You are about to action:
Object being modified by the action
Do you want to proceed?
If you wish to action:
Object being modified by the action
Then please send an email request to [email protected].
But even though the rights of both the genders are identical,
you can’t escape the Feminist behemoth’s clammy tentacles
demanding men apologise and beg and fawn and snivel
and hack their shrunken testicles off with a rusty chisel.
You can’t say ‘bitch’ or ‘cunt’ or ‘whore’. No, that’s misogynistic,
insist these bitches, cunts and whores. But, oh – in case you missed it,
it’s still alright for women to say ‘tosser’, ‘prick’ and ‘wanker’,
it’s still acceptable for girls to snap and swipe in anger
and laugh at a man’s penis with a crooked little finger,
but men must show respect for women’s looks. These gifted thinkers
inform you that all masculine behaviour is now “toxic”,
so close your legs! Sit down to piss! Adhere to shrewish logic!
Just shut your mouth! Don’t be a man! Be much more like a female!
That’s what they order you to do. But here’s an unsaid detail,
a loophole in the small print: women still possess the freedom
to suck the cocks of men who do not care about or need them,
of rippling-muscled chauvinists who’ll trap their hearts in sick pain,
as women can have sex with who they want, you sexist dick-brain.
Another loophole: none of this applies to brown or black men.
All misogynists are white.
Your ancestry goes back ten
or more millennia in Europe, homeland of the white race.
The fact that other people with a vaguely similar-typed face
to yours possess more power in society than those who’ve
been landing here for sixty years in fluctuating flows proves
you’re privileged, and you should be deprived of your nationality,
ashamed of who and what you are, with all of its depravity!
For all white males are privileged oppressors, shriek the Feminists.
Your Celtic heart, which through the years has passionately reminisced
about King Arthur (Caradog and Boudicca both crammed in too),
your Celtic blood, passed down from those who fled potato famines, who
had begged and starved in Irish fields, now suitably affronted
by a swamp of hairy-armpitted, intellectually stunted,
nature-twisting, self-obsessed, unfuckable middle-class ratbags,
Orwellian cowshit-screeching filth, degenerate privileged fat slags
with fat gobs full of Arab-spunk, how else can you react to this?
What would be your calmly thought-out, reasonable analysis?
Imagine this scenario. That this was your life story.
How d’you think you’d feel about the panting, squirting orgy
of moral masturbation that erupts around you daily?
About these Feminists and all their eunuch friends who gaily
prance across the stage while warbling doctrine from their rectums.
How d’you think you’d feel about these folk? Would you respect them?
Or would you yearn to slash them into slices with a gimlet
and melt them into one vast herdcrap-flavoured Spanish omelette
or lampshades, bars of soap, perhaps a set of scented candles
shaped like huge vaginas? Well, these culture-stabbing vandals
have brought us all here with their brains the size of hedgehogs’ foreskins,
squealing “Sexist scum! Islamophobe!” at Richard Dawkins.
With David Icke it’s “Crackpot!”, Tommy Robinson it’s “Racist!”,
Marine Le Pen it’s “Far right!”, Julian Assange it’s “Rapist!”
because it’s easier to vomit empty words and slogans
and jump on all the government-sponsored, corporate-fed bandwagons
than listen to what someone has to say. Oh yes, it’s easier
to think what you’ve been told to think in blindness and amnesia,
and if you don’t, there must be something wrong with you, you weirdo,
you racist sexist knuckle-dragger. Be like Emperor Nero
and watch the game show or the football. Pour yourself a new drink.
Don’t doubt the doublepluswoke blackwhite open-borders groupthink,
the duckspeak-quacking, racethink-parroting illuminati
all squawking “Ban all whitepriv hatespeech! Ban the patriarchy!”
Don’t think about the Mongols, the Mughals, the Arab Slave Trade.
Just keep on bleating “It’s all Whitey’s fault the world’s got waylaid!”
Keep squabbling like toddlers over your chromosomes and your level of melanin,
keep raging that teaspoons are racist and that your neighbour’s meringue has more lemon in.
Don’t think about the nought point one per cent enslaving humanity,
don’t think about the working classes trampled beneath your banality,
don’t think about the devils in suits rewiring you into unaware,
unthinking, dribbling robots as they rob you down to your underwear,
just get down on your privileged knees, you cracker, and apologise
for all those crimes you didn’t do and lands you didn’t colonise.
