Is such a big and impossible to miss step for a scribbler
of poetry free poems to trip over.
A step that cannot be ignored, except consciously and conscientiously.
Such a person as a scribbler of poetry less poems would be a person who cannot tell the difference between truth and truthfulness.
A person whose sole raison d,etre in pretending to be a poet is their lifelong angst in being unable to escape from being under the control of  their mind and its operating system --the Conditioned Identity.
The Conditioned Identity,which is the facetious and morally dishonest "I am a poet" mask that is the consciously adopted Conditioned Identity--the operating system for the Mind.
In the great scheme of things becoming just another member of the human GroupMind--one who doesn't count--not even on the fingers of one hand-.
One,who,in the grand scheme of things,never has counted and never will count-call them countless.
Shadows that flicker and dim on the walls of the Prison of political, racial,national,familial and religious conformity
And these worthless scribblers of poetry less poems do have an all consuming conditioned habit  of consciously ignoring truthfulness and integrity and substituting pathetic sub-teen lower middle class emo whinging "truth"--about their "art" and "insight"and "vision"and their "truth"--always their worthless "truth".
Sitting and mourning the fulfilling love that always evades them and always will evade them--unless they let go of the conditioned identity and the Mind--consigning them to the dustbin of history--where they rightfully belong.
Angst ridden whingers all--in love with their image in the mirror of Minds oh so believable deception.
Scribbling about a conditional possessive love that would have been a valueless truth but never can be the essence of truthfulness.
A conditional possessive love that never was and never will be unconditional and non-possessive.
Whinging about nothing more than conditional love and a truthfulness that never can be for them--- as we see openly here and there and everywhere there are scribblers of poetry less "poetry" who use sites such as this to scribble their pretentious infantile nonsense.
Poverty of values and integrity,orphaned from the Isness of the Universe, children of worthless technological consumerism and followers of false oligarchic hopes.
With their greedy gobs open for any crumbs falling from the rich peoples tables,like baby chicks in the nest--feed me feed me they screech.
Colluding with like minded betrayers of truthfulness,groupminds of
limp wristed bombastic poseurs.
Deluding themselves by babbling media made inane celebrities
empty insights and twisted conclusions--purveyors of puerile pettiness.
Oligarchic media celebrities noted only for the illusions between their ears,and the beguiling way they collude with each other to delude themselves.
Ludare!
Oh how they love to play mind games
Lives spent colluding with these babbling worthless celebrities who know the price of everything and the value of nothing,
Pompous posturing pretentious pissants of aesthetic poverty.
Bound together into a worldwide consumers Groupmind,
persuaded by perverts of PR into believing in the Illusion of Wealth and Demockery that the Oligarchy sells.
To step over the truthfulness threshold is,indeed, to  leave behind their
security blankets of "truth and beauty and revealed knowledge"
and the concomitment meaningless verbiage about "veracity" and "existence".
Shallow and unrequited attempts to own another that the weak and unwanted call "love".
Stomping through the quagmire of conditional love
up to their necks in the **** of consumer garbage.
The Conditional love of possessing another and grasping at thin air
as they submerge slowly in the seas of righteous stupidity .
poets cling to their misconceptions religiously,
poets cling to their ignorance avidly,
poets cling to their proto-fascist politics squeamishly,
with each word and stanza that they write.
Pouring out such pleasant and elegant and flowery and "deep"
words and verses(rhyming or not) that,at their core,
have only one meaning and aim.
Which is!.
To divert and confuse their readers with the"shallow beauty"
of endless strings of meaningless associated but fine sounding words .
To create a groupmind for their poetry business products.
Admire me--buy my product--join my groupmind--eulogise me,
let me rip off your energy--I need your praise,I need your lifes energy
gimme your money honey!.
The Publishing Oligarchy will bestow rewards and honours,
medals and diplomas--critiques fit only to wipe your **** on.
Book sales and the summer Poetry festival circuit--reciting and signing scribbles of narcissism--casting lecherous eyes over dripping **** or stiff wobbling **** in the adoring crowd of sycophants.
The  Media will fawn and adulate and cast its sly net
to entangle your desires in ---infamy awaits.
Come admire me and my use of other poets stolen words,
my criminality in even daring to think the word "poet" has any value.
These are my words about my inexperience and unknowingness they scream possessively in jaundiced teeny remembrance.
Remembrance of mediocre middle class homes and attitudes
of ingrained ignorance and wilful imagined self victimisation.
Eating societies poisoned dishes--.
Serve me up a burger of roasted babies on toast
from Vietnam--live on Channel Whatever.
Or chargrilled peasants from Afghanistan
with breathless commentary from
our "reporter on the spot".
Or homeless mental wrecks from the streets
of any Amerikan or World city big or small,
trailing acerbic criticism from the immoral majority.
Or dead celebrity  consumer junkies in 5 star hotels
complete with PR handouts and **** licking "friends"
positioning themselves for increased sales.
Or the children of the Oligarchs with their "I" newspapers
and inbuilt fascist attitudes.
Who spend their shallow lives hoping for the kind
of meaningless and worthless Honours and Validation
from those that do not have honour or validity..
Or the not just lame but crippled duck presidents with their finely crafted speeches that say nothing but I am a beard wearing  failure,
looking forward to penning lies and calling it a frank memoir
while holding out my hands  for the Oligarchies pennies.
Can anyone tell me where to get a bucket of truthfulness?.
A glass of honesty?.
A tumbler full of veracity?.
A beaker of back breaking honest labour?.
Can anyone tell me where I can find
a peaceful man or woman,of any of the 5 colours.
Not those merely observing a Cease-Fire
while they rearm their weapons of the lies of beauty and truth.
Oligarchy allowed social commentary.
Is there just one decent truthful man or woman out there?.
Judging by the world Id say not.
No Id say not.
Not.
There Ive said it.

