What the Fuck Are You Dancing For?

The busy steel-mill explosions; the coal-mine exoskeletons,
the streets with their stench of piss and spinal-taps,
the harlots, the hangmen, the hurriers?

The busty lock-jawed barmaid, fine fermented sugar-drinks,
the banshee howls of academic arsonists,
the doom-platoons that preach of death?

Rare silverware-collectors, trick-hopped debt-enforced enslavers,
tolerance-flailers with pin-striped politics-wedgies,
Morality-policing puritans with their fifty shades of fuck?

Who are they – the ones you are dancing for?

Lopsided loot-crate exclusives, corporate overlord executives,
multi-level global corporate-sanctioned rebellion,
kindergarten-level ethics of offence?

The obscenity-trials of the year, flaccid eye-rape and despair,
the silly silencers promoting postnatal abortion rights,
automatons choking on their fragrant morality-void?

Globalist safe-haven abandonment nations, cultural explosions,
new-age segregationists mumbling Jim Crow sentiments,
emancipation of dry-heaved emotional flatulence?

Who are the ones you are dancing for?

Mediocre musical wastelands, death of beauty and of truth,
a lonely G-string tuned to burlesque slut-walk symphonies,
flip-flopped, docile post-fornication hangover blues?

Hypocrites demanding obedience and lectures in radical redemption,
absolution of past sins through tongue-twisting trials by fire,
proof of vapour-wave virtue in the courts of social media?

Shit-eating free-form post-colonial fart-art, dry-lipped buttocks-kiss,
free-bleeding vaginal artists spewing period-blood on pavement-cracks,
the fall of Rome, her succulent tits deflated and devalued?

Who the hell are you dancing for?

Vaguely worded collective guilt, communal crime and punishment,
spit-shined, dry-humped, dry-heaved cultural contempt,
letters of the law that enforce a law of the letters?

Slip-shoed gender warriors, supremacist venom clothed in silk,
perfumed censors picking objectionable words from our throats,
an absurdist monkey-dance, a free-form enabler-trance?

Miserable pot-roasted goons educated on crumbs and ruin,
devoid of values, purpose, self, soul, home and honour,
low-rent memory worshipping made-up imagery?

What the hell are you dancing for?

Self-congratulatory, self-back-patting aristocratic mulch,
out of touch clown-world sycophantic AI robotics,
daft elitist sentiments from syphilitic celebrities?

Self-elected moral guardians, self-appointed ethics-deciders,
prey-less hunters in the wild, free speech defilers,
PC-policing cry-bully authoritarian tyrants?

Mass-manufactured media-outrage, machines of global stupidity,
propaganda-outlets promoting thinly veiled violent insanity,
revolutions that will ensnare and later on enslave us?

Who paid the piper and the pipes you’re dancing to?

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  • Moiret Allegiere, 22.01.2020

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

Anger is an Energy

«Stomping Boots»

Anger is an energy.

A raging beam of unfocused energy so destructive, it tears through anything – even the fabric of reality itself. And it rips, it rends, it tears and beats and breaks. It claws and gnaws and it bites and it burns.

Anger, when accumulated lies, like a blood-clot, centred, in the torso or in the back of the skull, spreading through the body like a toxin… taking its toll on muscles, tendons, nerves… on joints and bones, on mind and body both.

Anger renders insanity a viable option to sanity; irredeemable unreality a viable option to reality. It clouds the mind and clouds the vision, fogs it down and breaks out in weird psychedelic patterns like spirals pointing down into the maelstrom, into the vortex, into the wild and incomprehensible asbestos jungle of irrationality… into weird, obscene and perverse pantomimes like burlesque shows done in acid-baths… upside down and ridiculous, pointless, pissing into the wind.

Anger is to be trained, to be tamed, to be overcome, to be focused… a raging beam of focused energy so constructive that it tears through the illusion and the tricks and hits and kicks and snarls and roars. Just like any other overwhelming emotion, it ought to be channelled direct from its source, from its festering wound, from its inflamed tendons and burning muscle-tissue. It ought to be called out to play and then to dance a mocking dance, in a frenzied trance, channelled, controlled, focused… from the internal source, pointed straight at the face of the external source.

From the mouth of the river straight back to the mouth of the river, as it were, feeding on and off itself until it is transcended… until all that is left is a laughter like a flame, burning brighter than the brightest fucking flame.

Anger, once channelled, becomes an incredibly constructive force. Let loose to become substantial, to become creation, to become inspiration, to become all that is, was, ever shall be… it goes from being the end of days to being the beginning of days.

*

You’re damned fucking right that I’m angry.

And so fucking what… and no fucking wonder.

For years and years, there was this unfocused mass of anger tearing at my throat and at the base of my skull… rage turned inwards, to become, essentially, self-destructive and self-deceptive self-annihilation, effectively self-devouring insanity, paving the way for depression and anxiety and eternal anguish… locked in the jaws of hell itself… in the jaws of hell myself, more like… With no release for that destruction, that all-devouring darkness festering within but the time-slap dance of next level nihilism and dread despair, doomed eternally to equal parts self-pity and self-loathing.

Pitiful and pathetic, in a word or two.

Perhaps with a smidgeon of self-deprecating humour thrown in there for good measure.

I see no strangeness in my anger, no oddities and no misguided notions of this or that or the other. When things are as unbalanced as they are, as irredeemably hateful and neglectful and – with no illusion of it being anything but – unjust as they are in the public discourse – or pubic discourse more like, on the subject of sex and gender… where men are painted as permanent patriarchal perpetrators of pestilent penetration and obscene oppression, I see little wonder and even less strangeness in my anger… or the anger of any other man who finds himself in the situation, in the shit-stew, in the aching bones and broken body of arrhythmic anguish and anger.