Stay woke, stay fast asleep, you gullible self-righteous spastics,
suck it up, swallow it with your processed fats and microplastics!...
https://alfieshoyger.blogspot.com/2019/04/imagine-this-scenario.html
She wouldn’t lay a nectarine on a chopping-board to save your life,
she wouldn’t dye her hair or play a harpsichord to save your life
or pull a sink-plug out or open up her eyes to save your life,
admit that she did wrong or just apologise to save your life,
but still you’d pull a million pints or pallets, or scrub rotten mud
off an entire amphitheatre with a broken cotton bud
so she could sit and spend each afternoon unclogging the messiest
brainbox in North London with a world-class psychotherapist.
People tell you, “Just get over it! Move on! Forget her!
There’s plenty more eggs in the frying pan of spilt milk, etcetera etcetera!”
Except there’s not, since all around are moralists making a dire noise,
who bore you deeper than a bishop bores a bunch of choirboys.
Everywhere you look there struts a virtue-signalling tosser who’ll
snap their throat to prove their opinions are the correctest ones possible,
though every person that you meet has only two opinions:
“I’m not racist” and “I am a beacon of ethical brilliance”.
Some try to convince you that threats of domestic violence made by women
should never be taken seriously, no matter how big or how brimming
with psychotic rage a girl is, while threats of retaliation
made in self-defence by men are a vile abomination
(so it’s your fault the relationship ended, you’re the one who destroyed it
and you should apologise to her and flush your pride down the toilet).
With sledgehammers of decency, these liberal usual suspects
pound your heart to pulp and smash your gasping mind to dust-specks,
with daggers of integrity and swords of glowing virtue,
they stab you in the stomach with a smile as they besmirch you.
But liberals are so good, so right, so modern and so clever!
By God, they’re so much cleverer, more modern, righter, better.
So fair and open-minded. Their moralities are premium.
What worthless, low-down pond life one must be to disagree with them,
to disagree that children’s corpses littered round a concert hall
by a creed that kills for sport, that wants its virgins, wants it all,
is just the price we have to pay (and golly, isn’t it worth it?)
to have our wonderful, diverse, free, open, vibrant surfeit
of multicultural loveliness, is worth it so a Western
progressive bourgeoisie that never asks or answers questions
can flaunt its orthodoxy at a tofu dinner party
to all its friends in the honky-hating bourgeois wankerati,
a herd of classist, oikophobic, veritaphobic robots
shrugging off ten thousand Islamists with treasonous so-whats,
a flock of preening, poison-spitting narcissists who tell you
it’s noble to get on your knees and grovel, in a deluge
of intellectual flatulence declaring it a felony
to stand up for yourself, your folk, your tribe’s collective memory,
demanding you feel guilt for having self-respect and dignity,
for being a work of nature, being a man with masculinity.
You hear the gang of judges sizzling in their vapid power.
Without a map, your bumpy way gets bumpier by the hour.
The mob are weaving forth, they’re loading all their shrieking howitzers,
they sermonise and slander you into a den of counsellors,
they catapult their boulders of debilitating dogma
and batter down your barricade. You gallop to a doctor.
Who else is there? Your father’s shuffled through this sieve of fishiness.
Was he a father ever? Or just half a sexual synthesis?
Your soul now crushed and sunken from these evermore-diffusing
“I’m better than you” beta-males and gamma-females oozing
from every nook and lecture-hall across the sterile promontory
regurgitating all their shining spoonfed social commentary,
crushed and sunken from society’s “creative people”
possessing the imagination of a blind dung-beetle,
you drift and drift away from this macchiato-stirring virus
and shove a different quintessential dust into your sinus.
You can only face the world through the kaleidoscopic prism
of ketamine, the only thing that beats a constant rhythm,
the only method of forgiving those who cannot fathom
an alienated misfit staring down into a chasm.
Ravers’ smack, horse candy, donkey wonkifier, ketamine,
portal through the universe you couldn’t squeeze an atom in,
escape route from the crudely-painted three-dimensioned backdrop,
God reflected in a mirror on which joy is racked up,
powdered Buddhism, pineal threshold, magic lever,
majestic psychonautic voyage through the throbbing ether,
heaven in a frying pan, subverted pony valium,
white fun, snuff plus, revivifying interstellar galleon,
gurgling cruising goggle-eyed quick cure for kicking hungers,
extra-human gangway, golden key to the humungous...
https://alfieshoyger.blogspot.com/2019/04/imagine-this-scenario.html
Part One:
https://www.bitchute.com/video/Y9rju8j9k7lh/
Part Three:
https://www.bitchute.com/video/KwsIPUBitwDE/
Imagine this scenario. For centuries, millennia,
your ancestors have ploughed the fields of Britain, milking many a
moocow, pulling many a lever, scrabbling at many a coalface,
been frogmarched off with bayonet, rifle, sword, to stop the whole place
from caving in, as they were told by those who owned the silos,
who fattened up the empires, whipped the natives, shot the rhinos.
