The End is Nigh! Repent!

The Ascent of man a3 lowres

Ill: «The Ascent of Man», A3, 2019, Moiret Allegiere


It would seem, to any enlightened individual, that the world really did end back in 2012. We just didn’t get the memo, and so we are just carrying on, stuck in perpetual limbo, unaware of the fact that the world did end. The loonies and crazies were right! Go fetch your tinfoil hats. It’s not too late.

Either that, or we are living in the end-times. Which, once again, would make the loonies right. Fetch your tinfoil hats and clutch your religious symbol of choice. The end is nigh. Repent. Repent, I tell you!

In some way, I have to explain away the madness permeating the world through something other than human error, ignorance and miscalculations. I believe I can not. And I have really been suffering a lack of inspiration lately. Chalk that one up to me constantly being about two drinks away from getting completely black-pilled, I suppose. Might as well give way to religious madness and fever and loudly proclaim for one and all the coming of the rapture and of the end-times. Make room for the holy spirit! He told me to speak for the one who is known as I am!

And lo and behold: The loud-mouthed manic madness of the victim-cultists refuse to learn a lesson from their many errors. They double, triple and quadruple down on any and all error and carry on as if they are still in the right, both morally and legally. What madness is this? What strange and peculiar end-time sign should this be; this lack of awareness of self, this chronic empathetic constipation which these moral chastity-crusaders disguise as being empathetic? It is all well and good, pointing fingers and demanding others change. But how can you see the speck of dirt in your genderfluid siblings eye, whilst being oblivious to the clogged up sewers constantly malfunctioning in your own eyes and mouth? Gazing ever inwards is the one path, the true path towards salvation. Care less about the doings of your fellow xirs and xerses, and consider your own actions, gracious Xadam. Or was that Xeve?

Once upon a midnight dreary, whilst I pondered weak and weary, over many a quaint and curious you tube video of forgotten lore; as I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly, there came a tapping as of someone gently rapping, rapping at my twitter-feed. It is some visitor, I muttered, entreating entrance at my twitter-feed. Some late visitor entreating entrance at my twitter-feed.

This it is and nothing more.

Open here I flung my Twitter, when, with many a drool and dribble, in there stepped a saintly soc-jus-warrior from the fabled days of yore. Not the least sense made xe, nor the last reason spoke xir, but, with many a shake and tremble, muttered something about a curfew for men and how grand that would be.

Be those words our sign of parting, they or them, I shrieked up-starting, leave my sanity unbroken, take thy form from of my Twitter. Leave no mental dribble as a token for that nonsense thy formless void have spoken, leave my dubious home-brew, have you back into the twitter and the feeds Plutonian shores!

It is of incredible importance to understand the depths of empathetic derangement the lunatics who run the asylum will dive into. For the sake of keeping women and minorities safe, in the name of progress, we must ban men from leaving their homes at night. That is professional-level empathy right there. And yes, of course, I understand that this imbecilic nonsense-gibberish will never come to fruition. I am aware that me attacking the proposal in question is very much reaching for the low-hanging fruit. Not to mention that it happened aeons ago when measured in internet-time.

Still, it deserves its honorary mention on a early, lazy and sleep-deprived Monday morning where I have to write or draw something. Or else I get the hose again. (As an aside; at the moment of writing this sentence, my Orthodox Jesus Icon fell down from the wall for the umpteenth time, and tumbled behind my speakers. Jesus is, in fact, in hiding behind my speakers. Jesus weeps. How very fitting for this ramble.) My reason for having a go at this abject horror of a solution to all the worlds woes is quite simple: How in all the hallowed halls of the abysmal asylum, from whence these cretins came, are these people considered to have the moral high ground on all things? How is this supposed to be the empathetic side, devoid of bigotry and discrimination, when such obvious displays of bigotry and wanted discrimination are met with cheers and squeals and grimaced giggles of delight?

The answer is as easy as popping an infected pimple: they have succeeded in othering men. Men are the other; the shadow side of our suicidal societies, upon whom all scorn may be laid by the dominant discourse whom no voice must dare defy, lest they be labelled a hater of women. Obviously.

It should be noted that I have absolutely no issues with them being allowed to say this. Speech is speech. Opinion is opinion. However: try saying the same thing in regards to women, and see how far that gets you. Hell: try pointing out the feminine dark, the shadow of the feminine mystique, the mirror of the masculine shadow, the masculine dark, and see them come crawling from the floors of the asylum proclaiming that these women whom you point to as examples of the feminine dark are but individual women and not representative of women as a whole. Thereby proving your point in regards to men as individual actors, not representative of men as a whole. However: men are, to their beady eyes and flickering smirks, a grey protoplasm, of one mind. Whereas women are not. Unless it suits them and their needs and their narrative structures.

All bow before the might of the mass; this woman and her lived experience is representative of all women and their lived experience! See how she has struggled and suffered at the hands of men! So proclaim the feminist deity. That one woman who murdered her children is but one woman, not representative of women as a whole, whereas that one man, who raped and murdered one woman is representative of men as a whole and the women whom he raped and murdered is representative of women as a whole. So also spake the feminist deity.

Instead of viewing bad acts and deeds done by one human being as the bad acts and deeds done by one human being; instead of considering both men and woman capable of both good and evil, the feminist lens show men as the shadow of humanity and women as the light of humanity. The bad deed of one man is enough to paint all men as bad, and as such making all men deserving of scorn and hatred, fear and ridicule. The bad deed of one woman is but the bad deed of one woman, and someone probably did something to her once that made her do it and so we must show compassion and understanding for her plight, even if she burned her children alive and cut out the beating heart of her husband with a rusty tin-can whilst he was gagged and bound to the bed and made to watch her eat his heart with a bottle of chianti whilst his children screamed in agony in the other room as the flames engulfed them. Clearly the woman is the victim in this instance. Someone must have hurt her at some point in her life, and she deserves our sympathy and our pity. And so it goes.

Don’t believe me? Probably not. Already up, foaming at the mouth and claiming foul misogyny for me daring to say that one woman acting badly is one woman acting badly and not representative of women as whole, just as one man acting badly is not representative of men as a whole? Or being pissed off at me for claiming that the bad actions of women are given excuses and that women are given understanding and compassion, despite their heinous acts whereas men are not? I implore you to pay attention to the coverage in the media on bad acts done by women and bad acts done by men. Pay close attention. Look at the differences in language used. Take your time. Do the work. Pay attention to what is being said, as well as how it is being said. That is, of course, if you are of a mind that is open with eyes that are willing to see things that stand in stark contradiction to the dominant narrative of men as privileged and violent oppressors and women as weak victims of the actions of men, not actors capable of acting but objects being acted upon by outside forces far stronger than themselves.

Embracing non-feminism is embracing the radical notion that women are human beings, capable of both good and evil just as men are. Or, you know, you can just do as any feminist – well, anyone, really – does when confronted with opposition to feminism: pull a straw-man out of your own ass and light that on fire as a glorious effigy of the horrible woman-hating bastard on the other side of your flickering computer-monitor, instead of listening to, and arguing, the points being made by the horrid oppositional forces of evil confronting the lies and bullshit of feminism.

See, I treat the genders equally. I hold both men and women to the same standards. And the feminist hive-mind of virtue impeccable and clean don’t like that one bit. They would much prefer women to be treated as faultless; to be viewed as an unerring aristocracy, given the right to rule, judge and govern by some unnamed deity.

It is easier, and makes for a world simpler to understand when one divides it up into tribes and then paints one tribe as inherently bad, with good deeds being a rarity and not the norm and the other tribe being inherently good, with bad deeds being a rarity and not the norm. And try as one might, the world is not that simple. Nothing is that simple. Nothing is ever as simple as separating black from white. One can not see the shadow without simultaneously seeing the light. And it is humanity, not women, not men, that is the source of both the light and the shadow.