When the whimsical worries and petulant whining of one sex and one sex only is uttered constantly, up to and including the horrible sexism of the air-conditioning, whereas the woes and worries of the other sex is scorned, ridiculed and beat like an abused child in perpetuity, anger is a particularly well suited emotional response.

Particularly so when the abused is blamed for their abuse. And make no mistake, nor any other piss-take about it: blaming boys, blaming men, blaming masculinity itself for all that is wrong in the world is abuse. Blaming masculinity itself for all that is wrong with the emotional world of boys and men is abuse. It is constant, chronic, permanent, perpetual abuse that is celebrated by the culture at large; a bird flipped right in our cracked and bleeding faces through the wonders and the glory of the majestic cuntural revolution we are pissed and prodded into in this awe-inspiring dawn of the Honk.

You are damned fucking right that I am angry.

And I am damned fucking right in my anger.

All the blabber-mouthed blubber-talk we are force-fed about how everything has a negative influence on the self-image and self-esteem of girls and women… how pictures of slim women, for example, makes girls anorectic… How it is an unrealistic body-standard; a beauty-ideal handcrafted by the greedy hands of thirsty and oppressive men…

(Pictures of titties sell products. Mainly to women, since women are the ones who consume the most product and spend the most money… but that is beside the point – it is only there for the sexual gratification of men, you see and have got to understand with every inch of your throbbing patriarchy-muscle (Incidentally, “Throbbing Patriarchy Muscle” is my wife’s pet name for my penis. AKA my awe-inspiring rape-implement of doom). Even when this line of thought, that only straight men would drool at the feet of a picture of a slim woman, through the reasoning of the social justice warrior and feminist hive-mind is absurdly heteronormative. Not that internal consistencies matter all that much, mind you. Not when there is outrage to be generated and revenue to be had from said outrage, be that social revenue or actual revenue.)

These ads and images have got to be changed, even outlawed, you see. So that the poor girls should not grow up to be slim women, caught in the throes of anorexia, which is, apparently, any woman who is not morbidly obese if one is to believe the fat-activists. But, no mind, little matter. Or, well, much matter, little mind.

For all that talk, that grunted gibberish, that buzz and thump, there is virtually no talk that this bombardment of constant negative messages we are spoon-fed regarding the nature of boys, the nature of men, the nature of masculinity itself is harmful to the emotional well-being of boys and men. No condemnation of this complete and utter contempt for boys and men, showcased and highlighted as it is as being some supreme moral good.

It is rage-inducing.

There is no acknowledgement that maybe, just maybe, painting men in their entirety as some wicked, cruel, false and flawed evil entity hell-bent on destruction and oppression has a negative impact on the self-esteem, the image of self and the belief in self of boys and men. No acknowledgement whatsoever that constantly belittling, attacking and devouring boys and men and masculinity is damaging. Boys and men don’t feel anything, according to the whims and bleeding gums of Queen Neoteny and her awesome state of Hysteria. And when we do, what we feel is wrong, how we hurt is wrong. The reason is something-something muh toxic masculinity something-something.

It is rage-inducing.

Psychological torment and emotional abuse is A-OK, as long as you point the cerebral gun directly at the minds of boys and men… As long as you vomit this contempt straight at the hearts and souls of boys and men, it is OK. The sick is dripping on us from every level of society; misandry made manifest in law; made to be a natural part of every day social interaction, part of the social fabric, in truth and as a matter of fact. And they dare – they have the audacity – to present it as being of help to boys and men, as lending us empathy and understanding.

It is rage-inducing.

Or, well, there is talk that this is harmful to boys and men – and society itself, for that matter. Yet, those of us who do talk about it are scorned, ridiculed, laughed at and labelled misogynists, as carriers of the virus of fragile masculinity and toxic masculinity… as incels and abusers and oppressors and rapists and rape apologists and violent madmen and God knows what else… as long as there is a somewhat suitable label to throw around, the labels and the insults and the dismissals will rain down upon us; so much vomit and rot straight from the horses mouth. For added emphasis and sympathy, the feminist will feign fear and terror at any objection to feminism – claiming it to be terrifying and frightful and making her feel unsafe… a true picture of strength, resilience and independence. Obviously.

It is rage-inducing.

Then this anger from men will be used to further paint men as inherently dangerous to women and children and society and the world and the universe and God and the Devil and our neighbours and their pet poodles. As defective and destructive, disruptive and demonic. This despite the anger being directed at feminism as a set of ideas, not women as a group. This does not matter to a mind and a world-view that is incapable of separating their sex from an ideology. Which says more about them than it ever will about us, but this don’t matter much to a society caught in lies, slander and hysteria.

The terribly trembling forces that be do nothing but dismiss those of us who dare to talk about that which we dare talk about. When once one has been dismissed as a misogynist, an oppressor and abuser of women – with no evidence provided, nothing substantial presented as proof – one is fair game for all the scorn and hate and shame and ridicule society has got to offer. For simply highlighting the struggles of men through a lens not tainted by feminist ideology, we are hated. Hate and shame and lies and slander packaged with deliberate care and sent our way from the fair and frail forces that never cared to listen to or think about what we are, in fact, saying, writing, screaming and singing… choosing instead to only listen to the voices of the narrow and malicious mainstream narrative that dared paint all men everywhere as violent oppressors of women and all women everywhere as oppressed by violent men.

For ever and ever and in thy kingdom lost.

Amen.

For the anger of men is dangerous, is unpalatable, is to be presented as abuse in itself, then quenched, then drowned, then taken into the presentation of the predatory patriarchy-theory, the pestilent propaganda that furthers the cause of the hive-mind and all its clinger-ons and orbiters… that never once stopped and paused and considered and wondered why this anger exist; that never once took the time to listen and understand where the anger stems from. Choosing, instead, to smear and ponder, to point fingers and propose that they know where the anger comes from. Choosing, instead, to believe that they – not we – are the ones to tell everyone everywhere why we are angry.

