Beneath the Streets; A Song of Male Sacrifice:

Blue light spasm lowres

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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 – Moiret Allegiere, 27.07.2019

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A Me Too Dance Macabre:

God is in the morning coffee lowres

Illustration: «God is in the morning coffee», Moiret Allegiere, 2019

 

Feel that hard-and-fast rapid pounding of your heart. Skip the occasional beat. Easing into panic. Survival-instinct gently tapping at the base of your skull; reptilian brain taking control. Body is now moving on instinct, habitual, old, primal, unthinking, unfeeling, uncaring, acting on pure unfiltered reflex, on gag-reflex.

Uncontrollable.

Untameable.

Outside, the winds are howling. A blizzard building up. The storm is at your door. Frigid winds rattling the windows and tap-tap-tapping at your shelter. Mingled with the howling of the winds are a howling of the wolves. Some mad will, some divine force, is at play. The gods are angry. Raging. Judgement day is upon you. Upon us all. It is the rapture.

It is not the wrath of some usually benevolent God rightly scorned by some pagan idol raised in mockery and affront. It is the wrath and ruin of the old Gods, more human than human. Gods whose form and shape and questionable morality is one not to be trifled with. It is the divine will and wrath of the one who is known as I am; the unquestioned and unchallenged authority under whose gaze you damned well better fall to your knees and pray forgiveness for your sins lest you shall be cast into the fires of hell, eternally damned, your name and the name of your family besmirched for all eternity.

The wolves are hungry, ravenous. They can smell blood and fear and sweat on the howling winds. Thriving on terror and the will and word of the pantheon of ancient Gods, they seek their prey with severe determination. The pack lacking in morality and in thought, lacking in all but the most basic of urges: to survive. Their survival hinges on the pack and on the word and will of the old Gods; the dominant figures in their severely limited understanding of the world.

Should they stray from the pack and beaten path, the pack will turn their bloodshot eyes and hungry jaws at them. All of one mind, driven by the same desires; to rend, to rip, to tear asunder all who oppose the will of the Gods, lest they be cast from the flock, losing the ability to survive in this harsh nuclear winter of nonsensical commands radiating from the insane pantheon of Gods; the ladies divine.

On the wind and in the howls, one can hear words softly whispered. Clouded and veiled beneath the mania and madness. There should, I think and I suppose, be little doubt as to what those words are. A slight whisper, dramatic and judgemental, the forced victimhood narrative of the ruptured divinely divided: “hashtag me too”.

The passing of judgement from the choir of divine hysteria, from the Gods fantastic, pounded into the collective mind of the pack. Rusted nails penetrating skulls. Digging deep. A beautiful lobotomy, a wondrous emptying of the soul and of the reason. Now they smell and see and understand in their hunger and in their thirst only blood. It is a quest seeking divine vengeance for perceived and manufactured ills and trespasses, vengeance so driven by imbecilic notions of moral superiority and mob-mentality that no law nor letter of the law shall halt the march of justice legionnaire. That no consequences of their actions shall be taken into account. And all will be, and shall be, and must be part of the pack.

Stray not, divide not.

Join.

Strength in numbers.

All must join, or all must despair.

All must join when bid to dance the me too dance macabre.

Magnificently, in a trance, all must dance to its rhythm and its voice; all must pound the ground to mud beneath their feet and follow the alluring squeal of the tuneless fiddle playing the death of justice waltz. To end the barbarism, the uncivilized violence of men and of their muckraking sexuality. All must move to the ferocious beat together with the pack, all must dance and feel and feed the fanatical fire and hallucinogenic trance that is the me too dance macabre.

In its wake, the pack and storm and howl and trance leaves behind a trail of broken homes and broken men. A call for immediate judgement passed, for unquestioned belief of nothing but a word, a sentence, a syllable expressed with no need or demand for evidence. A call for absolute blind submission to the word and nothing but the word from the old Gods. For the pack. To the pack. For the Gods divine. Believe the word and not the evidence. Evidence is a trifle, an object getting in the way of ravaging and pillaging and wholesale slaughter.

This is mob-justice born from an absurd belief that women never lie.

Women, you see, are not human beings.

Come closer to the fire and I shall tell you all about it.

Women, you have to understand, are above the likes of men. They have ascended to the next step of human evolution; morality elevated above such trivial human behaviours as lies and slander and similar petty nastiness. Far removed from the lowliness of vengeance and cheap-and-nasty power-grabs. This is the domain of men, you see, an as of-yet wholly unawakened and primitive gender still caught in the primal state of the apes from whose loins they once sprung.

