fuckaroos…

External appearance is now marvellously and magically, through smoke and mirrors, through wild and lengthy yarns spun in campfire-tales told frantically by mad-eyed unblinking hens, far more important than internal whatever… content of character matters little when faced with the overwhelming argument of skin-colour, sexuality, sex and gender. Ho-ho-ho, bloody well fuck off.

If you look like this, you’ve got to think like that… it goes without saying… tribal belonging through external appearance first and foremost… a subversive, a remarkably childish superficial take-over manufactured in myriad mind-melt manipulations… to think like this, you ought to look like that. Don that uniform and wear the insignia of the tribe, burnt and branded on your buttocks by your handlers… you’ll wind up without anything resembling true within… without within, within stands without. Shattered and shamed, tattered and torn, broken between a rock and a hard place… or between a cock and a hard face… You are not allowed that hair, buddy-boy, lest you swear allegiance to this tribe… nor that colour of pants… might as well tattoo a swastika on your inner thigh, you lowly, low class something-or-other.

Superficial values is identity-politics wish-wash. It is smoked reams of light masquerading as epiphanies to break the boredom of modernity. Grand words, the grand wazoo and much ado about abso-fucking-lutely nothing…

First world problems presented as profound difficulties… whimsical realms of absolute and acute madness; inflammation of the right and the left brain hemisphere… epileptic fits of tongue-twisting tattle-tales… the new academic lingo is speaking in tongues in histrionic fits of crazy ecstasy… a religious trance to last a hundred years… or two seconds flat, replaced seconds later with some new petty grievance-fuelled annoyance, presented in the same histrionic ecstasy… All hail the high Goddess Annoying Intellectual Ramble and her clouded descent into the babbled afterlife.

Ramble on, my wayward world… there’ll be cheese when you are done. Cheese and whine for maximum madness.

At times, I think we need a good old fashioned war. At the very least, please give us a small crisis… something substantial in this dawn of the insubstantial, in this doom where anything means nothing and nothing means anything, in this age of the great gobble-de-gook, the fantastic swoon, the hallowed swan, the wondrous woo, the gargantuan woozy whimsy of wilful vanity wandering wonderingly within the borders of our manufactured frailty… our remarkable parody of reality.

All who dwell within our borders are set to collapse at a moment’s notice, mind and sanity and inner strength bastardized and sodomized in equal measure… the fall, the oh so timely fall into superficiality and moral beastiality… excuse me, moral inner-species erotica… with not a smidgeon nor a shade of shame and self-reflection to be found or to be had.

We have grown depraved and decadent, bereaved of manual labour and drowning in automation… we have nothing to seek or reach… so few hurdles to overcome that we need to manufacture them for those whom we have considered worthy of having hurdles… and we need to neglect them for those we have considered unworthy of having hurdles… You can tell who is whom by their superficial characteristics, dont’cha know

Big Brother is watching… as is Big Sister; the hard and the soft moral bludgeon… one with a monopoly on violence, the other with a monopoly on social death and shame and decay… stray but a little from the trodden path, the accepted discourse and opinion, and the forces of the weak and of the frail – as they chose to refer to themselves – will beat down on you with all the frail force that can be gathered at the tumbling Touretted tick of an NPC, render you all but dead and imprisoned within the cage of what-is-ok-to-speak-and-to-say…

The age of conformity sprung forth from the grimy loins of political correctness, where facts don’t matter and matter is insubstantial… and something that sorely needs to be said and be spoken may not be said, spoken or discussed despite the importance of the thing… for it would be politically incorrect and so deemed verboten by the frail forces that dominate the discourse… do not say that; it could potentially hurt someone’s feelings, buddy-boy. Even if your brothers are dying, do not say that. For it will hurt the feelings of the frail forces that rule with an iron glove; the soft tyranny of manufactured pettiness and frailty… the sham that is the social game and social rulebook intertwined and conspired to smack you between the eyes, and then to lay eggs within your central nervous system. Spreading, inflaming your tissue and killing you slowly.

We’ve got the hive-mind hierarchy of frailty, also known as the progressive stack… You can be attacked in any manner if you are at the bottom of the progressive stack… or was that the top? It’s all so topsy-turvy, upside down and uncomprehendingly cunt-fusing.

A for effort, fail for execution… dragged outside for a proper execution for failing to follow the flow of the fault-line of the frail and frantic few… the choir offended, my gooey goodness, how loudly they sing and shriek and whine and mutter most incoherently in the grimy greed and darkness of their silent superficiality… their vast calls for ideological superiority…

In the bubble, safe and sheltered, shameless and superficial, pointing to this and only this to state with absolute certainty that you are that and only that; a terrible straight white male – the worst of the bunch, a natural force of pure evil… Antichrist sprung from the loins of a fertile ball-blasted Basilisk Cock-goblin to wreak bloody havoc on the world and all that dwell within.