www.thefournobletruthsrevised.co.uk

Chains and shackles

Chains and shackles weigh me down
Ties to strong to break, helpless struggle
Unheard screams, guards surround me
Your around me, and you run blindly
So I sit quietly, with silent thought
Not knowing can be easer, so I remain unheard
I falter under pressure so squeamishly
Why slow you down?
You would try to carry me

Chains and shackles hold me down
My echoed heart beat is the only sound
A thudding heart could be heard
Tare it out from my very breast
It stop the twisted breath in my empty chest
A tortured heart freed from the rest
My body now a cesspool
A wasteland of festered stress
I will **** my hopes and dreams if it means
Honesty, equality, fairness to my loved

Chains and shackles ground me down
I could fly when your around
But I will squash anything
I wont dare let my bleeding heart sing
So let the guards hold me down
I challenge the people to there bliss
Tragic is no way for loves first kiss

He took hold of her hand and turned it over to look at her thumb, where a little sore could be seen from her picking at it nervously. She balled her hand into a fist, hiding the sore inside.

"Don't look at that," she let out squeamishly.

"Why not?"

"Because it's gross, and it's bad right now."

"It's okay. It's not gross."

Something in the way she spoke about it stirred him. Whenever he heard pain, embarrassment, or shame in her voice, he was compelled by a desire to see her healed. He found her vulnerability to be beautiful, even when it revealed what others might consider a flaw.

He used a bit of force to pry her hand open so he could see. She resisted at first, but gave in, knowing she wouldn't win the fight. Two small, partially-scabbed indentations ran parallel across the inside of her thumb. He gently grazed the tip of his own thumb over them. It was a little worse than usual.

"Why is it bad?" he asked, already knowing the answer.

"I've kind of been through a lot recently," she said half-jokingly.

"Yeah. You have."

He ran his thumb over the sores again. He took his eyes off them, held her hand in his, and began to caress it.

"Want to know something?" he asked.

"What?"

"You are really beautiful."

"Oh, stop."

"I'm serious. And I don't care about your sores. I mean I care about them, but they don't repel me. They just show me a little bit about you. They remind me of things."

"Like what?"

He continued to glide his fingers up and down the length of her own.

"Like they remind me to be gentle with you. That the things I say and do affect you, and if I say or do certain things, I can hurt you. I don't want to make your sores worse. I don't want to be the one making you anxious."