I believe most people to be good and to be acting in good faith. Most people are just trying to get by, and as such do not have the time, the interest or the ability to delve into matters at great length. People tend to take things at face value. Which, I believe, is the main reason feminism holds such sway and such power. Because, at face value, it is presented as nothing but a wish for equality between the sexes. And how could anyone disagree with that? Very few people do. And there you have it.

What should frighten anyone is the level of control and governance feminism has achieved by painting men as the shadow and women as the light. By playing on the needs of our societies to provide for, and protect, women and children. Deep evolutionary roots go deep. It is truly frightening how feminism has burrowed into our collective consciousness to such an extent that everyone is a feminist by default; to such an extent that it is considered the only voice – the one true voice – the “I who is known as I am” – of equality between the sexes. Even when they show, time and again, that they are not at all interested in equality. Human rights are human rights, but the rights of women are above that. Stop violence against women, not against humans. Stop violence against women, even when men suffer violence far more than women do. Empathy for the plight of women above all, not humanity as a whole.

Because women are the light, and men are the shadow. As such it is painted, and so it is spoken. If we do not turn around on this and view human beings as human beings; if we do not turn around on this and view the genders as complimentary and as fulfilling each other, I fear that the end times are, in fact, nigh. If we do not stop considering the church of the latter day feminists as the only voice of equality, we are doomed as a species to be locked in a constant tribal warfare where men and women are seen as being on opposing teams instead of being comrades in arms – so to speak – working together to keep our societies running as best they can. Repent! Or the end shall surely be nigh.

  • Moiret Allegiere, 13.02.2019


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An Evening in the Brave Blue World:

Portrait of the artist with a sligthly bigger dog a4 lowres

Ill: «A Portrait of the Artist With a Slightly Bigger Dog», A4, 2019, Moiret Allegiere


With his back aching from his union-sanctioned fourteen hours of rigorous work, he enters his bathroom to wash the dirt from his face. The computer in his mirror asks of him, carrying his own voice synthesized, digitized, dead and soulless: “Did you smile more than your designated quota today?” He shakes his head to indicate that he did not, and then proceeds to wash the grime from his face, and his eyelids, heavy from lack of sleep and rest, dips and droops.

Quietly, he removes his outer layer of clothing, leaving the inner layer on, obviously for the sake of decency; his cock and balls nearly shackled to his thigh from the tightness of the thing, almost a second layer of skin. What a grand way to combat the plight of manspreading and displays of toxic masculinity, he thinks, as he steps into the shower and waits for the blast of cold water to wash the mud and shit away from his inner layer of clothing and what little is revealed of his flesh. That is: his hands, face and feet. Cold water, of course, to combat what sudden feelings of lust and arousal may still be present, even after his long and hard day at work.

Have you fulfilled your designated work-quota today?”, the computer in his mirror ask. He looks deeply into the camera hiding in the head of his shower and nods twice, smiling carefully so as to prove himself pleased with both his place of work and his output of the day. The computer soothes him with quiet buzzing, apparently pleased with him today as well as yesterday and the day before and the day before. Such a splendour it is to have everything be so predictable, so stable, so incredibly ordered! The beauty of extreme order combating the calamity that is frightful chaos. Day after day the same, evening after evening, night after night. How quickly we may slip, he is told. Be careful and keep your eyes ever on the ground and on your feet as you walk. Do not let your eyes stray, and your thoughts will not stray either. He does not let his eyes nor his thoughts stray.

Feeling somewhat refreshed after his six minutes of prescribed showering time, he leaves the confines of his shower-box and wipes his face and hands and feet, as well as his inner layer of clothing, dry. A few months ago, he submitted an application for three more minutes of showering time, arguing that his advanced age – reaching his forty-second year soon – ought to grant him such favours, seeing as he had worked to advance the continued glory of the union since he was a mere boy of thirteen. Of course, he understands perfectly well that such applications take time to process. It is not a small task, and it is not a small favour he is requesting. And far be it from him to complain or to grumble over the time it takes. He has, however, been showing slight signs of impatience and dissatisfaction which, he hopes, are not of sufficient magnitude to be picked up by the bio-scanners in his cell.

Well, that would be as it would be. Some things can not be helped, and his lack of patience is absolutely one of them. Clearly, this was one of the reasons why he was put to work underground, to expand the… come to think of it, he really didn’t know what he was expanding. Well, as is with most things, he would not have understood it even if they told him. The government moves in mysterious ways, and no-one except Andwogs herself knew the absolute truth behind its movements. Being but a simple man of the ground-and-mud, he could not even hope to understand. Best not to burden his mind with things far beyond his level of comprehension.

He looks at his calendar: Four months down, two more to go until he could remove and request a rinse and renewal of his inner layer of clothing. Not too bad. Time did seem to move faster lately. This pleases him some. With a slight smile on his face, he tunes in to the evening exercise routine. Two minutes late, but that is within the governmentally sanctioned frame of time. In her infinite kindness and compassion, blessed Andwogs understood that personkind is not as precise as her computers and her clockwork, and as such slight deviations from the norm will occur. Here follows forty-five minutes of rigorous exercise to exorcise the demons of sloth – the beasts that have plagued personkind for years beyond count. Busy hands and bodies are the best, and one must stay busy at all times, lest one fall prey to grumbling, dissatisfaction and destabilization.

At the end of his exercise, he is drenched in sweat and his inner layer of clothing chafes and itches. It will pass within fifteen minutes or so, if he just sits down like so in that corner over there, and moves his head over there like so, he can stand the pressure and the discomfort. A small price to pay, he thinks, to live in a world cleansed of the horrors of manspreading, mansplaining and the eternal longing to rape and oppress which lies dormant, yet ever vigilant, within his genetically coded socialization; learned behaviour so vile and so powerful as to be encoded within the DNA of his ancestors and passed down to him via generations of trauma-memory. The government has soothed his mind in regards to this, though. Within only five or six generations, the trauma-memory will pass, and his ancestors, if not he himself, will finally be cleansed of this socially manufactured original sin. That is their most priced and highly budgeted project; the elimination of Original Male Sin, previously wrongly labelled as Toxic Masculinity. This is the reason why he, and every other man, every six months, as his inner layer of clothing is refreshed and renewed, is required to ejaculate into the suction-bots so that the government may spawn children and genetically alter them to speed up the process of removing all trace-memories of Original Male Sin. Without this process, it would have taken ten to twelve generations, the scientists confirm, before the ravages of the patriarchy are completely washed out of the shared communal DNA-pool of the glorious union.

With cameras buzzing and moving to follow him, he sits down in his one chair in one of the two allowed manners of his kind – knees touching together, or one leg resting over the other, thighs touching. He counts the seconds, as regulation requires to keep the mind occupied, until the six minutes have passed and the computer-monitor flickers into life for the thirty prescribed minutes of communal laughter. Some comedy-routine or other, today as tomorrow as yesterday. This evening they showed one which he has not seen for three weeks. What a great surprise! There were not that many in circulation, and so it was always of the greatest pleasure and surprise when they showed one of some rarity. This was not a complaint on the lack of proper entertainment, he noted to himself. It was merely an observation of joy. Of course he understood that the governmental budget was such that their main priority could not possibly be something so mundane as comedy. That went without saying. And far be it from him to show more joy than was necessary at this fortuitous event. After all – the world was so full of evil and wicked oppressors and oppression that pure radiant joy was an absolute impossibility, no matter who or what you were. However, some bursts of joy were allowed, as that only solidified the glory of the government and the union and Andwogs; imagine something so highly functional as to be able to bring joy into a world so dangerous, treacherous, oppressive and terrible. Showcasing, quite clearly, the power and might of the union and their scientists. And proving, without a shadow of a doubt, how beautifully free they were within its walls and beneath its fantastic skies!

