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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Blame it on rembrandt A3 lowres

Illustration: «Blame it on Rembrandt (Selfportrait)», A3, 2019, Moiret Allegiere.


From the spectrum analysis
of the void; wishy-washy
nonsense bottled and sold as perpetual
freedom grieving the loss of
some-odd something.

Veiled gurus cowering in shades,
hiding mumbo-jumbo recordings
of coked-up politicians flinging
shit on the stage.

Weird visions emanating from the
microcosm of cataclysmic
bacteria in my gut. I hear
strange noises in the inner ear;

a hum, a drone,
devoid of meaning.
’tis wordsalads and
stoned gibberish from the ranks
of growling throats and teeth and tongues.

’tis a slow descent into madness:
storytime sellouts, loud-mouth,
obnoxious and drunk
on power
shouting at us from a pinnacle
of perceived morality.

And we:
we have become fat and bored
cold and callous
narcissistic, vapid, overcivilized,
crammed into the backseat
of an undersized Honda
and labelling it love.

Our revolutions have become pedantic
miniature-scale overthrowings of
the what-ever-man-I-didn`t-dig-it variety;
gibberish of cancer-ridden mind-morons,
cowering behind a shower-curtain
drowning in an inch
of proclaimed hate-speech.

All our piss-poor grievances bottled
and sold wholesale as micro-dystopian junk
to be injected constantly into the eyes
and flaring nostrils
of the clinically dead conscientous junkies;
offended and having no shame.

Chemically castrated, side by side and in pairs
we walk jubilantly to mass-graves
singing songs
of joy and celebration and
of joyus celebration,
blinded to the truth
by ideals too clinical to be sane.

Castrated and morally feverish
we raise the flag of superficial fellowship,
a banner of solidarity,
free-falling, drunk and damaged,
just another take on the old
new world order of old

Kallo! Kallei! Hey-nonny-nonny-neigh!
Here we are, lost in permanent
displacement; within a void, within electric buzz!
Hey! Ho! Hey-nonny-nonny-no!
Here we fall, lost in a progressive
shitshow; a hollow tune, a loss for words.

All our words, swirling
down the drain (Hey honey, I’m home)
seeing reason in the face of madness
dance away, flip-flopping into the ether
or into crowdfunded oblivion
permanently scarred by the toxicity
of freedom-fighters fighting for tyranny.

Visionary journeys numbed by drugs and by TV
trashtalking gossip and no-nonsense dreamscapes
in bent reality reality-television, starstruck
by witnessing the vast open canvas of apocalypse

coursing through the veins of reflected
imagination and wild cosmic vibrations
fucked up by lack of oxygen –
nutritient deficiency on the mental plane
balanced by grievance-fuelled
moral stupidity;
we grow accustomed to the night light.

A sudden bright-light flash of
full frontal nudity whilst,
in the background,
heaps of cocaine-stunned nocturamas
plow the cottonfields eternally
in old world plantations.

What ya saying, humdinger?

don`t chase the fractals
don`t frighten the children
kill yourselves instead

melt into the background
disappear in bad music
hands at your sides
or tied behind your back

choke the life from your
throat, tear your voice from
your eyes, silence and

A vast freak-out on a global scale,
weird pent-up lack of self-control
in this moment: a permanent fixture.

We die, laughing maniacally.

We die, smiling goofily, succumbing to
a fantastic death-dance.

We die, celebrating our death masqued
as some rebirth or other;

built by futurescapes too horrible to comprehend
past bleeds into the future –
eternalism in the works, oh baby,
our time is what once was will be
and again.

Cycles of mischief and of decadence
dull and numbed and bored,
grinning at nothing
and laughing at noone, smiling at
chasms or at wild-eyed wonders
with childlike innocence.

And so, and now, and there and then,
with childlike glee,
we march backwards
to our solitary confinement and,
confined to isolation, silenced and killed,
we think: this is proper, this is good, this is just.

We are going back.
Backwards in time.

Shamanic madness on the fringes of society
mystical and stained with blood;
teeth at our throat
and hamfisted theory
theorizing hamfistedly
blood and guts and gore
from archaic esoteric

Our cultures merging and diverging,
coo-ee, coo-ee, it`s only me,
it’s only me,
shattered, tattered,
torn apart by raven claws,
smooth as skulls
and dopamine.

It’s only me; an eerie collapse,
an aerial view of animal frenzy,
an inverted comma on your lips,
cold as the dawn
and serotonin.

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– Moiret Allegiere, 08.05.2019



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Open up to be shut down

fatherhood 1 a3 lowres

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

Eulogy for the lost boys

Eulogy for the lost boys Lowres A4

Ill: «Eulogy for the lost boys», A4, 2018, Moiret Allegiere


Starting from the bottom of lungs suffering a incredible infection of long-lasting and irrational hatred, we hear a roar bellowing forth. Twisting and turning and winding its way up and out, it is transformed through the larynx and trachea – moving from a roar to a screech, highpitched and fierce, as if driven by some latent demonic force. The screech spreads as spittle through industrial fog. It clings to every single droplet of dew, stained black with ash and smoke: spittle from a reverbarating echo of hatred blending with the dew of industrialized zones of spiritual decay. Upwards we are carried, clinging to the spittle still, until we mingle and blend with the clouds and get a full-on birdseye view of the world. Like eagles we soar and float above the world.