Instead of getting in a little joke that would make light of what he was saying, she sat silently, just hearing him speak. She watched his hand adjust to where their palms and fingers lined up with each others', as if he wanted to compare their size.

"And they remind me of what's going on with you. Whether it's work, family, friends, whatever. They just bring those things to mind and make me think about you."

He intertwined his fingers with hers and pulled her closer on the couch, still caressing her hand. She began to do the same in return.

As she considered what he'd said, all her problems came to mind. Just like he mentioned: work, a broken family, painful relationships, and things in the past she didn't like to think about, though she had more or less come to terms with them. Why would someone like him want to deal with all that? She wondered why he loved her.

"I think you love my problems," she said half in jest, though she really was trying to understand what was behind his feelings.

He pondered the comment. He was accustomed to a woman who rarely admitted fault. The problem with this wasn't so much that she wouldn't admit her faults, though. The problem was the attitude of superiority, of entitlement, of believing in her own relative perfection and demanding perfection in return.

The woman whose hand he held, though, had an aura of graceful humility about her. What a breath of fresh air. Now he was with someone he was eager to offer himself to, who could accept him in his flawed state, and who could accept the good in him as a gift to her, though she questioned whether she deserved it.

"I don't love your problems. It's not about them. It's your response to them. It's how kind and caring of a person you are in spite of the things you've been through. It doesn't hurt that we've been able to connect through some similar experiences, but in the end, that's not it. It's your heart that I love."

She took it in. They had become friends quicker than anyone she could remember. Somehow, things had just clicked for them, and they got to know the deepest parts of one another over the course of a few months. The progression from friends to more-than-friends came naturally.

She was still getting used to the way he treated her, but she knew it was sweet. As she reflected, she began to wonder if there really was something as wonderful about her heart as he seemed to believe.

He gave her a squeeze with his arm around her back. She turned toward him and rested her head just below his shoulder on his chest. He kissed her on the forehead, then on the cheek, and then on the lips.

"You okay?" he asked.

"Yeah. I'm good."

The anxiety of the unexplained
Is like an impoverished state
A mental ache
Caged alone
Sidestepping the back of an alleyway
pummeled in
cobwebs
Squeamishly awaiting the sentencing of a scarcity filled critter approaching its death

The existence of him; an individual
And myself
I thought I knew what I felt at the time
The excitement in my chest
at the very thought of speaking to him aloud
Even in my thoughts
In my dreams
The relationship between them
has been severed by it

As though it had been abandoned
By the riverbed
of endless possibilities
met with the banks of effortlessness neglect to which nothing happens in the end

I kept
waiting for more to flood my insides
in due time


It was not my energy alone
that was responsible for this repeated
Cycle
We were unprotected and unrenewed: despite him always speaking of protection
it was manipulation before any sort of new,
A blinded experience
That I did not choose to see

Only a man who is ready for everything, who excludes nothing, will live the best of relation
to another as something that can grow and remain alive

I willed myself to exhaustion

This existence of fear
as a large or small window depending on the day, I only knew pieces of that room, he showed me a heart contained by secrecy

Placed by a locked door
a slipshod floor on which he walked
up and down the steps of my attempted understanding

He had his own fatal security
And a dangerous
insecurity that created a madwoman out of me

I felt out the shape and the textures of his cornering
A room set up to be a closet without light
He said he is a prophet
Like God
But all he created was himself as a stranger

To me and whoever knew him

I did not want to be a prisoner.
But I felt trapped
Nothing could worry me
I kept going with it

I had no reason to
mistrust that world for it wasn’t against me.

YetI was alone and the dangers did I try to love

It seemed to me the most alien
But I wanted to trust him without faith.
How can that be? It was not in faith that I believed.

Perhaps all the wolves of our lives are cloaked
in false princes clothing
waiting to see us
even for a single moment
beautiful and brave

And they don’t even know why

“Perhaps everything terrible is in its deepest being something helpless that wants help from us.”