From the cell adjacent to his, he can hear roars of laughter so powerful that he senses the vibrations of it in his own chair, and so he laughs as well. He laughs and trembles and vibrates, pausing only now and then to wipe the tears and the snot from his face before he continues on with his laughter. My, how good it feels! My, what a glory this laughter and this comedy is. What he is laughing at, he has absolutely no idea. But he is laughing, as the images on the screen flickers by and becomes a blur seen through a cloud of tears welling up from laughing, laughing, laughing. And the voices from the screen he does not catch and the jokes fly straight over his head and past his ability to focus or concentrate, and yet he laughs and yet he shivers and yet he trembles, trembles, trembles, for as long as the thirty minutes last. And then, with a blast and a kick in the neck, the thirty minutes of communal laughter is over and he stops dead in his tracks; the laughter and the tears and the snot and the vibrations stop abruptly, just as they came, and his body tenses up again. Thinking: “Did I sit as regulations required? Did I lose to much control during my fits of laughter?” As the computer has not told him otherwise, he assumes that he was well within his obligations and responsibilities during the communal laughter as prescribed by the government and by the glory of Adwose herself.

He taps the wall, and a small window opens allowing him to take a look outside at the streets below and at the buildings towering above him. It is grey and overcast, but it has not rained in years uncounted. Still they have water, and he praises the glory of the union for supplying it. Where it comes from, he has no idea. It doesn’t matter, of course, and he does what he can to suppress that curiosity and sense of wonder as that is a token sign of Original Male Sin which they have yet, even two generations down the line, not dispatched of. Some remnants of the past seem to be more resilient than others, he thinks, as two minutes pass and the window closes with a click and a buzz. The scientists have as of yet no general idea of the length of time required to cleanse the world of this plight. It shouldn’t take too long, they guess. But then, they guessed that as soon as they began. And it has already taken more than enough time.

Of course, his impatient nature is such that he is unable to grasp the concept of long-term goals. His is the realm of the here-and-now. It is for the government – persons far more clever than himself – to think ahead. He can scarcely remember yesterday, and the government in all their glory can remember clearly a time when every man, woman and child were slaves, though some were more slaves than others and others were more equal than others, as opposed to now were everyone is as free as they could possibly be. This should be more than enough proof of their superiority; their ability to actually, accurately and precisely, remember the past, the old days, the days of slavery and oppression. He sure hopes they achieve all their goals soon, so that the government and the women both may return from their exile at the colony of Mars to free the men from the shackles placed upon them by the burden of masculinity and Original Male Sin, so that men and women may finally live in peace and harmony for the first time in the history of personkind.

With a sigh, he clears his head of thoughts. Such pondering is not for the likes of him, and he sure hopes he did not stray too far from the path. He suspects he did not, as there, once again, are no indications that anything is wrong. He reclines as much as he may in his chair, and awaits his evening-dose of medications; his beloved Mothers Milk, to soothe his mind and to ease his aching body before he delves into his six hours of prescribed sleep.

From his chair, a needle protrudes and lends his arm a tender kiss. It takes but four minutes, before he feels a heaviness in his limbs and a clarity in his mind. As he is smiling drowsily and content, but not overmuch, his chair reclines and takes the shape of a bed. As his eyes close and sleep creeps in, the loudspeakers hiss and click into life and the nightly sermons begin. He floats gently into sleep to his own digitized voice whispering from the speakers: “I am aware of my own inherent privilege…”


  • Moiret Allegiere, 06.02.2019




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Lashing out, lashing in, let me begin:

transcendence 2 a3 lowres

Ill: «Transcendence #2», A3, 2019, Moiret Allegiere


This is going to be a relatively long one. Grab a drink, buckle yourself in and get comfortable.

Last night, (14.01.2019) I woke at five in the morning with the horrible sensation of not being able to breathe properly. A reasonable person would probably have taken this as a sign of some difficulties with the heart; a cause for great concern and an immediate evacuation to the halls of healing provided by our health services. Not me, though. I engaged in deep breathing until it passed, and then I fell asleep again, and woke with the mindshattering sound of my alarmclock going of three hours later. A reasonable person would probably consider my actioan in this instance to be of some concern; a sign that I am not taking my health seriously. The truth of the matter is that I am used to waking up like this. There is a lingering subconscious panic and dread somewhere in the dark recesses of my unconscious psyche still; a vague voice whispering that I am not yet, for lack of a better word, fulfilled.

Of course, these nocturnal bouts of panic and doom has lessened immensely over the course of the past two years. Prior to this, it happened every night and was far more severe. Every night for two years, I woke with what can only be described as night-terrors, and could not get back to sleep no matter how much I tried. The confusion and pure panic in those moments made me fear and avoid sleep as much as I could; sometimes not going to bed at all, but clincing to being awake as though my life depended on it. And maybe it did. At the very least, I belive my sanity – or what little was left of it in those fabled days of yore – depended upon it.

Sitting like that, alone at night with nothing for comfort but youtube and my own random, racing thoughts gave me a lot of room to think. Probably too much room to think. It also granted me the ability, over time, to control my thoughts and fracturing mind. Not as good as I would wish, but better than it ever had or has been. Some good came of it, even if I spent three years, give or take, in a state of constant agitation and panic. It put me on a path I desperately needed to be put upon, though I did not know it at the time.

For a multitude of years, I had been going to therapy. And their way of helping me was to put me on drugs, drugs and more drugs. I was given drugs to counteract the sideeffects of the other drugs I was on, and new drugs to combat the effects of those drugs which were meant to combat the effects of the other drugs. An entire, multicoloured galaxy of uppers, downers, screamers and streamers to keep me sane. That is: to keep me numb and burnt out. To keep my mind from being my mind. Due to the amount of drugs, and the relatively young age at which I was given these, they halted my emotional development and put my life dead in its tracks for several years. Nothing happened. I was sitting in stasis – gaining weight and gaining pessimism and gaining an everexpanding sense of frustration in regards to my life – or lack of life. This frustration was very much subconscious, but manifested in several severely selfdestructive ways. Which, of course, made the psychiatrists give me more drugs. The circle was complete. And the damage was done. And the damage still lingers.

At the time, of course, I believed that the fault for my life going absolutely nowhere was that of my own and my mind, fractured and ruined as I had been told that it was, from seeing shrink after shrink since I was fifteen years old and my teenage temperament, all gloomy depression and confused anxiety, was treated as a severe mental illness. Thus, being told half my life that there was something wrong with me meant that there had to be something wrong with me.

In essence, I was brought up into illness by the hum-diddle school of psychology. This is, of course, not to say that I am not responsible for the poor choices I have made. Because of course I am. My actions and choices were and are my own. There are contributing factors, however. And a lot of those contributing factors stemmed from the psychiatric dissolution of my self through drugs supposed to help me along the way, but who at their core halted my core from growing and developing roots which would gain sustenance from myself. Instead of aiding my growth, they halted my growth. Instead of making me better, they made me worse.

Diagnosis after diagnosis was thrown at me, and nothing seemed to stick. No diagnosis was correct, and yet I was given medications to treat the diagnosis which I did not have, time and again. Faulty diagnosis – medication – faulty diagnosis – medication. And then, of course – medication to combat the effects of other medications. Whenever a certain diagnosis was shown to be wrong, they did not halt the drugs given for that diagnosis. They conjured forth a new diagnosis and gave me drugs for that as well. My medical journal is a confusing mess. As was my life at the time; mirroring it perfectly, all jumbled and confused and frustrating. I could go on about this, but I won`t. I think I have gone on for long enough. I plan to expand on this, and my experience in quitting medication and psychology, at some later point. Maybe as a book, maybe as a series of blogposts. Probably both. Suffice it to say; I learned a lot from this experience through clawing my way through hell.

Now, the reason I am bringing all this up is very simple: it has to do with the mental health – or lack thereof – of boys and men. Or, more to the point – the lack of proper mental health services for men and boys. In particular since traditional masculinity – that is to say, masculinity at all – is now considered both pathological and as an ideology, whatever the fuck that means, by the powers that be. How, then, can a man trust to a mental health service when it deems masculinity itself to be at the root of all issues a man face?

What men are told, then, when seeking counseling, is that he is ill for the simple reason that he is a man. That if he only stopped being masculine, as nature has made him, he would be better. I can not conceive of how that would help him in any way, shape or form. Picture this scenario:

Therapist: So, what`s bothering you?