Your ancestors were Irish slaves, Welsh miners, English shepherds,
they laid the pipes, they pumped the sewage, dug the roads, were peppered
with German bullets, choked on mustard gas, built ships and lorries,
stoked engines, mixed cement, fought off a million mortal worries,
fought typhoid, smallpox, polio, Napoleonic trouble,
kept calm and carried on while Hitler smashed their homes to rubble.
Your father drives a minicab. Your mother feeds machinery.
Twenty-storey tower blocks make up the local scenery.
You’re still a baby when the marriage dies of green-complexioned health,
so no-one teaches you to swim or cycle or protect yourself.
No master shows you how to be a man and grab reality
by the balls. He’s busy watering his popularity.
You grow up in a ghetto where a third of all your neighbours
descend from those who lent this land millennia of labours,
and in those dreamy years after the darts of death had withered,
before the towers crumble and the planet starts to shiver,
your streets become infected by a viral form of preacher
proclaiming that their foreign dogma is your country’s future.
For thirty years, while Islamists grow smug on housing benefit,
no-one notices that your attention has a deficit.
The rest of your community’s a round hole to your square peg
and all your creativity just lies there like a spare leg,
you’re not turned on by television, drum and bass or football,
and nobody is going to let you set foot in a good school,
so there you sit with pigeon-brains concocting plans to hurt you
and parrot lines of French ’cause there’s no other choice but Urdu,
where using proper English means you think you’re some flamboyant king
and means that you’re a poof, a queer, a raasclaat batty-boy and ting,
a pushti pezevenk, a shishna-sucking gora gandu.
Que devez-vous faire maintenant? There’s not much that you can do.
One night, in a graffiti-smothered pit of social atrophy,
a pack of boys with fewer brain cells than a pickled anchovy
pursue you down the high road swinging poles and pipes and batons.
Their gleaming metal cracks your head. Their rubber sportswear flattens
your face. They swipe your empty wallet and your tatty mobile.
Here launches your revolt against the virtue of the docile,
as further down the road you run, just focused on surviving,
bleeding on the windscreens of grown men who keep on driving.
Your bookish tendencies propel you into university
where pyramids of dark politically-correct perversity
entomb Kureishi, Wordsworth, Austen, Ishiguro, Chaucer,
where almost everyone’s a liberal-leftist law enforcer
from some pristine Landrover-clogged boulangerie-crammed village,
some prissy solicitor’s sproglet who’s scarcely set eyes on a black or brown visage.
They’re worldly wise authorities on racism, apparently.
Half their conversations are parades of moral vanity.
For three long years you’re yawning at some puffed-up bumfluffed ponce who
says all humanity can live in Ipswich if it wants to.
This doctrine-camp’s a struggle with your deficit disorder but
you scrape a cape, some motto-blotted paper and a mortar-board that
doesn’t fit, then wander in a zigzag back to London where
comparing Laurence Sterne and Salman Rushdie’s a redundant flair.
You stare into a void with no idea of how to find a
career, and tuned to glimpsing glory, all you want’s to bind the
severely-wounded, limping, out-of-action art of poetry
to the powerhouse of electronic music, though it be
as likely that a record-label oligarch would favour
some bitter anti-globalist class-conscious rant-and-raver
who shouts in Sapphic odes, ballades, rondels and Russian sonnets
above a Mockney berk recalling how his best mate vomits
on thirteen pints of piss or a Jafaican bint who prattles
in sanitised opinions just like all the “edgy” cattle
as a publisher would dare to shake a ten-foot bargepole
at verse that’s not the cryptic nothings of a tedious arsehole,
and so you stumble by and buy biographies of Byron by
nibbling on a nabob’s nob, by tightening a tyrant’s tie.
Your top job’s in a workshop, as you see the dreams of youth crushed,
scrubbing mud off scraps of Roman porcelain with a toothbrush.
And there you sit, between two classes, cultures, worlds. You fidget
towards them both. The gap is gaping, though. You cannot bridge it...
https://alfieshoyger.blogspot.com/2019/04/imagine-this-scenario.html
You were the first book I read in German,
almost the first book I read in English.
In my heart, the first book.
I read you, expecting spaceships or something,
pre-loss-of-virginity, post-Cold War,
and in my heart, I shook.
I was in that alcove with Winston Smith,
tasted the bad gin and boiled cabbage,
felt Big Brother’s eyes.
The bombsite dust flew up my nose,
I ran my fingers through Julia’s hair
and heard her sighs.