You give expensive presents
but your presence is cheap,
leaves me feeling worthless.
I attempt to tempt love from your lips
but you return an empty kiss
squeamishly
as though I were a corpse.
Meeting your gaze feels shameful
like walking in on your parents *******.
(I even blush.)
In the vacant catacombs of your eyes
flames of a crematorium blaze.
I’m not even dead yet;
but in this glance, I learn
that we are.

I can’t help but sweat
as my lips turn to ash,
as my love goes up in flames.

and ewe know what else...
furloughed & barred from Whitehouse

Ducks of former self proclaimed Grand Poobah
getting lined up and goosed as these words typed
after trumpeting January 6th, 2021
as violent insurrection
Mitch Mcconnell got ribbing.

Poor sign,... I ham going to pisces aghast, where
pigheaded previous president concerned
at increasing mind numbing popularity
and looming ominous shadow
witnessed by Donald Trump,
a poor loser who viciously
inexplicable resurgence against odds
despite his opprobrious person,
hence aye aerate thoughts,
how *** a nine his banal, demoniacal,
egomaniacal, fanatical,
guttural, hurtful, inimical

culling frightening insight,
where malicious, portentous,
salacious, venomous Portuguese
Man 'o War debacle
doth crowdsource, flickr,
and indeed long foster
my plenti full overactive imagination
to induce writhing expressions of fearfulness
proportionate burst of haughtiness)
while he doth stump
would animate mine rear
i.e. rather noxious flatulence

expelled from outward doppelganger of ****
pull stilts skin cuz this chap
haint noah fan, but wood vouchsafe
tub be a jimmy neutron
n spongebobsquarepants
ark n saw wing enemy
against da dull don dat does pump
swaggering bravado with fist swelling ego
analogous to his body
infected with severe case of mumps
that brazen denizen hurling
and spewing volcanic fiery spittle
with incense against others –

to him mere lumps
of protoplasm heckled as inferior to himself
boasts as proof of favoritism,
that enervating, endearing fawning,
gabbling feverish arrogant,
bombastic, chauvinistic, egotistical
mania for him jumps
higher than expected,
while he commits faux paws which bumps
his ratings higher, he gleefully endorses
pandemonium toward gloating gump
shun from the uproarious. querulous
and populous madding crowd.

Throughout relaunch of his campaign,
banally, devilishly, and fiendishly
character assassinating
those opposed to his views -
inducing me to harrumph and dump faith
in humanity, wondering what ruse
smart democratic pol mongers can conjure up
while pacing in soft shoes
woeful sentiments sans his attempt did render
(during 2020 race to White House)
competitors to drop out in ones n twos
whom he purportedly considers apostates,

and heathens cons heed
Make America Great use
all manner of
bullying, execrating, instigating
chaos, ferocious, insidious lies
determination, whose re: his occipital pupils
coalescing, hardening into searing
grape nut size wrath poisonous daggers
forcibly silencing any jeers
when necessary
plagiarizing neo **** playbook -
with a "who cares"

attitude closing in on pinteresting
for United States chess board foursquare,
which deliberate intent
to foment n wrought prostrate -
music to those hoteliers billion dollar ears
defeating apprenticing contestants
hearing sobbing tears
with vitriolic violent bilious
inducing jabs of his a will full spears
reputations of personalities
(men and women politicians

his especial flavor of
scathing, scandalous, scabrous sordidness
spewed squeamishly
to grab by the figurative crotch
the hello kitty 2024 presidential election),
whether liberal, conservative,
heterosexual or queers
thus tis find this muddling middle aged mwm
garden variety and generic guy
brandish, flourish, and nourish
psychic fractal brittle shears.

FURLOUGHED & BARRED FROM WHITEHOUSE

Ducks of former self proclaimed poobah
getting lined up as these words typed.