It is rage-inducing.

You are damned fucking right that we are angry.

And we are damned fucking right in our anger.

This rage, this anger, this accumulated energy that rends, rips and tears at the inside of the self… of the body and the mind, the heart and the soul, must be let loose. It must be purged, expelled, let out of the system lest it festers and ruins and breaks a man down. If not channelled properly, anger is incredibly destructive – either to one self or to society at large. Now, of course, a bunch of angry and self-destructive men focusing their rage inwards is damaging to society as well as the one man himself.

That is besides the point… at least at the moment of pointing. The point I am trying to point at is a simple one – when channelled properly and expelled graciously, anger may very well be an incredible force of creation and construction, be that for the self or for the world. Though preferably for both.

Some men do martial arts, some men lift weights, some men do this and some men do that… it does not matter what, at the end of the day, as long as one does something constructive with ones anger instead of cultivating it as some roaring, burning, destructive inner crass and crusty calamity… a tumour or an ulcer that grows and grows, becoming fatter and fatter for every new slight, every new trespass, every new whatever… until it kills.

For my part, I chose writing as my main outlet for all my anger and rage and disillusionment.

And I am all the better for it, by every conceivable metric. Even though healing from grief, loss, anger and despair is a slow, long, arduous and constant process, I am all the better for it. And wiser, I would dare say. Insofar as I can be considered wise, I suppose.

In my writings, rants, ravings and ramblings, there is a release of pressure that would otherwise build and build and build, culminating in an explosion. Doing as I do and being as I am, this explosion would become an implosion, beating in and down on myself until there would be nothing left of me but a smear on the carpet of a bathroom after a drunken stupor.

And that thought, in itself, is rage-inducing.

Better, then, to write and rave and rant and ramble for as long as I am able.

Until I get considered a foul purveyor of hate-speech and get shipped of to the Gulag for re-education and re-examination of my frail, toxic and incredibly violent masculinity.

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  • Moiret Allegiere, 04.12.2019

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

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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:
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
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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/

We who fell from Grace/Alphabet-soup/Being but boys

Venlafaxine blues 1

Illustration: «Venlafaxine Blues», Moiret Allegiere, 2017

We, who so lovingly devolved and fell from grace; who longed to be devoured by the rush and the filth and the harshly whispered words…
who so quickly succumbed to illness, to tribal despotism and despair; who saw sudden surges of revenge pondered in school-yards a-flame…

…who so slowly broke down and fell apart on streets lined with gold…
who so openly announced our departure from our selves for all to hear…
who so honestly drank slow-burning ruination from chalices offered by silver-tongued Succubi speaking soft nothings in our ears…

who so truthfully believed belittling tattle-tales and nursery-rhymes, timid and scared and frozen in the headlights…
who so freakishly, annoyingly, self-devouringly swallowed the hook and line and sinker of preposterous tongue-tied dogmatism…
who so very much longed to prove our worthiness in shaded temples overrun by smog and asbestos by the light of her countenance…
who so dramatically disowned our inner-most being for the flicker of her shanty-town eyes and trash-heap domestication…
who so simple-mindedly tore our beating hearts from our chests through our throats and shattered jaws to present as tokens of our love…
who so lonely in nights beneath concrete-breasts, betwixt asphalt-thighs slick as weapons-grade plutonium, cursed ourselves just for being…
We, who so longed for love that we became a self-mutilating spectacle burning with desires deemed demonic, satanic, beast-like…
who so longed to be loved that we fell from our heads and minds and souls into caricatures resembling anything but ourselves…
who so believed the foul things we were told in classrooms steeped in ideology that our souls, our spirits, died by slight-of-hand suicide…
who so fell for the tranquil war-cry of dogmatic serpents, ideologically blinded by pins and needles, that we waged war upon ourselves…

We, who made ourselves disposable, expendable, throw-away-able..
who made necklaces from our own teeth and presented them as gifts…
who made solemn vows to never be the ones we were…
who made promises to sacrifice and to protect and to serve…

We, who were told we were – by our mere presence – dangerous…
who were told we were – by our very nature – fiends…
who were told we were – by testosterone itself – immature…
who were told we were – by birth – untrustworthy…

We, who were made to make amends for the sins of our fathers…
who were made to take a pledge of inferiority…
who were made to mimic serfdom from infancy…
who were stoned by popular vote…
who were put in laughingstocks for speaking up…
who were hung, drawn and quartered when we drew a line in the sand…

Where are we now?

…lost in opiate-daze, body-outlines drawn in charcoal upon streets of yesteryear, heads resting on pillows of impenetrable street-trash, sleeping rough beneath lonely midnight-clouds, being spat upon by passers-by whom we, in the prime of our youth, swore we should protect?

…lost in manic labyrinthine chores and demands with vision clouded by push-and-prod-and-pulls infinite, minds ensnared by senses of righteous indignation at the here-to, here-now, come-here-boy, slaving away at the rat-race in indebted servitude to make amends for the sins of our fathers?

…lost sleepless between lead-sheets where our groins are slowly eaten away by bedbugs crawling through our shameful erections, working to do what the constant buzz and drone and hum of puerile, infantile, prepubescent publications tell us that we must do in order to be men?

…lost in fulfilling a barrage of incoherent societal demands levied at us for being us; a disastrous crack-haven voice calling for our responsibilities, our self-sacrifice, for us to do better and to be better so that women and children shall be safe and free and be safe to be free and be free to be safe?

…from us…

…lost in alleyways, brutally beaten and kicked to the curb, shot between the eyes and mugged, robbed, ripped apart by violence gratuitous and grandiose, crawling our way through broken bottles and puddles of piss to be told, at the end of the line, that we must end violence against women?