Patient: Well, I am feeling suicidal. My life is going nowhere. I can`t find employment and I can`t find any field of study to enter.

Therapist: Why do you think that is?

Patient: Well, they have these gender qoutas that is favouring women in my chosen field. And due to this, I can not find employment or somewhere to study despite being qualified and having tons of experience.

Therapist: Do you think this is a bad thing?

Patient: well, yes. I think the ones that are the most qualified should get the job.

Therapist: Do you not think women are qualified to work in your field?

Patient: Not when I am more qualified than they are, no.

Therapist: That, I think, is your male privilege speaking. You are so used to getting the world handed to you on a platter due to being a man, and now you are struggling to comprehend this loss of privilege.

Patient: what? No – I don`t think that is…

Therapist: Why are you so scared of gender equality?

Now, of course, this is probably a case of hyperbole on my part. But it drives the point home. Imagine seeking help due to self-loathing and suicidal tendencies, and then being told that your very nature is the cause of your issues. And then being told that it is not even your nature, but a social construct – a supposed ideology of masculinity – that has sown the seeds of your discontent. Now imagine being a young man. Or a boy. Seeking counsel and guidance for the same, impressionable as all hell and confused from the raging tide of hormones which only puberty can bring. This therapy and poor counsel can only breed more confusion. You are not you, they seem to say. Your nature is not in your nature. Moreover – that which is not your nature and which is not you, but which you still cling to and which still defines you – is toxic and destructive at its core and need to change. And this change, it seems, is not to help you grow, but to help the rest of the world grow.

Through counselling you are beat into servitude, one phony concerned sentence at a time, smooth as a serpents hiss, all forked tongue and whispered promises of betterment; if only you would understand your inherent toxicity and privilege, all would be well. Considering that men are the group most at risk for suicide, this does not bode well for the future of men.

This is not science. This is ideology parading around town masquerading as science. It is beautifully crafted; vile hatred of men and masculinity clothed as great concern for boys and men. I can not even begin to fathom how telling a young man who is struggling with suicidal urges – or a grown man, for that matter – that the fundamental reason for his suicidality is, in essence, his fundamental being, his very core. Couple this with the constant reminder – through massmedia, through social media, through schools and education, politics and parliament, through jobs and through parents, siblings, friends and family – that men are inherently bad, that there is something wrong with men, that men need to change for the betterment of all… You`ve got a recipe for disaster. Either individually, personal and private, or socially, public and societal.

Not only is a man told that he needs to change, he is told that he needs to change for the good of all, not for the good of himself. That his own emotional wellbeing takes the backseat to the emotional wellbeing of the world. And that his hurt hurts the world more than it hurts himself. He does not matter. Even when it is his wellbeing that he pays with blood and sweat and tears to be guided towards. What he is supposed to say is quite simple: «Serviam».

I will serve.

At the expense of myself, I will serve.

Which is, honestly and funnily enough, the traditional expectations levvied at men all the way from the beginning of time. What was that about the ideology of masculinity; the toxicity of traditional masculinity? Hah! It seems we have gone full fruitless circle once again. Now, imagine a girl or young woman going into therapeutic sessions and being told this; that her very nature is what is wrong with her. Can you imagine what levels of foaming-at-the-mouth-and-crotch outrage we would have seen then? And, I would like to add – rightly and justly so.

My school of thought is that everyone should be treated equally, regardless of gender or sexuality or colour of skin or what-have-you. This, it would seem, is not the school of thought which these self-proclaimed fighters for equality and justice for all is following.

This is, of course, not to say that people should not strive to be the best they can be. Bettering oneself and growing as a human being is of incredible importance, and gazing ever inwards deeply and labouriously is a important tool in doing just that. Know thy self, as the saying goes. When we have a cultural zeitgeist telling men – and only men – that they are flawed and need to change, however, we are at a loss of balance. Selfimprovement is not gendered. Nor is faults and flaws. Every individual, regardless of gender, has faults and flaws and room for improvement. Letting the faults of the world rest solely on the shoulders of one group is disingenuous at best and pure viscious malice at worst.

The outrage at claiming there is something wrong with the very nature of women would be immense. Of this, I think, there is little doubt. Claiming that there is something wrong with the very nature of men, however, is equality and justice made manifest; a social justice feverdream conjured forth from a mass-brainwashed collective psychosis, enginereed and finely crafted over decades. The genders should be treated equally. And so, we must teach men that there is something wrong with men – we must teach our societies that there is something wrong with men and nothing wrong with women. In the name of equal treatment. Summed up thusly: Men bad, Women good. For equality, for justice, for truth and mad pathology. One for one and all for one.


Now picture a young man. Confused by the hormones coursing through his body at the peak of puberty. Confused by a troubled upbringing, perhaps, or the loss of a loved one, or a lack of direction. Maybe only confused by life itself, and in need of some guidance and some help to overcome some obstacle or other. And so he seeks counselling. He seeks therapy. If only to gain some perspective, or to vent his frustrations to someone who`s job it is to understand and lend an empathetic and helpful ear. Someone who gets paid to help someone overcome difficult obstacles. And he vents. He opens up. He tells all. And is told that the reasons he feels like this is that he is conditioned to not feel – that he has been cast in the mold of oppressor and tyrant by a society which, apparently, only has his best interests in mind. That he should cast aside his notions of who he is and replace it with who his therapist thinks he should be. And who his therapist thinks he should be is far detached from the reality of who he, by nature, is. And who his therapist thinks he is – tyrant and oppressor, privileged and pampered – is far detached from the reality of who he, by nature, is.

Now, would not this cause more confusion? Would not this fester in his mind like a tumour; growing and growing more and more the more he is told that he is at fault for his own issues by virtue of his birth? Mix the condemnation levvied at men and masculinity by the educational system which he is forced through into the mix, toss the misandry imposed upon him through the news which he absorbs and the girls in his class into the cauldron, stoke the fires with politicians telling him that he is evil incarnate and that he has no real issues to worry about and that he should bend the knee to help girls and to help women overcome the obstacles which he is directly or indirectly responsible for by privilege inherent from birth. And now, bring it to a boil with a family which tells him the same.



Done and dusted.

Cleared, cleaned, clinically insane.

And this is what our culture celebrates – a constant demonizing of men for the perceived benefit of not the men in question, but the world around them. And we dare paint this travesty as being of benefit to boys and men. We dare paint it as a major benefit, which sees boys and young men dropping out and burning out, not participating nor launching, but washing up on the dust-and-cobwebbed-bedecked shores of our cultural wasteland.

Any voices raised – by the boys and men in question, or by others concerned – in opposition to the proposition that boys and men need to be socially enginereed into useful objects, helpful to all but themselves, is shouted down and held forth as a shining example of exactly why we need this misandric turn of page and phrase, this hatred disguised disgustingly as concern. It is a lose-lose situation. For boys and men.

What the claim is is of course: oh, no, it`s not all men. (Excepting, of course, when the same voices shine through the fog with a beacon saying #yesallmen) It`s just the bullies and the rapists, the harassers and the violent carriers of toxicity, of the virus of masculinity. If you should feel offended by the message, it means you are one of them and so you prove the point of the message. Clever. Very clever. It`s that worldwide emotional manipulation poking its bedazzled head out of the sand again, turning the victim into the victimizer. Agree with the message, and you are a good man and it is your job to stop other men behaving toxically. Object to the message, and you are one of the bad men and proof that the message need be told. One man is responsible for the actions of all men, which is to say that all men are responsible for the actions of one man. When that action is bad, that is. Flip the script, and you will learn that one woman is not responsible for the actions of all women and that all women are not responsible for the actions of one women. If they are bad. If they are good, it is a cause for celebration of all women. Women good, men bad. The bad done by one man is proof of the wickedness of all men. The good done by one woman is proof of the kindness of all women. Nuance is dead. Both men and women have the same capacity for both good and evil. This is forgotten in the gender-wars and the propaganda of the language therein.