It is a witch-hunt not far removed from the middle ages. The lynch-mob lurching behind the corner-store dumpster, pitchfork-wielding maniacs with nooses pre-tied and assembled, ready to string some poor bastard up for the good of the pack, to cleanse the air of these horrid affairs brought down from the devil and the untermensch both, working in perfect synchrony, in perfect harmony.

*

This ramble is a belated attack on the me too movement. The worst storm is over; the immediate rush of self-righteous moral grandstanding have faded to a slight whisper and tremble in the reeds. Of this I am aware.

The wolves are still lurking around, though, as the legacy of the movement lives on and thrives. The remnants of the movement; of the divine will and divisiveness of the Gods lie on the ground, radiating ear-shattering hatred and stupidity to all who come in contact with its beat and rhythm; to all who braved the dance macabre of this movement.

Complete belief and submission to the word and whisper of a woman.

And not of a man.

For men who have experienced sexual harassment and assault need not apply. That was made clear in the very beginning of the days of judgement; made evident by the blood-lusting pack howling that this movement was only for women. In so doing they purposefully erased any voices countering the narrative of toxic men and fragile women so that the public’s perception of the movement and what it is supposedly based on lies squarely betwixt their paper-tissue thighs and flushed and flustered bosoms, heaving in fragile anticipation with every hyperventilated expression of disgust.

The narrative then pushing, prodding and poking the idea that this is something only women experience and only men perpetrate. Which is what the public at large sees. Because that was all they were allowed to see by the divine will hiding behind the lynch-mob and their hive-mind displays of noble virtue.

The claws and jaws and sneers and snarls of the pack and of the lynch-mob ignoring centuries of justice and the evolution of justice wherein innocence is assumed and guilt must be proven beyond a shadow of a doubt. By painting this as some manner of attack on women. That a woman should not be believed on a word and nothing but a word is discriminatory against women, because of reasons having to do with the virtue of vulva and vagina, the honesty emanating from every pore and womb of sanctified womanhood.

For women never lie. Apparently. To state that women lie, just as men lie, is contrary to equal treatment of the genders. For we live in the post-apocalyptic clown-world reality; a poorly executed psilocybin trip in the hollowed-out cranium of someone who is clinically insane.

For what reasons should women lie about sexual assaults, or harassment or trespasses on their honour?

Considering the social nature of humanity, it is not too far-fetched to think that merely being included in the pack and mob and rage and wrath of the dominant movement should suffice; to not be on the outside of the flock, but in the midst of its warmth and strength and mutually assured survival through strength in numbers. Humanity is so easily ensnared by the howl of the pack, by the popular movements. So easily corrupted by the whim and will of the mob that we tend to lose our minds and our ability to critically analyse something the moment the mob takes precedence and festers in our minds and grows in our spines. One does not wish to be cast out. So submit. So belong. So be a good little boy or girl and do and say as the pack do and say.

…Or it might be the social brownie-points and scores of empathy wheeled their way from claiming to have experienced some ill or other. As the dominant narrative of our day is one of men being bad, men are easy victims for selfish twat-waffles who see no qualms in destroying someone’s reputation, life and livelihood to strengthen their own.

…or it might simply be regretting a sexual encounter.

…Or it might be revenge. Or it might be wishing promotion. Or it might be to win custody of children in a divorce case. It might be any number of reasons, easily seen and found the moment one actually considers that women are human beings and not some angelic creatures of pure innocence sent to save the world from the likes of men.

In being human beings, women are just as capable as men are of doing bad merely for doing bad, for damaging and hurting and maiming and ruining. Women have the capacity, just as men have the capacity, to utilize whatever tool is at their disposal to get their way, to get their vengeance, to gain this, that or the other.

I don’t think it wise to underestimate the ability of humanity to abuse a position of power.

The ability to have someone destroyed merely on a word, on an unfounded accusation, is undoubtedly wielding a tremendous amount of power. Considering that everyone and their grandmas rush in to the accusers defence no matter what they say, no matter how dubious their accusations are… well, that has got to give some incredible sensation of power, of being morally just, some incredible surge of dopamine.

In this dawning of our collective psychosis, where immediate gratification is the name of the game, the populace is addicted to constant gratification. It is the new drug-of-choice for a society who has lost its way.

This gratification, then, fuelled by social acceptance through social media and the power of the mob-mind, the hive-mind, the wanting-so-badly-to-belong-and-be-accepted-that-nothing-else-matters-mind undoubtedly has the power to make it so that nothing else matter. The addiction must be fed. The wolves must have their pound of flesh; the Gods must have their sacrifice on the altar of social acceptance. And all values be damned. All notions of justice be gone, the blood-sacrifice be done, for ever and ever. Amen. And the ostracised and fractured collective of men must pay the price.