…lost between the spread legs of time, shadows floating by, unseen and unheard, unnoticed and unwanted, vague bodies crippled from stress and melting minds, double-narratives told constantly, double standards imposed upon us, heart, soul, mind, body now lost in time and space?

Where are we now?

…free-falling with arms flailing impotently into some dread future-scape, numbed by cogwheels ticking away, by machinery, by mechanical contraptions brutally burying into our skin and bones, our skulls and minds, our hearts and souls.

…free-falling with temperaments doomed to die, with judgements passed on the monstrous cock, the savage balls, the passage of time from mirrors mirroring history viewed through period-blood, menstruated heavily from high-and-mighty academes who never once tasted truth.

…free-falling into delirious neglect from a society whose whispers maniacally conjure grins and glee toxic and nauseous through perpetual lies and misrepresentations, through hit-pieces a-plenty and the everlasting tide of self-assured cock-shamed shaming of the cock.

…free-falling maddeningly into spirals of deceit where once stood truth atop the shoulders of giants, now ground into spastic broken shards of glass doubtlessly preaching dubious equality handcrafted marvellously from uncertain rustling behind the shower curtains.

…free-falling, lambasted and ridiculed for standing up where once we fell down, delving ever deeper into the solemn solitude of cathedrals erected to honour the death of potent masculinity; the culling of young minds seeing young boys led to the slaughter viciously, maliciously.

…free-falling into chemical castrations; blood and chalk on blackboards coveted by legions of pedagogues armed with orthodox new-truth, pale and pasteurized, homogenized and swollen with lies of a dogmatic nature, dominatrix school-mistress with fell venomous fangs.

We, whose wings were cut, whose fangs were pulled, whose claws were trimmed…
we, whose thoughts were silenced, whose tongues were amputated, whose throats were slit…
we, whose heroism was dubbed toxicity, whose playful banter was labelled hateful, whose sexuality was considered primitive at best…

We of the conveniently neutered generation,
of the conventionally tortured generation,
of the chronically tormented generation…

Who are we now?

…A generation of boys and young men shamed into silence, into servitude, into self-flagellating microcosm misanthropy aimed squarely at our sex and gender…
…A generation of boys and young men whipped into the deserts and the tundra to be food for the vultures and the buzzards and the demons; to feed the roar of the moving dunes, like waves…
…A generation of boys and young men lost within the manifested reality of grim-faced bespectacled poet laureates of fame and befuddled fortune in feudal-systems crafted from narrative convenience in academic stupidity…
…A generation of boys and young men ripped from the arms of their fathers and thrown into dungeons to suffer and then be crushed beneath the weight of the wickedness of the world…
…A generation of boys and young men scarred from a thousand strokes of the whip; the cat of nine tails poignantly expressing the societal dissolution of our very nature…
…A generation of boys and young men being told that they are at fault for the demons in the wilderness, the ghosts at the door, the past, present and future atrocities of humanity…
…A generation of boys and young men who never witnessed the rod being spared; who were spoilt with the tongue-lashings of a million studiously inept traumatized graduate students of brainwashed notoriety…
…A generation of boys and young men lost within the vortex of a de-constructed society, within whose arms and upon whose bosom we were never wanted, wished or welcomed…
…A generation of boys and young men who have been socialized into sacrifice, who have had their sexuality scrutinized, their essence demonized, their eyelids sewn shut with barbed wire…
…A generation of boys and young men raised into self-loathing and cold despair, losing ridiculous societal games by their mere presence considered harmful to all within line of sight…

And we were promised that our problems also mattered.
And we were promised that all should be treated equally under the sun.
And we were promised, were we only to open up, we would be saved.

And we were told the problems of boys and men were of their own making.
And we were told the problems of girls and women were also of men’s making.

…then we were told that boys and men have no problems, but that we are boys and men.
…then we were told to shut up…
…then we were told that we were the problem.

…then we became the problem…

*

Agencies devoid of reason chase us out of bed in stone-cold mornings.

Belated birthday-wishes for the dream that was the child within,
Choked out at the corner of bedlam and squalor,
Delirious and dripping with fright-night splendour,
Eternally seeking empathetic connections – salvation through society.

Fear being what they taught us in our ruptured barnyard-schools,
Gullible as only small children could be,
Hated and shamed for nothing but our crucified cocks,
Illuminated by the rudimentary petticoat-philosophy of nincompoops.

Jealousy reigned supreme in the bloodshot eyes of low-gear thinkers;
KKK-lynchings emulated in child’s play: boys are inferior.

Lying is the path towards miss-understanding,
Maddeningly hiding truth for sake of ideological convenience.

None who speak truth live long to tell the tale;
Only death await those who dare defend the masculine –
Painting perverse, obscene portraits of we who fell from grace –
Quiet, quaint, devilishly innocent political “truth-seekers”,
Raped by sourced evidence and facts to the contrary,
Silencing us as we advance ever more; crossing the borders of obscurity.

To tear the blindfold away from the inebriated waste-face of society,
Understand that society need to know more than lies and slander.

Vile assaults on men, on boys, on masculinity called us out to war.

We will win through persistence this war of nuclear attrition,
Xeroxed and force-fed to our gutless, gullible generation;
Young and old are all the same, tranquillized and mindless,
Zombiefied by rigorous academic intellectual insanity.