A man can not win either way. Either we need to change, or we need to make other men change. To serve and to please, to serve and to protect. Or to kill ourselves in the process; to fail at life and withdraw into the nothing, into the ether. To be drugged unconscious and met with naught but disdain in the public and the private sphere, and being met with naught but distrust and blame-and-shame when we seek therapy and understanding from medical professionals who`s very job is to help and aid. And then to be forcefed a multitude of drugs to suppress our nature, quite literally being turned into mindless inactive zombies incapable of participating in any way, shape or form.

The result is a generation of boys and men turned away at the gates of life; denied the respect and compassion, understanding and empathy which they deserve. An entire generation of boys and men being taught from birth that there is something genuinely wrong with who they are at their very core. This, one would assume, is not proper behaviour towards any group of people. And one would be right in assuming this. Such as it is, our societies need their sacrificial goat – their idol to be shouted at and despised and blamed for the ills of the fracturing world we see before us, and simulatenously being told to fix it: both God and Devil. It is a mass communal unleashing of frustration and the Jungian shadow of humanity itself. The evil and vindictive force within us all. Men are the only group in society upon which this vindictiveness, this hatred, this frustration and this perplexing shadow of our souls and psyches may be unleashed with impunity. And they dare label it as compassion and concern for boys and men!

Don`t believe it? Try throwing the same vile abuse and everchanging demands for change at any other group in our splintering culture, and see how far that gets you. Try telling women as a group that they need to change. Or blacks. Or muslims. Or jews. Or homosexuals. Pick and chose, and see how far you get before the armies come marching at you from the virtuous anthill of the chronically concerned and offended.

This hatred and abuse get internalized by the boys and young men in question. Creating ever more need for therapy and psychiatric assessments of their being and of their ruptured psyche. Yet another of those viscious and vacuous circles manufactured by our daycare-societies. And being met with drugs, disbelief and disillusioning tales of their inherent privilege and propensity for oppression and toxicity in therapeutic sessions from beyond the wide-eyed wonder of the massmanufactured concern-trolling of this noxious fume of feminist indoctrination, they come to believe in the evil of their being. And the mood changes, the mood spirals ever downwards and, in lew of understanding, they are given more drugs. Causing the mood to descend further into the abyss. And the abyss opens wide to engulf them and swallow them whole. Perpetually lost boys floating aimlessly in a continuing vacuum; emotionally flatlined by neurotoxins and with a growing rage and resentment for which there is no release, no understanding and no help.

And as men are drawn towards action in times of personal crisis, they reach a breaking point and lash either outwards or inwards. Drawing from the core of their being; the masculine call to action which has been supressed and denied and labelled as inherently toxic. They snap. As one does, who has stared into the abyss for far too long. Manifested most often in selfharm and selfdestruction – or – more visibly destructive to society as a whole, it manifests as them taking others down with them in a blaze of fire and fury. This is where you get your mass-shooters and mass-murderers, your posterboys for toxicity and hatred.

And then, refining and re-engineering the circle once again, this is a call for the media to write articles on what is wrong with masculinity, holding these individuals forth as definite proof of the fact that there is something fundamentally wrong and defective with boys and men; not showing the least bit of concern for the tragedy which happened and having no qualms in using it as a tool to push ever more anti-male sentiments, stoking the fires already burning under the feet of the young boys and men which are doomed to failure and bound to lose in a society who`s blatant hatred of them is veiled as concern for their wellbeing!

Imagine for a moment what would have happened if these young men were shown compassion, understanding and empathy instead of ridicule and scorn. Instead of being labelled as incels or virgin-losers by feminisms doctrine when they voiced their opposition, or being marked by birth with the sign of the devil; a swinging cock and balls eternally flagellating the poor oppressed under their naturally oppressive nature.

Ave, Ave, Feministas.

This doctrine creates men there is something wrong with. Men ruined and broken by a society which claims to care equally for all, but which shows time and again that it cares nothing at all for men and for boys; a society in which men and boys are told to man up in order to help women and to attack their brothers for perceived trespasses on the virtue of women. Men, you need to help women. Women, you need to help other women. Noone needs to help men; they can help themselves by bending the knee and helping women and only women. That is to say, as stated time and again: by helping feminism and only feminism. Not only that; they are also told that manning up is proof of toxic masculinity; the suppression of feelings inherent in the toxicity. So man up and help and don`t man up and help by not manning up. Only express your feelings in a way suitable to feminisms gold standard. Meaning: express our feelings about men and masculinity, and share our emotions.

I have stared into the abyss of selfloathing myself. For years upon years; indoctrinated into the eternal victimcult, being reminded over and over that it is me and only me that is at fault. That my being is wrong, defective, destructive and hateful. I have been told that we live in a society in which women are oppressed, and I have seen time and again how this is not the case. Yet; I could not see through the veil across my eyes nor break away from the chokechain around my neck. I considered qoutas and affirmative action a necessity; proof of womens oppression when it is, in fact, proof of quite the opposite. Preferential treatment is not proof of oppression. One being treated better than the other – at the expense of the other, I might add – is not proof of the other oppressing the one. It is proof of the one being treated far better than the other by the other, which is claimed to treat the one worse. And, yes, the words «One» and «Other» are used with a purpose in mind. We are othering boys and men, turning them into second-class citizens to be treated with mistrust, and if not mistrust, then downright fear and loathing. And we are turning women into the One, a saving force and perpetual grace; an aristocracy which we must never contradict, never oppose, under pain of social death.

As with most boys and men, I lashed inwards as the abyss stared back into me. And as a result of lashing inwards, I was drugged into oblivion, balancing on a razorblade and tiptoeing through existence with no goals, no mind, no motives, no nothing. Psychopharmaceuticals scorched my neural pathways and burnt a hole into my mind who`s damage still lingers with me, running through my mind and my body in white scorching lines manifesting as chronic pain and chronic fatigue. Still burnt out; four years after ending my days as a drug-mule for the pharmaceutical bliss of our un-empathetic psychiatrists offices. And I am pissed off. Rightfully so.

My days of lashing inwards is drawing to an end. I employ the pen and what little energy I still have left to explore ideas and to lash outwards in a more cerebral manner; employing what explosive energy might linger in the core of my being in an attempt to change minds and inspire others to do the same; to partake in the battle of ideas we are caught up in.

We need to show that we deserve respect and understanding, compassion and empathy. And we must stand still and strong in this storm. And in standing still we move ever forwards on our path to make our societies understand that boys and men need to be met with empathy and understanding, not ridiculed, shunned, feared and blamed when opening up. We need to turn this tide and we need to stand together to do so. What differences we may have in our core values – traditional or non-traditional, conservative or liberal, etcetera, etcetera, need to be forgotten and put aside for the moment so that we can focus our energies towards a greater good; showing that masculinity is inherently good and that men are inherently good. Cooperation across the board is what we need.

There is a mass-awakening to be done. Imagine if boys and men were met with empathetic ears and, through action, shown that it is in fact our current cultural zeitgeist that is flawed at it`s core, not them. We would see far less mass-shootings. Far less men snapping. Far less men committing suicide. Feminst doctrine have created a self-fulfilling prophecy in their toxic masculinity narrative. And, I suspect, they are intensely pleased with themselves about this fact. Men and boys need to support other men and boys. And we need to stop internalizing the constant feedback-loop of hostility and negativity we are met with. Make the feminists live by their own rules by stating, quite simply: «If you belive that the genders should be treated equally, then you ought to start treating the genders equally». Or do not engage at all; there is no use in debating someone who has no interest in listening; who`s only concern is to speak and to have their voices heard at the expense of the voices of others.

If something is OK to be said about men in general, then it is OK to be said about women in general. If it is not suitable to be said about women in general, then it is not suitable to be said about men in general. Use their rulebook against them. Do not internalize hatred. Be strong. Be proud. Be yourself. And never let anyone condition you into believing that your masculinity is toxic. Stand still, holding a candle of self-respect to your heart and whisper to yourself: «Non serviam».