So many times across the years
you’ve come to me in slumbering hours
to ignite my dreams,
so many nights I’ve run with Winston
and hidden from the Thought Police
and their soul-crunching schemes
as politically-correct doublethinking Newspeak
leapt from brainwashed mouthpiece throats
across telescreens
and kitchens, campuses, offices, heads
filled with news reports and opinions formed
by government machines
while those in power squeezed and pressed
and minted people. Thank God the real world’s
not like that.
Thank God that Orwell got it wrong
and that you’re just a fantasy,
just idle chat.
Once, when I worked in a supermarket,
a girl was reading you in the canteen.
I smiled, “That book is ace.”
She whined, “Really? It’s quite boring so far.
I’m only reading it because I’ve heard
they put rats on his face.”
Kayak-splashed mosquito-bitten primrose-hosing afternoon,
Polish-German border.
On one side of the kayaks
bustling churches, angels draped across their ceilings,
freckly-chested bottle blondes on painted tiptoe,
pilsner-swilling builders inked with
flags and patriotic slogans.
On the other, dogma-swaddling
headscarves of obedience,
robes of servitude
caging every inch of female passion
under whipping eyes above falafel-speckled wiry beards.
A statue of liberty shrouded in pink
with rainbow and superstate flags in her fist
trumpets in German and English,
in Polish as well, to remind them:
“Europe starts here”.
What sort of playwright writes about
the right of right-wing radicals
to Christian rites, right in my face?
Good Stalin, that’s not right!
Watch out, scum! By the time I’m done
with poking in my left-wing chin,
I will have left no pen unsniffed,
no room unbugged tonight.
Where’s the West? I’ve lost the West.
All I can hear is “Smash the borders!
Fuck our culture! Take our rights!
Please, gag us! Jail us! Ban free speech!”
Churchill’s realm is thus possessed
by scum who’d sacrifice their daughters
for multicultural delights
that taste as sweet as toilet bleach.
The tyrants trade, as few protest,
their peoples, who had squeezed through slaughters,
their nations and their age-long fights,
for thirty silver pieces each.
In London they have acquiesced
to their own downfall, they applaud as
every King Cnut invites
more deadly waves to flood the beach.
I can’t return there. I detest
their creeping, crawling moral fraud as
I would hate a worm that blights
and shrivels a once-juicy peach.
And so I turn towards a nest
of sanity across the waters.
Poland, bulldog that still bites,
wise beast that doesn’t simply screech!
The poodles yap, “Oi, Budapest!
Oi, Warsaw, Prague, obey our orders!
You’re all just racist parasites,
each one of you a selfish leech!
We’re your saviours, we know best!
Now kiss the Saracen marauders,
you cabbage-eating satellites,
and learn the rules your masters teach!”
But plucky Poland’s not impressed.
It doesn’t bow to fools, and nor does
Hungary – the East unites
once more, dear friends, unto the breach!
There’s fire in the Slavic breast
that put invaders to the sword as
England slept. Now it ignites
once more, while prattling zealots preach.
Last Men in Europe, I request
asylum in your flag-filled quarters,
from the clones whose appetites
to cleanse their souls far overreach.
A frosty shaft invades the station, chilling scarfless necks.
A flush-cheeked whistler coughs, connects his shiny jacket, checks
his watch, a banjo-shouldering gypsy scans the schedule and scratches
his paintbrush chin as Krzysiek takes an oafish chance and snatches
a kiss off skintight-skirted cherry-lipsticked Katarzyna.
They’re fresh from advertising kitchens at the sports arena.
She jumps and shoots a cash-changed grimace of rejection, “Gosh! Cheeky
bastard!”, as she itches for the last train to Bydgoszcz.
Ksenia jerks her suitcase past some goulash-chewing surgeons,
skidding pushchairs and a splodge of crucifix-chained virgins
and dumps her rucksack in the slush, charged up with new adventures
to challenge her neurosis, new companions who’ll speak French as
joyously as she does, no more intellectual slouchers.
No more will she be mixing milkshakes or exchanging vouchers,
no more will she stack aspirin capsules, sweep a church or wash china
once she leaps wish-chasing off the last train to Bydgoszcz.
Przemysław attempts to judge a touchy situation.
Bolesław is just a friend. Is this infatuation?
The vodka shoves a scorching streamlet down his ice-chapped cheeks.
Should he raise objection now or fluctuate for weeks?
The engine chugs now into view, as if by a magician.
It hoots and shimmers in the dusk, switched onto its brisk mission.
Przemysław just shrugs and searches for his flask of borshch
as Bolesław scoffs colesław on the last train to Bydgoszcz.
Poetry from the white British working class.