*

Being but boys, we lived vivid summer-evenings entranced in woodland playtime, running wild and free through trees infested with trials and tribulations for us to conquer…
…being but boys, we slew monsters and crossed paths with gods in never-ending summer days where we dazed about in frantic free-form imagination, hopelessly devoted to expressive life and love…
…being but boys, we grabbed every minute, every moment, and shook it endlessly, heedless of time passing through us, ecstatic, burning internally with wild warlock energy…
…being but boys, we stomped the ground beneath our feet until it turned to mud, conquering horrifying demons and fears and sweating like mad, hungry, powerful beasts…
…being but boys, we were shamans and warriors, magnificent playwrights of our own shared destinies, found in the holiest of holies, the inner sanctum of boyhood imagination…
…being but boys, we danced to tunes only we could hear in the soft, warm, murmuring summer air, breathlessly entangled and ensnared in lifesaving, life-affirming explosions of joy…
…being but boys, we were unhinged, burning with rebellion, with piss and vinegar, with breaking the cataclysmic chains that tied us to the daily drudgery of routines like superstition…
…being but boys, we evolved and we grew and we came to be young men, affirmed through fear-mongering parasites in burnt-out messianic lectures at school to be viciousness and lust and rage and ruin…

…being but young men, we were thrown overboard, cast adrift, to float face-down in lost mid-summer dreams where hopelessness gripped our throats as saltwater filled our lungs…
…being but young men, we succumbed to the allure of life-denial, taught haphazardly with veiled words sung from irrational gurus atop pinnacles of forced chemical castrations…
…being but young men, we saw our heads stomped by tender feet preaching liturgies of our foul wickedness through tyranny clothed in excruciating religious fanaticism…
…being but young men, we were made to rebel against our selves in days and nights of self-flagellating dishonesty, disrobing our masculinity to cleanse the palates of tin-foil-hat dictators…
…being but young men, we were made to break the supposed mould of maleness imposed upon us by our tyrannical forefathers, whose words and deeds should trickle down from history and manifest in us as shame…
…being but young men, we were shame incarnate, rebuilt, reborn from aeons of historical dust and mist and mud, disgusting swine of society dribbling with glee at every lash of the whip across our backs…
…being but young men, we fell into despair and never uttered a word in opposition to clinical insanity reigning supreme in miraculous lamplight-plays of smoke and mirrors…
…being but young men, we were castigated, ridiculed and shamed, laid in chains and iron and led towards torture-chambers to be confronted with, to admit to, our sins and seek repentance through pain…

And we saw, as men, our friends fall into catatonic states of unbridled drug-abuse, chained to the bottle and the needle as time wore on and wore them down.

And we saw, as men, the falling-out of our sanity linked to pre-programmed academes interrupting the heartbreak with lectures plentiful of shame and neglect.

And we saw, as men, broken and beaten and crushed by the weight of all our sins, God pass by in miniscule whimpers to lead some other stranger to some other far-away land.

And we saw, as men, summer floating into winter, permanently frost-bitten and trembling with hypothermia and repressed rage, our selves blow chunks of brain across living-room walls and floors.

And we saw, as men, suicidal ideation taking the place in our minds where once we used to stomp the ground to mud, where once we used to laugh to our hearts content.

And we saw, as men, our own deaths mirrored in the eyes of society shining with self-assured mockery and overambitious celebration at the death of we, of us, being nothing but men.

And we saw, as men, a world which passed us by and flew above our heads, daring us to reach out and touch its wings and tender beak, to seek its nurture and its love and compassion and fail, for it to mock and laugh…

And we saw, as men, the dawn of our demise where we were drowned in monsoon-rain, choked by moonlight, thrown from the cliffs onto the lashing, crashing, smothering waves below…

And we saw, as men, our friends and then ourselves checking out and longing for release and, after quick snack-breaks in rudimentary ghettos, finding solace in dropping out…

Where are we now?

No longer lost.
No longer losing.

No further fall from grace.
No further need for grace.

No more mindless dogmatic self-flagellation.
No more mindless pilgrimages of redemption.

No more swollen tongues from shutting up.
No more swollen chests from having to prove our worthiness.

We were mockingly proven to be unwanted, unneeded, unnecessary.
We were mockingly proven to be lecherous, treacherous, syphilitic.

We were told we were violence incarnate; anti-Christ resurgence, war, pestilence, famine and death in one neat package of toxic testosterone and vicious venomous boners.

So that now, to still the beating of your hearts; we’ll stand repeating:
There is no balm in Gilead;
and we who fell from grace
shall play this game
ah
nevermore.

 

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– Moiret Allegiere, 22.06.2019

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Emotional coping mechanisms and the Spark of rebellion:

Female nude lowres

Illustration: «Female Nude», A3, 2019, Moiret Allegiere

 

 

Way back in the ticky-tacky days of late January or early February of 2019, something happened of a severely personal nature which caused a severe decline in my health and happiness – a rather significant double-barrelled shotgun shock to the solar plexus of my misfiring central nervous system, if you will allow me my poetic flights of fancy. Now, the nature of this happening and the circumstances surrounding it is something I aim to keep private and personal. Suffice it to say that it was directly related to my writings.

What I am interested in, is not so much exploring and explaining the severe emotional and physiological distress I found myself in as a result of this happening, but the coping tactics I employed in dealing with it. Of course, I will be explaining the pain and distress. But not in too much detail.

See, it has bothered me for quite some time this insistence that boys and men don’t deal with their emotions, or that when they do, they deal with their emotions in an inappropriate manner, whatever the hell that means. That we suppress our emotions and pretend we don’t have any. I find this to be both insulting and belittling, and more like than not, I can find several other words to use as proper descriptors for this nonsensical idea, each of these hypothetical words more inflammatory and pissed-off than the next.

The whole thing smells and reeks of social engineering, and that is a frightening prospect in and off itself.

See, back in the days of high-strung muscle-tension that is the ever trembling body of feminist “research”, it was decided that the one true way to properly express – and deal with – ones emotions is the feminine way of expressing – and dealing – with ones emotions.