I will not serve.

For the sake of myself, I will not serve.

– Moiret Allegiere, 19.01.2019



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You can do better: on crybully asphalt rites and peace without peas.

coffee a3 lowres

Ill: «Coffee»,A3, 2019, Moiret Allegiere


A wild, wandering schoolyard bully comes of age through asphalt rites of gravel, mud and tears. She grows into the festering mold of mad, rupturing mycellium and hides her own insecurities in the safety of her projection that others are just as rotten and useless as she is. And through her veil of tears we are baptized in the gravel of her cottonmouthed words; a lingering foul odour of death and decay from her abysmal baptismal claws and painted cheeks. Grown up lost in the space-time continuum and seeking no solace in the self, solace comes only from reminding others of how she perceives them to be rotten, not seeing that she only recognizes the rot within herself.

Grounded not in reality but in a frantic mirage of her own design, she realizes that her own faults are not faults within herself but without herself. And so, the entire world needs to change to suit her needs. These needs change according to the flight of migrating birds, or according to the position of certain heavenly bodies of astrological significance, for instance the position of the moon, heaving and pulsating within her tremble-mind of virtue lost yet flashed dead-pan to an unsuspecting public.

And never growing past the point where she believed boys to have cooties, she lingers in statefunded institutions to teach others that boys have cooties still. And to teach her insecurities as objective fact, the closeted close-minded bully constructs gargantuan magical diagrams showing as objective fact that there are no objective facts; that only the subjective experience matters. And that is objective fact, no matter what her preaching choir sings about the dissolving of objective fact. All is subjective, except this which is objective by her design and hers alone.

And her disciples grow and flow along the same asphalt rites in which she herself was baptized in blood and tears and snot and snow; a fearful flight from introspection. The blame lies always somewhere else, and if it is not boys, it is a construct which boys created in ol` boys clubs fifteen thousand years ago, in the beginning of recorded time, subjective as the pitter-patter of tears streaming down the crybully-cheeks of her frail and delicate countenance, showing signs of shaming tactics and of shaming tacticians with magicians words that scream unfounded accusations as brilliant truths, hard as melting snow, solid as fog.

Within her own realm where nothing is truth, no truths will ever spring to mind but the truth that she is, in some way, shape or form oppressed terribly by the powerful cooties that be. The same powers that tremble and shake the very forces of the universe itself to make everything tailored to suit her everchanging needs and whims and flights of fancy. A spoiled child evaporating from the lack of the rod; never being told no and thusly never conceiving of the fact that other people have different needs and different opinions and personalities different from her own, spun round the thimbleneedle of her simpering baby-voice and childlike act.

A muttering, stuttering, perplexed and devouring parent stands over her in moonlit madness preparing ever-and-ever her bed and bedroom-stillness, checking every mattress to see if there is no pea underneath to disturb her slumber and much needed rest, frail and weak as she is. There is no pea, and yet she insists the pea is there, bright as day and clear as the bonefragments in her mirror-brain: there is a pea. If she insists, it must be true. Sorry princess, sorry – we shall bring new mattresses for you and we shall move you to a different room with a different view where no peas exist. And so it is done, and still there is a pea, conjured forth from her subjective manic pathology where all specks of dust grow into cobwebbed multitudes of trials and tribulations to be overcome by her and her alone, which she alone must face, and pity her in the grimness of this nightmare world which she must travail in horrid and deplorable whimsical fancies.

And as one, all voices rise to meet her demands, and proclaim that all peas shall be outlawed, lest they disturb her slumber. That some people might prefer to eat peasoup and object to this banning of all things pea-related is proof without doubt that there is a vast conspiracy to ruin her life for her and only her. Clearly, these people are out to get her and clearly they can not possibly like peas. Clearly, this is some madness they have been told to believe by the cootie-riddled boys of ol` boys clubs which she could not enter in the schoolyard years of her growing and developing temperament. Ban all peas: they are hurtful to her and others like her. And the objections to this banning is proof of this. If you like peasoup, you hate her. And by hating her, you hate all women. Liking peas is likened to hating all who do not like peas, and all who do not like peas are only her and those like her; her tribe of clean and sober right-thinking haters of peas, both personal and public. The logic is infallible in its infinite infantile infrastructure.

Orobouros shall be the symbol of the new dawn. Grand peaburnings are afoot. All cheer and marvel at this wild and tribal magic: the peas go up in flame, and now the world shall know peace at last, and our schoolyard bully, ravaged and ruined by the peas, shall be left in perpetual peace in this lack of peas.

That is, of course, until she notices that there are monsters in her closets when she sleeps. These monsters peak in at her while she is sleeping, and they disturb her sleep and her slumber and her peace of pealess mind. And so, they to must be removed by some stroke of some brush or some sledgehammer-justice doled out to crumbled cabinets and closets lurking in the corners of bedrooms world-over. And the whole thing starts over again. Her subjective knowledge trumps the clear objective fact of the matter. There are monsters in her closets, so we must ban closets. All must be banned, all the time, all over the world, to rid the world of monsters and cooties and emptyheaded disturbances infringing on her rights to sleep in her bed in complete and utter peace, with no peas and no monsters and no peace of mind but the piece that left with the peas and the monsters in the closets.

And who would have thunk it; the ol` boys club to which she protests and objects, which she claims hate her and all the others like her, wriggle in their seats in terror at her terror and, with a wish to protect her as much as her doting, overprotective parents did and do, they conspire to rid the world of her grievances as much as humanly possible. Peaburnings and closet-and-cabinet smashings are now written into law, mandated and enforced by violent thugs marching in uniform synchronicity through streets illuminated by the constantly combusting flames fuelled by her internal combusting engine; the burning of all things which offend her delicate bully-sensibilities and the enforcement of her will by the powers to which she object ever so much; the long violent arm of the ol` boys club which also must be torn down for their constant ignoring of her pleas for pealess peace in perpetuity; her clinging to catatonic cravings for a constantly cabinet-and-closet free cosmos.

Through her wishes and through her immaculate visions of peace from her psychologically projected rot, the world turns clinically clean and sterile. A cleanliness maintained through force via the evaporating deathgrip of a crybully choking the life out of everything; a boot stomping on a human face forever and ever, maintaining an illusion of freedom through freedom being gradually eroded by a voice whispering in cold shivers: save us from ourselves: we can not tolerate disagreements.

Moiret Allegiere, 12.01.2019

Open up to be shut down

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Ill: «Fatherhood», A3, 2019, Moiret Allegiere


Open up, man. See the bright light of salvation. Open up and speak and talk, man. There is no judgement. If only all you men supressed your masculinity and opened up about how you are feeling, everything would be smooth as silk and satin laced with arsenic and cyanide. If only, if only, you stopped acting manly and opened up, all your woes would leave you. All that tension would just float out of your muscles in a phlegmatic cough rising from your cancer-ridden lungs.

All day, everyday. Open up and talk. And you shall see and sense the bright light of salvation and you shall be cleansed and bathed in the tears of God. Supress your natural side. Deny who you are. And become what the feminists want you to be. And all shall be well and good.

The assumption, of course, is that men are not by nature masculine but are masculine by their own design. That behaving like a man is nothing but a act to cover up weakness. That one is not being a man, but merely pretending to be a man.

That men act as men because we are, in fact, men, is a thought that does not even strike these social constructivist nonsense-makers babble-mouthed brainstems. Men are not men. We are a blank slate tortured and malformed by societal expectations of how men should behave. In order to rectify this, we must change how we behave to please the feminists and become the shining light of salvation ourselves. If we only acted more like women, we shall be free. Because that is the golden standard that all shall follow: the proclaimed social construct of femininity. Because all is a construct and all constructs are bad. Except for the construct of femininity, which is the true nature of all human beings.