Again.

The wolves have got their pound of flesh. And then some. It would be easy to post a list of men whose lives have been ruined merely by an unfounded accusation of sexual misconduct. It would also be easy to post a list, naming and shaming some of the prominent women of the me too movement who, as events have unfolded, have been accused of sexual misconduct themselves. You will forgive me for giggling a bit and mumbling something about psychological projection and hypocrisy while I sharpen my pitchfork and light my torch, I hope. I have put some links down below. Please take a look.

I would like to focus on one recent case in particular. It is fairly new, and it is absolutely tragic. To my mind, this shows how incredibly quickly judgement is passed. And how unthinking our society has become, how uncaring and unfeeling it is where men are concerned. It shows how quick people are to lose their heads and minds and marbles if a woman says that a man has done something, anything, to insult her honour. Medieval chivalry is on display again. We dance the same dance we have always danced, the same tune is played. And yet – we do not recognize it and we do not change the tune. We do not see it for what it is. For we are blinded by the deification of women and the demonizing of men.

Michael Fife, a 62 year old man, was killed. His life was snuffed in an instant. Based on nothing but the word of a sixteen year old girl. This girl, whose identity of course is kept safe and secure under lock and key for the ills it would cause her were it to be revealed, told her seventeen year old brother – whose identity is also kept secret – that Fife had sexually assaulted her on a bus.

Her brother, donning the chivalrous armour of good and proper knights of old, rushed in to defend her honour. How did he defend her honour? By lying in wait at the bus-stop to attack this man who had, allegedly, imposed upon her honour. By her word and will and whim alone. And so he tackled this beastly man to the ground, knocking him out. He then fled the scene, like the brave, courageous and cowardly defender of his sister’s virtue that he undoubtedly is. What a god-damned shame that the surveillance video captured on the bus shows Fife merely walking by this girl. Nothing happened.

Just some random stranger, now dead. A horrible man so delusional as to believe that he is free to inhabit the same space as a woman; to walk past a woman on the bus.

No cause for concern here. Women don’t do no bad, you know. Women never lie about these things. You must believe women. Which is exactly what her brother did. Beyond a shadow of a doubt, he believed her. And in so doing, ruined his own life by killing an innocent man.

By merely claiming that someone had sexually assaulted her, this girl is now wholly responsible for ruining two lives. One must live with the fact that he has killed an innocent stranger, and take the punishment for it. Another is dead. Dead. There is no bouncing back from that.

And for what? For kicks, for shits and giggles? For power, for might, for feeling influential? For wanting to be part of the latest societal hysteria; to join the mob and the pack? For what is this man dead and her brother doomed? It is absolutely tragic.

Without a doubt, the brother needs to face consequences for his actions. I can not help but fear, however, that his punishment will be far more severe than that of his sister. Even when none of this would – presumably – have happened, had she not lied in the first place. This is her using violence by proxy. Claiming something happened that never happened, and then this stupid sod of a brother rushing in to take revenge on part of his sister, whose sanctity and purity and honour was now despoiled for being… what exactly? Assaulted, groped, brushed at by a stranger walking past her? Did he simply look at her in a manner she did not like?

For the life of me, I can not understand this complete disregard shown for truth; this complete lack of respect and compassion shown to a fellow human being. I can not fathom the depths of soul-less egotism needed to show this level of disdain for someone else’s life, personhood and character. This goes for both the brother and the sister in this scenario. I assume and suppose that the brother did not mean to kill the poor man. But what the hell does one expect when slamming the head of a 62 year old man into the ground? He was picked at random. Picked to die. For no reason what-so-ever. Let that sink in for a moment.

Not one of these teens stopped for a moment to think and to consider their actions. Or the consequences of their actions. Not one of them thinking that they may be doing wrong. It is such a tragic fucking story, and the weight and brunt and cause of this tragedy lies completely at the chest and shoulders of the girl, without whose selfish stupidity none of this would have happened.

I am reminded of the Mark Pearson case, linked below. At some point, I wish to write on his case as well. That case is a study of absolute absurdity. So absurd, in fact, that one would not be at fault for having a hard time believing it actually happened. But it did. It is absolutely Kafka-esque.

Despite of this, despite of numerous similar cases, despite this gut-reaction from all bloody society to anything a woman whispers, says, or whimpers where some sexual trespass is concerned… feminism dares to make the claim that we live in a rape-culture where rape of women is celebrated; where rape of women is not taken seriously as a crime. The evidence to the contrary is clear for all to see in the death and destruction of men whose name and life is ruined by nothing but baseless accusations; by nothing but the word of a woman.