Since the feminine way is deemed the only way, boys and men have needed to be re-structured and re-programmed on a societal level to express their emotions as women tend to do, and in so doing toss their own nature to the fires of Hades as the sinful parasite on society that it is. What else could one gather from this hopeless denial of biology and this shameless shaming of masculinity, than the attempted re-engineering of the nature of men, the biological truth of men mastering their emotions instead of being governed by them; than the tired old view of women as moral and emotional superiors to men, and so the only moral and emotional guidance needed?

If you, like me, have been a victim of this attempted re-engineering, a victim of this brainwashing which claims masculine identity to be wrong and feminine identity to be correct, despite both apparently being solely societal with no biological underpinnings at all, you might know what is coming up next. And that is very simple: our society do not wish to hear about men’s emotional pain. Or the pain of men at all, for that matter. For all the slack-jawed talk that men need to emote, need to open up and talk, there are sure as all hell few ears – if any – willing to listen. More often than not, a man is shamed and shunned should he dare to express his pain and his insecurities. By both men and women. That is to say: by society at large. Strange that this should happen in a society which claims that men, in order to be free from the constraints of traditional gender-roles, need to express their emotions with tears and valuable dialogues; how odd that this should happen in a society which claims that men are treated far better than women in all respects. When the same forces that claim this are the same forces that shame and ridicule men when men do what they claim men need to do, confusion and isolation creeps in.

On the one hand, this is said.

On the other hand, this is shown.

And both hands do nothing but shove a giant middle-finger right into the glazed-over eyes of confused men, trying the best they can to be heard above the hubbub and the constant background noise of women-worsting.

Men, being of course fairly practical by nature, goes by what is shown them. And what is shown, time and again, is that no-one will listen, no-one will offer support. Quite the contrary. People will go out of their way not to listen. People will derail, hijack the attempted conversation, ignore completely or completely miss the point of what is being said. Or they will, quite simply, state that women have it worse or that women experience this as well, and so the man should consider that before complaining. Because in this society in which women are hated ever-so-much(!), the happiness and well-being of women goes above all. Even on an individual level, when speaking of one-self and not having gender as a part of it, it will creep in. This, it seems to me and my perplexed and eternally confused mind, is due solely to the fact that our societies are completely obsessed with gender whilst claiming that gender does not matter. It is a strange level of discord and chaos; gender does not matter, so lets bring gender into everything, even where gender has nothing to do with it – as in the emotional or physiological distress of one individual.

I would dare to offer this one thought in regards to this; or to point out the elephant in the room, as it were: gender does matter. And in trying to not make gender matter, we are making gender matter even more by our insistence that it does not. The elephant can only be ignored for so long. Eventually, something or someone will be trampled.

What I mean by this should be self-evident. Men and women are different. We deal with things differently. We are wired differently. We are biologically different. In trying to erase these differences and claiming complete same-ness in body and mind, we are shooting ourselves in the foot whilst riding the elephant in the room straight over the cliffs, to tumble to the doom of both itself and ourselves. In trying to eliminate and disregard gender and gender-differences, we can not help but see them and in seeing them, we can not help but bring it up. Even when it should not matter.

The simple solution to this should be, in my humble opinion, to let people deal with their emotions and their pain the way that works best for them, regardless of their gender. To treat the pain of one individual and the way this pain is processed as both the pain of, and the path to healing, of that individual, not wrong or right, but his or hers way of dealing with it. Let be, and let others let you be, instead of forcing someone to do something that goes contrary to their core being.

If he would talk and cry about it instead of seeking action or solitude, as men are known to do, this should be treated the same as if he seeks action or solitude. There is no shame in either, and there should be no shame in either. Clearly, this is something I believe should apply to women as well. My focus, however, is on men.

And men, by and large, are drawn towards action or solitude as a way of dealing with their pain. The action, I find, is more often than not of a constructive and creative sort. And I can think of no better way to tackle difficulties than to turn what could easily be a destructive force – for instance depression or anger into something constructive. To create something out of that which would otherwise seek to destroy. To claim, as the feminist hive-mind do, that men suppress their emotions because they do not deal with their emotions as women do – and I am speaking broadly, of course – is to claim that one way is better than the other, instead of it just being different paths to take.

It is as insulting as it is stupid.

In particular when the experiences of men, by and large, who listen to and are suckered in by this attempted re-programming is that no-one listens when he attempts to speak about it. Or that he is shamed for it. By women as well as men. Now, imagine if the feminist hive-mind had not been so hell-bent on dismantling any and all male-only spaces, whilst, of course, keeping female-only spaces female-only. Men have always offered support to one another. It just takes a form different than the one women tend towards, and in dismantling male-only spaces, a whole hell of a lot of that support flew out the window. Just look to the men’s shed stuff in Australia. But more on that in a later ramble, I think.

From personal experience, anecdotal as it may well be, this holds true. I suffer from chronic pain and chronic fatigue, as well as being constantly in the grips of insomnia, which one would expect does not exactly benefit my emotional state. These three are fairly severe. Of course, it is all intertwined and interconnected, and when the mind is in distress, the body is in distress, and vice versa. Which makes the usual view that body and mind is somehow separated bother me immensely.

Those few times in the past where I have been so bold as to complain about this in writings or in social media posts, the resultant reactions have been interesting, to say the least. More often than not, it has been ignored. This, I think, is to be expected with posts on social media as a general rule. Other times, I have been shamed for it. With one instance in particular tickling my rage-boner something awful.

In short: I was sent a private message on Facebook by a woman who, of course, self-identified as a feminist, telling me in no uncertain terms that I was “not allowed to make myself out to be so pitiful”. A very interesting way of treating someone in severe pain, don’t you think? In particular considering it is the feminists claiming that men need to talk about their emotions and how they are doing. And that women are more empathetic than men!