So we are told to open up and talk about our emotions. And so we talk about them. Only to be met with ridicule, to be told that male tears are a delicious beverage to drink and to bathe in via shirts and mugs, and to see that our pain is a source of amusement and ridicule. Our conferences on mens issues are protested, shouted down and shut down. And we are labelled as crybabies with no real issues. Mens emotional pain is not taken seriously, even by the same forces that would have us open up and talk about our emotional pain. It is, of course, only a way for feminists to proclaim that they care ever so much about men, if only men were the way they wanted them to be; if only men succumbed to their will. That is to say: do not talk about issues regarding men that are not preapproved by feminists, and above all do not talk about them in a way not preapproved by feminists. In other words: shut up and listen.

In this world where we are told one thing only to experience that the opposite is true, what`s a man to do? Damned if you do, and damned if you don`t. Men act instead of talk. As a general rule. And women talk instead of act. As a general rule. And when the powers that be tell us to open up and speak, only to make us realise when we finally do that we are told to shut up and listen, we grow confused. And confusion brings inner turmoil when there is no release. And there is no release, because we are told that our way of handling our emotions is wrong and we are shown that attempting to talk about our emotions is wrong. Both are wrong, in the minds and eyes of feminists. Men can not do anything right. And our societies see no issues with telling us this, constantly bombarding us with conflicting messages and commands to do this, do that, do all the things even when the things contradict the other things and the actions of feminists show quite the opposite of what they say. If you object to this, you are showing how toxic masculinity is. And are thusly nothing but a neckbearded, basement dwelling, incel virgin loser who can`t find a woman. Should you wish to find a woman, you are acting as though you are entitled to sex. Should you not wish to find a woman, you are a misogynist who hates women.

Freeze. In the headlights of this foul year of our lord. Freeze. And do nothing. And wait for the inevitable barrage of articles asking: where have all the good men gone? Where did chivalry go? It`s time for men to shape up and step up and be gentlemen again. Even when that is deemed as sexism. It doesn`t matter. Everything is sexist, no matter what and how and where and when. So here we stand, frozen in the headlights, waiting for the truck to hit. And when it hits, and images of our mangled, broken bodies start floating about atop the riproaring tide of our engines of mass-manipulation; our sanctified massmedia newsoutlets, the conclusion remains the same: there is something wrong with men, and men need to change.

Asking men to talk more about their emotions presupposes that someone is willing to listen. And that is seldom, if ever, the case. As made evident by the aforementioned «male tears» mugs and shirts. It`s wrong when we don`t talk about our issues. And when we do, it is either goddamned hilarious or dangerous. Hilarious to feminists and dangerous to women. Men talking about issues affecting men is taking away from issues affecting women. Even when the claim is that men need to talk more about their issues. This is what we are told and this is what we are shown. And this lays down a fertile breeding ground to spawn broken men; our societies beckoning us to come closer with the same hand that pushes us away and holds our heads under water.

It is not a secret that men experience far less empathy than women, be that politically, intimately, socially. This begins already at birth, with boys being left to cry longer than girls before they are picked up by their parents. It is not a secret, that is, to those who do not cling to the nonsensical belief that women are disenfranchised and oppressed; not being shown empathy in any way, shape or form. Whils`t being shown all the empathy our careworn societies have to offer; all serpent-tongue and smoother than hissing silk.

A broken man is useless to society, since he has nothing to give, no value in and of himself. Better for him to off himself than find value in and of himself. Women, on the other hand, have always had value in and of themselves. And feminists know this. A broken women must be mended, fixed and repaired by any means necessary, given all the help there is. All the time. And she will experience this.

A broken man may be told that there are empathetic ears. He may be told that people will help. He is, however, shown time and again, that noone wishes to have anything to do with him. That there is no help for him, no ears to listen and no hands to help. He is pushed away and hidden away, being told to open up and then being told to shut up and let women speak when he finally caves in and opens up.

It is not the case that men are emotionally stunted. Or that men are not in touch with their emotions. It just so happen that men process their emotions differently than women – as a general rule. There is nothing wrong with this. What is wrong is being told that the way men process emotion is wrong. That we need to do it differently, that we need to be socially engineered to do it differently. Only to experience, when we do it differently, that noone is willing to listen. That it is wrong for us to talk about our fears and pains. That leaves no room to maneuver. No way to do anything about our emotions, no path to thread. The beaten path is wrong, the new path is wrong, all paths are wrong, and there is no place for us to go at the end of the day when yet another sleepless night is crawling in on us and the whispering voices from our minds keep us from sleeping and keep us from being emotionally fulfilled.

The silence in those long, yearning nights is a silence profound and deafening; a dangerous silence wherein all that is wrong with ones life and oneself floats around inside the inner sanctum of the mind; giant asteroids colliding with enormous planets in the vast vacuum of space, exploding over and over again. Pieces of order and stability being chipped away in grand galactic explosions until there is nothing left but a gnawing, biting, burning, shrivelled up and dying sun anxiously awaiting the imminent implosion of the fruitless void of the inner world.

The unbridled and unhinged celebration of the feminine path to healing being the one true path to healing strikes me as nothing but arrogance. That there are more ways than one to process and deal with emotions, be they good or bad, is a concept dying in our streets from malnourishment. And it is malnourished by the constant insistence from feminism – and as a result from society at large – that there is something fundamentally wrong with men, and that if only men could change and behave differently, all would be good in the world of men and the world at large. The notion that society should, perhaps, change the way it views and treats men is as foreign to these people and their views as introspection is. That mayhaps and maybe the best path to take to make men heal and make men whole is to not bombard men constantly with a barrage of hostility and enmity; to not continually tell us that we do everything wrong, no matter what and how we do it.

Remove the hostility and the constant attacks, and maybe, just maybe, let men speak and deal with our issues in a way deemed suitable by us instead of the feminist hivemind. Remove the blatant lies and constant protesting and shutting down of our conferences. Let men have their own spaces in which to air their issues and seek healing, instead of shutting them down for being foul misogynist hellholes if there are no women present.

This may come as a shock to the feminst armies, but I`ll take my chances and say it. Prepare your sniffingsalts and fainting coaches if you need them: men do not need women around in order to behave properly. We are quite capable of behaving properly under our own supervision. We are not children in need of constant parental guidance. There is not anything wrong with men. There is something wrong with a society which constantly tells us there are something wrong with men. Being constantly told that there is something wrong with men creates men there is something wrong with. Especially when there is no place to go for healing, no destination to reach and all ears and all eyes are deaf and blind by wilful design trickling down from the beginning of time; madness masquerading as reason burns the core. Society has gone insane, and the ones who still dance are considered insane by the ones who do not hear the music.

Moiret Allegiere, 09.01.2019

Intersecting bodies at the intersection of madness and gibberish: a rant

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Ill: «Happyslapped by the Godhead», A3, Moiret Allegiere, 2019


Feminism dictates. The world bends its knees. Then it tumbles, then it rolls. Lost in the vast vacuum of space for a while, beat down by the weight of heavy-handed assumptions, assertions and mandates dictated by bodypositive nonsense caught in the throes of orgasmatronic ecstasy. Woe unto the world, lest feminists have spoken. And so they spake, and so they shrieked.

It is a peculiar arrangement we have gotten ourselves into, is it not? We listen and we believe. And we bend at the middle until we break. Words of wisdom from the mouths of feminists dictate the course of society, deliberately dedicating dictatorial decisions on womens lives and bodies: women should be free to do what they want to do with their lives and their bodies, with no questions asked and no judgements passed. Hark; the choir offended sings – falsettoes rise with trembling vibratos. Or was that vibrators? I can`t remember.

Vibrato or vibrator – it doesn`t matter much, in the long run. It`s just silly illusions of literary talent coursing through my neural pathways, gathered from whatever strange force of inspiration I am currently channeling. Or challenging. The tides are rising again, the fever peaking again, the choir of offense touching upon the pinnacle of control. Tremble before the falsettoes and the feminist siren song of women being victims of their own choices! Again.