Poor sign,... I ham aghast, where
pigheaded previous president concerned
at increasing mind numbing popularity
and looming ominous shadow
witnessed by Donald Trump
(a poor loser who viciously
inexplicable resurgence against odds
despite his opprobrious person,
hence aye aerate thoughts,
how *** a nine his banal, demoniacal,
egomaniacal, fanatical,
guttural, hurtful, inimical

culling frightening insight,
where malicious, portentous,
salacious, venomous Portuguese
Man 'o War debacle
doth crowdsource, flickr,
and indeed long foster
my plenti full overactive imagination
to induce writhing expressions of fearfulness
proportionate burst of haughtiness)
while he doth stump
would animate mine rear
i.e. rather noxious flatulence

expelled from outward doppelganger of ****
pull stilts skin cuz this chap
haint noah fan, but wood vouchsafe
tub be a jimmy neutron
n spongebobsquarepants
ark n saw wing enemy
against da dull don dat does pump
swaggering bravado with fist swelling ego
analogous to his body
infected with severe case of mumps
that brazen denizen hurling
and spewing volcanic fiery spittle

with incense against others –
to him mere lumps
of protoplasm heckled as inferior to himself
boasts as proof of favoritism,
that enervating, endearing fawning,
gabbling feverish arrogant mania for him jumps
higher than expected,
while he commits faux paws which bumps
his ratings higher, he gleefully endorses
pandemonium toward gloating gump
shun from the uproarious. querulous
and populous madding crowd.

Throughout relaunch of his campaign,
banally, devilishly, and fiendishly
character assassinating
those opposed to his views -
inducing me to harrumph and dump faith
in humanity, wondering what ruse
smart democratic pol mongers can conjure up
while pacing in soft shoes  
woeful sentiments sans his attempt did render
(during 2020 race to White House)
competitors to drop out in ones n twos
whom he purportedly considers apostates,

and heathens cons heed
Make America Great use
all manner of
bullying, execrating, instigating
chaos, ferocious, insidious lies
determination, whose re: his occipital pupils
coalescing, hardening into searing
grape nut size wrath poisonous daggers
forcibly silencing any jeers
when necessary
plagiarizing neo **** playbook -
with a "who cares"

attitude closing in on pinteresting
for United States chess board foursquare,
which deliberate intent
to foment n wrought prostrate -
music to those hoteliers billion dollar ears
defeating apprenticing contestants
hearing sobbing tears
with vitriolic violent bilious
inducing jabs of his a will full spears
reputations of personalities
(men and women politicians

his especial flavor of
scathing, scandalous, scabrous sordidness
spewed squeamishly
to grab by the figurative crotch
the hello kitty 2024 presidential election),
whether liberal, conservative,
heterosexual or queers
thus tis find this muddling middle aged mwm
garden variety and generic guy
brandish, flourish, and nourish
psychic fractal brittle shears.

An intriguing little crime scene
we have here eh Inspector Marsupial
a freeway overpass ******'s
cardboard box and mattress
and a paperclip necklace
juxtaposed on a dissecting table
at some point of logical confluences
a losing strategy has to be examined
even if squeamishly concluding
that we are here to be punished for being here
Marsupial searched his pachinko readout
acting on the assumption that
in at least one setting perhaps this one
he could juggle us a grand total
even if the light was sub visible
which you don't see every day
bottom line blame enough to go around
manipulators of fear with a plan
is there anything in us that is inviolate
he was a master of pedestrian insights
with a repertoire of a priori assumptions
packaged for the pop psych tabloids
his mouth flapping like a puppet on a string
the official Government spokesman
for the natural state of man
comrades these are troubled times
but not like before
during the really troubled times
so relax it’s an alchemist's contraption
made from bed springs and alarm clocks
proletarian gyro-chemistry in action
every atom wanting to go its own way
the problem with categories is that
some manage to obliterate the others
the fruit festooned banana daiquiri
had apparently reached his thalamus
clean your spoon son that's government chow
and so began the long loud logomania
you have before you now
my rabbi assures me this is therapeutic
inductive in deductive out
forehead wrinkles along for the ride
knowing what is out of place
dawn and the bust of Aristotle
juxtaposed upon a cactus throne
shoot me I said juxtaposed again
it's no longer a festival of consensus
last I checked slapstick is still dead
I'm pretty sure everything
can be described by numbers
there are enough of them for the job
wheel chairs killed the fashion show

From "Engine of Didactic Beauty" available on Amazon