Another very interesting observation I have made in regards to my declining health, is that the first instinct of people – and this goes for everyone – is to ask how my wife is doing whenever my health is declining. Her happiness is more important than mine, and the way in which my declining health impacts her is more important than how it impacts me. Now, of course, I am aware that this is a normal thing to ask of people. It has to do, in these instances, with context. And the context here is simple: I am/was in pain. And the first instinct of people was and is to ask how my wife was or is doing in regards to my pain. The first question asked. Not “How are you doing?” but “How is she doing?” In short: how is my pain affecting her?

As a result, and as my eyes have opened more and more to the reality of the world we live in, I have learned to process emotions and to deal with my pain in a manner far more creative and far better suited to me as I am. I have learned that all this talk that men need to open up and be more expressive in regards to their emotions and their health, be that mental health or physical health, is nothing but talk. Because the moment you – as a man – start to open up and talk, you realize that it will hurt you more than it will help. Telling men that they need to express their emotions in a more feminine way presupposes firstly that someone is willing to listen, and that is seldom – if ever – the case. Secondly, it presupposes that what men do and how men do it is harmful, whereas what women do and how women do it is not.

I would be so bold as to state, as I have done before, that neither is bad or good; that they are merely different, that different people have different needs and different methods and that to shame and ridicule and to un-learn, through force that which comes natural does far more harm than it does good. I would also be so bold as to state that it is only ever how men, generally, do or do not that is shamed and need to be un-learned. Yet again, something incredibly self-evident to anyone willing to see and to listen.

Why not create a movement telling women that they process and deal with their emotions all wrong? Well, that would be sexist. But it is quite alright to tell men that they process and deal with their emotions all wrong. That is not sexist. That is equality made manifest! Because, to these people, equality is whatever they say that it is at any given moment, as long as women can somehow be made to be better than men at something – preferably all the things. Or, as long as the feminine can be made to be better than the masculine, despite none of these, apparently, existing as anything but socialisation and as such could be written off as just as expendable and nonsensical as each other. So why, then, pray tell, is the feminine better and more natural than the masculine, when both are made-up cultural constructs, just as much as cultural construct is a made-up cultural construct which, of course, might just as well be dismissed alongside all the other cultural constructs? In short: why is one better than the other, if none of them are real anyway? Nihilism ho! They talk the talk, but do not walk the walk.

This is not to say, of course, that I believe culture and society does not play a part in how we behave. It most certainly does! But to claim that biology plays no part in it is, to my bloodshot and near-catatonic eyes, nonsensical.

How I have learned to cope is fairly simple; I write, and I draw, or I retreat into solitude to mull things over, thinking on it and grinding on it until it is ground into dust and I have transcended it. Some things are of course far more difficult to transcend than others, as is the case with what happened in late January/early February, the results of which still manifest as a severe flare-up of my pain, fatigue and insomnia. Even in the midst of April, when I should be enjoying the early days of spring. Of course, I should give a big shout-out to the wonderful world of self-deprecating humour as well. Finding something to laugh about, even in the midst of severely debilitating pain, loosens the reigns of the thing. And that thing, that wonderful joy of finding something to laugh at, or about, even in the darkest moments of life, lifts the spirit immensely. It turns the whole thing on its head. So; I may be ill. But at the very least, I get to sit at home and get high on painkillers. And that ain’t all bad. Heh.

My writings and my drawings are, as a result of this being a big part of my coping mechanisms, subject to my emotional state at the moment of writing or drawing. As a general rule. Evidently so, considering the bleakness of the thing and things since February. For all my logic – or illusions of logic, depending on which way one sees it, I assume – my writing is highly emotional. And this does not bother me in the least. It may bother other people, of course, which, when one tries to get other people to listen or to read might prove itself to be a problem. The point of it is that it gives me a healthy outlet for anger, depression, anxiety or good old fashioned sarcastic snark. It’s either that, or self-loathing. And I have done enough self-loathing to last me a good dozen life-times or so.

See, in my darkest moments – in prior incarnations of my ever-evolving personality and barely contained psychosis – I was very much a prisoner of feminist indoctrination, and as such considered myself to be a fault and a flaw in and off the world around me. Growing up with the message that men are scum imprinted upon the plasticity that was and is my brain, I could not help but internalize the message. If one viewed it from the outside, one would not hesitate to label it as political indoctrination. For the very simple reason that this is exactly what it was, is and always will be. It was not until I was 28 years of age that I actually heard someone say anything positive about men in general. Prior to this, it had been nothing but shit; hardly a day going by without the message of men’s inherent wickedness and cruelty being fired into my subconscious mind with all the subtlety of a nuclear bomb.

When teachers, subtly or not-so-subtly, constantly and consistently hammered the message of the flaws of men into our immature and under-developed psyches, one could not help but embrace it as a part of ones own personal belief-system. Couple that with the media insisting the same, as well as relatives and everyone else in the social circles of days gone by, one is left with the resultant war-cry, echoing and reverberating within as well as without: “There is something wrong with boys and with men!”

How one can look to this constant message, this constant bombardment, this constant assault upon boys and upon men and upon masculinity as a force of pure good instead of the destructive force of pure chaos and hatred that it is, speaks volumes to the might of gynocentrism and of the manipulative powers of the immense fraud and sham that is feminism.

To look upon the way boys and men are constantly devalued, ridiculed and shamed by not only feminism, but by the society which we inhabit, and then claim that it is a force seeking equal treatment of the genders is absurd on its face. But that is the level of indoctrination, that is the level of manipulation, that is the level of our societal psychosis and the value women have in our society. How one can look upon the treatment of men and the treatment of women in our societies and claim, in unison, that women are oppressed and that men – all men everywhere – are guilty of oppression is as ridiculous as it is laugh-out-loud funny. We ought to howl with mocking laughter at this ridiculousness. But we can’t. The tears get in the way. A wondrous male privilege this; to be allowed to see my very nature dragged, kicking and screaming through the mud and ground-up glass all the way to the hang-womans noose, sentenced to death by our moral superiors!