Boiled, and boiled and then reduced to the bare essentials of appearance; straight, white, male… or pale, male and stale, as the saying goes.

That is all you shall be judged upon, and to hell with anything going on within… within is out, ya know, ya see, ya dig; without is in – the hip, woke hipster squad deemed it so incredibly appropriate to appropriate stupidity in the guise of woke intellectualism, see. Now take your toxic whiteness, your toxic maleness and your toxic social construct heteronormative heterosexuality and kindly bugger off and die.

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  • Moiret Allegiere, 06.11.2019

Lonely Trainstation Blues – Poetry for the Lost Boys, Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07ZB6K2JX
Lonely Trainstation Blues – Poetry for the Lost Boys, Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1692495518

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
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Redemption Song:

There are those who believe in redemption.

…Those who rush in with clown-like drive-by so-called take-downs, snivelling penitent cluck-clucks as the golden rays of the sun bounce of their shrivelled husk, polished and whitewashed to reflect saintlike self-reflection.

…A certain kind of self-reflection forced upon them by hollow religious sermons meant to make them unburden their beastly masculine shape and form of anything resembling masculinity. That is to say: masculinity as viewed through the mute liturgy of cross-cultural feminist zealotry; masculinity as the brutal cross that only men have to bear, upon which they are to later be crucified atop the hallowed peaks of self-flagellated Golgotha.

…A cross and burden which they must carry with them underneath the vice-like grip and ever-judging eyes of this awesome Goddess of immediate pussy-willow whips and thongs, of self-congratulatory neoteny and fruitful hips, through whose eyes and wretched form all men are sinners singing songs of sinner’s vice and virtue none.

…Within whose judging god-hand grasp and heaving bosom none shall ever be wholly and fully redeemed, yet still see and then consider their murmured self-inflicted martyrdom for the curse and for the cause as a source of grand amusement, picked then doubly-pecked at time and time again with angry knitting needles through their tortured manly eyes, their horrid, horribly horrifying perverse male gaze, or through their dubious liar-tongues that wriggle so amusingly as they choke to death on their own self-sought and self-bought self-immolation.

Never to be fully acknowledged within the church and its angelic walls, its trumpeter halls, its holy smear of period-blood, but to be referred to endearingly or mockingly as “allies” for the noble cause, caused by sex and sex alone, forever doomed to stand without the whining wall and holler at those who did not wish to enter that they are crackpot sinners, brutish bores, never to be absolved of sin.

…as he is surely soon to be…

…for all the pilgrim steps he shall endure upon the path to absolute redemption…

As all truly penitent sinners cursed with cock and balls are want to do, must he now and ever and anon carry the wormwood cross, the snivelled cluck-cluck, into the unwashed masses and their meaty mouths to meet and greet and then dole out calls for redemption as redemption is; acknowledge first the grandest of all earthly sins – the never-seen nor never-heard before privilege of being male (add a sin or more for also being white) – and then work through and then come out the other side, crawling on your knees to beg forgiveness for the sins of you and of your father and your fathers father and so forth, back through time and through the ages until you meet the protoplasmic ooze, until you greet the primordial chaos-soup from whence all men were ripped and torn, born from rape and ravaged ruin, born from perplexing shame and into shame reborn and born again, the original sin once spurted in the face of sinners straight from sinners cocks; a semen-speckled bukkake from the majestic godhead and his cohort, the grand dragon patriarch himself.

Though redemption is dearly sought and even more dearly bought, it is one to never be delivered. For the sins and trespasses one wishes to be absolved off are so grandiose in nature, so undeniably vicious and evil and cold-hearted and mean that none can say or see or think or mean that any true redemption can be had, nor absolution passed upon the shrivelled cluck-cluck husk or the beacon of his armour, rusted and then polished ‘till it turns to glass and passes then as passing gas into the stratosphere, shattered and then chewed and then passed up and passed on and spat out unto the dirt and earth where dead men walk who passed this way before, who self-flagellated ‘till their backs were sore and whipped of all but blood and bone.

For the truest of all that is true, and the realest of all that is real is the knowledge, festering at the bosom’s core of the Goddess’ high embrace – that all men are vicious and are born that way from the loins and in the groin then tangled and entwined.

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  • Moiret Allegiere, 02.10.2019

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/

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/

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

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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
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Vol 1 Illustrated Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075717094
Vol 2 Illustrated Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075723078

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