In our societies, rape of a woman is the most heinous crime one could commit. Overshadowed, perhaps, only by murder. If the murdered is a woman.

Even if cleared of any and all charges. Even when completely redeemed, the lives of these men who are falsely accused is ruined. Their reputation is gone. Dragged through the mud, to be passed on to the judging hands of society, of the pack and anthill, the swing of things, the lynchers. This is a society that does not forget. News spread so quickly. And the outrage-machine is even quicker. Few receive, or believe, the follow-up news that tell of their innocence. The lack of anonymity for those who are accused makes it so that vigilante justice is doled out, even after found to be innocent. And the paper-trail, the digital trail, the accusation will always be there, for all the world to see.

A proposed solution to this is simple and twofold:

1) guaranteed complete anonymity for anyone accused of anything. I assume this will be objected to by feminism, who objects to just about anything if there is a scent of justice there for anyone not female. Forgetting, of course, in the heat of the moment, that this means female perpetrators are also guaranteed anonymity.

2) making false accusations of rape a punishable offence in-and-off itself, carrying sentences similar to the sentence the innocent accused would have gotten, were they to be found innocent. Of course, this also carries with it the idea that accusing someone of something on social media would also be out of the question. Let us hope that it will.

One wonders, then, if actually having to face consequences for their actions would make these women who falsely accuse men of sexual something-or-other think twice before doing so? Because, as it stands, there is no punishment for doing so. No punishment, that is, for anything but wasting police time and resources. For of course: what matters is not that some innocent man has been ruined for life. What matters is the precious resources wasted by the police.

The lives of men don’t matter.

The resources of the state do matter.

The most astonishing thing about false rape accusations is of course the lack of empathy and understanding shown to men who have suffered this. Whenever some accusation of rape has been shown to be false, the message delivered then is that this is a horrible trespass upon women who have actually been raped, making it more difficult for them to come forward with their actual rapes. Never-minding the men whose lives have been ruined completely based on the false accusation of some harpy or other.

Somehow, women have to be made out to be the real victims. Even when it is men who are the victims. Women have it worse. Especially when it is a man who has suffered. It seems very much as though someone has some vested interest in derailing the conversation. As though some powerful ideology need to come in and do damage-control so that they do not lose control over the narrative, forcing it back onto the well-trodden path that says that women have it worse, no matter what the situation is, no matter what the case-in-point is.

This is adding insult to injury. Or insult to perjury, if you wish. Some innocent man have been destroyed by some false accusation. And instead of his story being told; instead of him receiving empathy and understanding, he has to look and watch and gaze and see that his story is being washed away. He has to listen to how what he endured is something that hurts women as a group. Not him as an individual. Not men as a group. But women and women only.

Women have always been the primary victims of men being falsely accused of rape.

And society at large have not a lick of empathy for him, not a spittle of understanding for what he endured.

And always and forever, if he is lucky enough to survive the turmoil and tragedy of the false accusation until he is redeemed and proven innocent, the label of “rapist” will hang over him, following him, dangling over his neck, the sword of Damocles on a string so thin that it may break at any moment.

He has become a doomed man. For there will always be someone who does not believe in his innocence. There will always be someone who believes that women never lie about sexual assault, that women are so pure and innocent that their word is law and their soul and temperament golden.

There will always be someone lying in wait, howling in the shadows, cold and callous and driven by blood-lust extreme, bidding him to dance, once again, the me too dance macabre.

*

https://fox13now.com/2019/05/07/logan-man-dies-from-beating-after-being-accused-of-sexual-assault-on-a-cvtd-bus/

https://www.spiked-online.com/2018/08/03/the-metoo-suicides/

https://www.nbcnews.com/storyline/sexual-misconduct/metoo-advocate-california-lawmaker-accused-sexual-misconduct-n846421

http://fortune.com/2018/02/09/cristina-garcia-metoo-sexual-harassment/

https://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/uknews/crime/12146274/Prosecutors-slowed-down-CCTV-in-case-of-commuter-cleared-of-bizarre-sex-assault-on-actress.html

https://ew.com/movies/2018/08/19/harvey-weinstein-accuser-asia-argento-paid-off-actor-sexual-misconduct-repor/

 

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– Moiret Allegiere, 01.06.2019

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Remembrance

valmue A3 lowres

Nothing substantial in writing today. Just some few words to accompany a drawing: With Remembrance day behind us, and international mens day coming up, I think we should all take some time to ponder and reflect on sacrifice and loss, and what that sacrifice and loss has bought us. At such a high price and in such grand numbers.