For years, I believed it all. Swallowed it hook, line and sinker. To sacrifice myself and what I want for the betterment of women. To step down and shut up, not object, not even to the gravest trespasses upon my own personal space or to the devaluation of my mental well-being, were it done by a woman or someone claiming to do good for women. And as the self-loathing grew, so too did my natural expressions of my own masculinity diminish. To the point where I was but a shell, a flimsy transparent nothing. My previous ability to say what was on my mind in regards to any given subject was thrown into the abyss, alongside what was left of my self-respect. I had been, not only told, but shown time and again that any objection to the feminist rhetoric would be shot down, no matter what facts I had, no matter what the truth was. The objections were not shot down by facts, reason or logic, but by shame and ridicule from women, which, for a young man burdened by puberty, the insecurities of puberty as well as insecurities emanating from the feminist insistence that there was something wrong with me by my very nature, was and is absolutely horrible.

For years, I did not cope. I settled for disappearing instead. Isolation and a bleak and nihilistic outlook took precedence. I sought the void, and became a lost boy; not going anywhere, not staying anywhere, not being anything but an over-medicated mess of man forced into psychiatric help which did not wish to see the root cause of the issues I was facing, but chose to medicate the symptoms into oblivion instead, and in so doing medicating me into oblivion alongside the symptoms.

And so, when realisation dawned after years and years of this vast and empty nothing, it dawned with the crash and the bang of a thousand suns imploding and exploding, a constantly repeating pattern of implosion and explosion, immediate, immense, powerful, mighty, frightening and masculine as though the gates of hell were opened, unleashing the hounds of war!

I marched to war with what strengths I had, which was – and is – art and writing, wrote the piece “Remembering Rebellion”, not knowing whether or not I would keep writing about these topics. Turned out I would, even at great personal expense.

That, I think, is one of the great masculine virtues: being able to turn something severely destructive into something fantastically constructive, no matter how long it takes to get to that point; to transcend tragedy and despair, not through crying, not through talking, but through action, through creativity, through honestly translating pain and heartbreak, trauma and destruction into language, into symbols, into lines and scribbles aiming, always and ever to transcend, to overcome, to grow and then to follow the process and become stronger, better and even more suited to survive whichever difficulties life – with all its suffering – will throw at one self.

Through “Remembering Rebellion”, I found the rebellious spark which was present in my formative years. And I would urge others to re-find, regain, re-awaken that spark of rebellion, that force seeking to rebel against all that is, all that was, all that ever will be and capture it vividly, fantastically, glowingly, immediately within your minds and guts and balls. To explore it, expand it, explain it through what ever strength one has.

Teenage rebellion is one thing – an unfocused force of self-exploration and self-expression; a force designed to rip one-self loose from the looming authority figures of that time in ones life. Something deep inside which makes one pound ones chest with ones fists and roar primeval, primitive, primordial, beast-like, reptilian that “I am here, and don’t you dare challenge my right to be here or belong here!”

And now, in adult life, with the damage done by feminism so clear to all who are not indoctrinated, who are not clinically insane, who are not still caught in the grips of our dominant ideology, of our demand for ideological purity and conformity, that spark of rebellion seems to me to be more important than ever it was before.

And now, in adult life, with boys and men being beat and shamed and medicated into submission and subservient subjugation to the demands – not of women, but of feminism – an adult mind would be, should be, could be capable of focusing that spark of rebellion through a lens of reason, truth and a demand for consideration and compassion, to make that spark of rebellion so focused, in fact, that it tears through the feminist rhetoric; that it burns right through the skin of feminism and so exposes and utterly dismantles the core, showing it to be nothing but what it always has been; Marxist rhetoric of class and class-warfare re-clothed as gender and gender-warfare.

This is not a war of the sexes. It is a war of ideology against one sex, harming both sexes in the process. It is not men against women or women against men. It is feminism against men and against the very fabric of our societies and all common sense. It stuns me in how cleverly it has been implemented; how fantastically smart it has been in painting any opposition to feminism as an assault on women and on equality between the genders. And how sly and manipulative it has been in painting the abhorrent hatred of boys, men and masculinity as nothing but the actions of “a radical few”, even when the hatred of men evidently lie at the very core of feminism! In order to make people understand that feminism cares for nothing but feminism, fearless rebellion is necessary in exposing feminism for what it is.

It ain’t easy. But then, nothing worthwhile is.

Feminism employs terrorist tactics, terrorizing any opposition, creating fear and layers upon layers of fear in any who dare oppose and object to their ridiculous assertions. Don’t want to lose your job and livelihood, your place of study or your social life?

Better not object.

This is the means through which they maintain power and control. Total social domination under fear of total social death and annihilation of the self. Tyranny clothed in justice. The emperor has no clothes, and only a few are willing to point this out. When one does not show fear in pointing this out, their power diminishes. In the end, they will expose themselves to more and more people as having nothing but flimsy emotional manipulation and the threat of social death and ostracising on their side. They themselves are doing the non-and-anti-feminists the greatest service there is by behaving just as they do, and in not backing down, not showing fear, but countering and re-countering, they will be forced to expose themselves for the hateful pile of ideological serpents that they are.

Rebellion ain’t easy.

But: we have two things on our side. The truth, and the very simple fact – however silly it may sound – that everyone, whether they admit it or not, loves a rebel.

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  • Moiret Allegiere, 13.04.2019

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A Farewell to Charms

transcendence 3 lowres a3

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

– Moiret Allegiere, 23.01.2019

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