For uncounted years, the feminists have been telling us that womens bodies are womens bodies and that womens choices regarding womens bodies are their own to make. And no judgement should be passed, be that legally or socially. They seem to have forgotten, in the heat of the moment, or by their own design, that everyone is judged on their actions, be they male or female. They are astray within their solipsistic worldview in which only their own binocular projection of the world around them matters. Logic is only logical when viewed from within their current framework; the prismatic lens of the only gender that matters in the quest for equality between the genders.

And so they tell us, with forked tongue and eyes sewn shut, that their bodies are their choice. And we bend. And they rise. And they dare us, they doubledare us, to pass judgement on a womans choice to do what she wants to do. And so we don`t pass judgement, lest we be judged ourselves, lest we be thrown to the wolves and passed through the meatgrinder of feminist destruction of anyone who`s opinion is deemed by them unworthy to be held in the maniac limelight of the current year, whichever current that may be. Ok we say, we cleanse, we rinse, we repeat the mantra: her body her choice. And we pass judgement upon what men do, but not upon what women do. Because that is peak equality!

Then come the crossroads; the intersection where madness meets gibberish and is, somehow, considered sanity.

And I have forgotten, due to cosmic vibrations and solar storms, what the current year is. Have I been struck blind by the beast of interchangeable restorations? Have we gone full circle? Are we not in the current year anymore? Did the world end and noone remembered to tell me? I mean, I wouldn`t blame them if they did. I would just like a heads-up. That`s all.


I`ll just try and remember that it is always the current year somewhere; that the currents of time will lay down the foundations for the current year, so that we can pick it apart at a later year to make it, once again, the current year. Because, after all, it is the current year and that should tell you all you need to know about our current year and the societies which dwell both within and without the current of the current year.

Did they not tell us that a womans body is her own to do with as she pleases? Why, then, pray tell, do the feminists tell women what to do with their bodies? A womans body is her own to do with as she pleases. As long as that woman does with her body what the feminists would have her do with her body. If you are a stripper, you are not allowed to do what you want to do with your body. Or if you are a gridgirl, or find yourself in any profession where you make your living of your looks in a way that would make the victorian-era enlightened feminist sniff and swoon, crying «poor me! Fetch me my sniffing salts, boy!» Or was that Bathsalts? Meh, never mind, no matter. The difference between the two are probably insignificant.

I should like some sniffing salts. Or some bathsalts, in order to understand this doublethink. Maybe that would put me in the frame of mind that these feminists exhibit when this topic comes up; make it possible for me to talk out of both corners of my mouth with my tongue gently licking and caressing the cavernous emptiness of my cranium.

Understanding this strange phenomenon is, to my eyes, impossible if one has a mind that is firmly put in its place and functioning on more than a baselevel of consciousness and conscience both. But, as stated before, all is possible in the feminist world of illogical logic and unreasonable reason.

It is not men that dictate what women do with their bodies. It is feminists. Under the guise that certain womens actions are actions that no woman in her right mind would take, were she not forced by men to do so. And so the feminists force her to not do so. And they label it equality. And they label it fairness. And they take away these womens jobs and incomes and consider it progress for womens rights. All the while chanting «My body, my choice!», all the while disregarding what these women whom they have deemed as being in professions unworthy of women have to say about the matter. Womens voices don`t matter much to feminism. Only feminist voices matter to feminism. It is almost as though one would be inclined to believe that feminists believe that all women are one and the same and that all women have the same goals and aspirations in life; namely – feminisms goals and aspirations. Which is… well, who the hell knows anymore? Everything is a feminist issue. Even the things which contradict the other things. All things are true. Even false things are true.

You need only listen to how feminists speak to, or about, these women whom they deem unworthy to see how quickly they pass judgement on what a woman choses to do with her body and her life. Tear the veil from your eyes and your ears and look and listen. Don`t repeat the mantra that it is only about equality. Don`t resort to pointing to the dictionary definition. Look, and listen, and all shall become clear.

It is a hodgepodge of moronic diatribes and astoundingly rude and disrespectful behaviour towards women. This coming from the same set of ideas that tell us that we should respect women by virtue of nothing but vagina. Of course, it is quite clear that they don`t mean we should respect women, but that we should respect feminist women. Or merely the concept of feminism itself, totalitarian ideology that it is. Respect women, or perish. Meaning: respect feminism, or perish.

Why is it that feminists can tell women what is proper conduct for women, and yet lambast anyone other than feminists who dare critique a woman? And that is not even women as a group, but one single woman. Here come the cries of harassment, here come the cries of misogyny and violence against women. Because women are so weak and frail, according to feminists, that they can not handle criticism. Unless that criticism is coming from feminists towards women who are not – in their eyes and goblin-minds – real women. «Don`t sexualize yourself. Go find real work instead.», they say. And so remove their jobs so they are forced to find some other area of employment. It does not matter what women want. It matters what feminism wants.

Over here, in the frozen wastes of Norway, one of our prominent radfem-groups are protesting BDSM. Because they, in their allembracing benevolence, consider it domestic violence. And so, they try and infiltrate our bedrooms. All the while claiming it a move for equality and liberation of women. It is astounding. This group protested the cinematic screening of 50 Shades of Grey; a series of books and movies mainly enjoyed by women. And written by a woman. For its supposed promotion of domestic violence. Do they not know what fiction is? Do they really believe that everyone apart from them are so simpleminded that they are incapable of separating fiction from reality? Or is it that psychological projection again; that they can not separate fiction from reality so noone else is able to either?

One of these feminists, when asked what they thought about women stripping for their partner, answered something along the lines of «Well, we don`t want to tell people what they may or may not do in their bedrooms. But it is a shame to see that the pornculture has seeped into our private lives like this.» Women are victims of their own choices. And a woman must never, ever, do anything to please her partner. If that partner is male. A male pleasing his partner is a good thing. A woman pleasing her partner is misogyny. Well, in all fairness: a male pleasing his partner is probably misogyny as well, according to the corrupted minds ruling the church of feminism.

Meanwhile, us sane and reasonable individuals consider it a good thing for a man to please his partner and a women to please her partner in a fair and functional relationship built upon cooperation and trust instead of enmity and competition. Bugger it. Millenium hand and shrimp. There is no reason to be found here, within feminisms fractured walls and ravaged halls.

Sexual liberation is a great thing! As long as women fuck in a way deemed suitable by feminists; under the covers, with the lights off and a copy of the Scum Manifesto clutched firmly in one hand, and the Communist Manifesto in the other. Or celebrate their sexuality in a way that is not offensive to the eternally offense-seeking minds of feminists. And there`s sex-negativity and sex-positivity and doublethink and doublespeak and doublestandards and not one semblance of reason amongst them.

The great feminist revolution claimed to be about liberation, but tears away our liberties and dictates our lives, making the private political and the political private, attempting to dictate what we do with our privates in the privacy of our own homes. Noone is free from the allseeing eye of feminism. A great eye, enveloped in flame, gazing ever hither and dither, eternally seeking more power, more might, more influence, more control! One ideology to rule them all, and in the darkness bind them.

Moiret Allegiere, 05.01.2019

Happy new year 2019!

2019 A4 lowres

Ill: «2019», A4, 2019, Moiret Allegiere


Happy new year! As is tradition, I spent January 1 being severely hungover. This means, of course, that 2019 will only get better from that point onwards.

Considering the strange and unknown horror that lurked in the corners and then came to the forefront of 2018, one can only hope that 2019 will be a better year. Mayhaps this will be the year where the pushback against the new totalitarians and their collective psychosis will gain momentum; a year where more people will wake up to and subsequently protest against the «enlightened» push toward thought-and-speech control.

Maybe, just maybe, we will remember how to sing, dance and laugh again. Not being allowed to do so by the soc-jus hivemind of virtue impeccable, but doing it despite and in spite of their veiled move towards tyranny; a move hiding in the shade of «justice» and moral superiority. Remember laughter. Remember dancing. Remember singing. And then do it, delivering a monumental middlefinger to the inquisitors knocking at your door, all the while grinning and dancing and singing and laughing as if there were no tomorrow.

Moiret Allegiere, January 2, 2019