From this vantagepoint, much that is lost to us we may now see; strange echoes from a void of cloudy despair fill the air about us, charging it with tremenduos energy. Electricity is building up, and we find ourselves drawn apart from the updraft, drawn away from the clouds, separated from the spittle of irrational hate, we seek the void.

Gazing towards the void until the void is all we can see. And in the void; drifting and afloat from shipwreck to shipwreck we see the lost boys. Perpetually lost and stripped of meaning and direction. Cast adrift by forces beyond their control, beyond reason, beyond madness, beyond the void. Grey cliffs bend over the void, cliffs cast in concrete, in piss and blood; a eternal monument of paradise lost and never regained. A grey spectre of isolation cast it`s grim countenance upon their faces and their eyes. And their eyes in turn reflect nothing but a grim spectacle of a future chopped down and left to rot where it fell, meeting nothing but indifference for those who might see them lying there as they walk past under the scorching sun of summer eternal. There is no future in the void. Empty promises. Enormous, cavernous waiting rooms; rows upon rows of empty seats flashing golden rays of light mocking the lost boys for their absence, demanding at the same time access to their seats.

And we – soaring overhead – mock and laugh and ridicule. We wallow in their demise and urge it on. We pick at their flesh and at their bones with long beaks reenforced with metal and barbwire, asking in a mocking, sing-song voice: «Why aren`t you doing anything with your lives?».

They don`t respond. They drift further away. Deeper into the void. Shadows cast from the concrete cliffs of infallible madness fill their cranial chambers, bouncing from wall to wall, gaining speed, gaining momentum, faster, faster, back and forth, until it all becomes a blur and the cranial chamber, so pure at the beginning of time, turns into a chamber of excruciating hate in it`s own right. And we come full circle. Clouds close down. Rain pours. The ground is turning to mud. It don`t matter in the void. Rain or shine, the void stays the same. And we laugh and mock and frown; our collective faces turn into grimaces of pure disgust and disbelief at how grown men can behave as the lost boys do; clinging to chimes of the past with breakneck loneliness and escaping into that which seems familiar and, at the very least, shows no judgement – and to hell with the rest of the world, to hell with the void and the reason and the madness both. It don`t matter much, in the void.

And from the depths of catatonic despair come the deathparade; a marching gaggle of ghouls and monsters, each marching to their own beat, but all marching still to the same drum, out of rhytm, out of tune and out of touch, but still there, moving ever onwards towards the same goal: the void.

And from their mouths hiss the noise of ill intent, whispered at first but gaining in volume and intensity. Whom but the lost boys themselves know what words the lost boys hear at the peak of yet another sleepless night, or in the hollow tunes of yet another sleepless morning, lost in the perplexing horror that is the hour of the wolf; the long and dreary teatime of the soul? Wash it away then, with booze and pills. From despair shall freedom from despair be sought. Or, failing even that, a piece of despair be carved away, masked as loss-of-despair, but in reality nothing but a postponing of grander despair yet to come.

Through eyes clouded with numb sensations of free-form experimental poetry, come the grief. A great build-up of years wasted. A great build-up of wasted potential. A great failure to launch; turned away at the gates and trampled down into the very gravel coating the roads of misspent youth. Time and again in trouble. Drunk and derailed, faded into obscurity by the very same powers that claimed to work towards a greater good for all. All flowing to and from the same source. To bad the source was poisoned. To bad the source left them behind to float into the ether, and be lost. And then to be cemented as a permanent fixture in the void, and be lost. An entire generation of boys doomed to be lost at sea, clinging to whatever might fill the trembling void in the midst of their souls and in the midst of their manhood so that they do not wither and waste away completely. A generation ignored, forgotten and made out to be evil incarnate. A generation scorned and cursed and subject to the greatest betrayal ever bestowed upon anyone by the same hands and minds that purported to love and care about them. A great and world-encompassing lack of empathy and understanding. The fall of man. Paradise lost. Stuck in permanent purgatory to grow cynical. To grow resentful. To grow bitter. To grow into their own demise, either by their own hand or by someone elses. Either to take as many as they may with them into the abyss beyond the void, or to go fearlessly into the abyss beyond the void themselves.

An entire generation of boys and young men raised to walk gladly into their own death – to be born and to live and then to die in hatred – and to be told simultaneously that they are the lucky ones, and should be ashamed of and make amends for the rare privilege of being bestowed a cock upon birth. And we shake our heads and wonder why our boys are failing so, and we blame them for their own failures just as we blame them for the failures of the girls; and the rage and the riots and the shaming and the unfiltered hatred fill their minds and fill their bodies and fill their souls, and they fall. And as they fall, we are lessened. And we don`t see that we are lessened, and we don`t care, and we dont notice that we are lessened. For they are nothing but lost boys.