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

(1)
Shall we join the ladies?

the ones who want to talk about the weather
The whingers, the ones who want to talk about your kids
and who’s got-married to whom...
The powder-appliers and erudite in the latest cosmetics
Old Nennie
who knows the accounts
from 1995 to 2001
and who’s lost it all other years
Young *****
who’s all about her children
And Decrepit Winnie whose children are all Ministers
and grandchildren all Politicians
She Who’s talking about Fat
and who is the Mother of all Fads
and which baby is born in what Esteemed Family
and which is legitimate, and which not

(2)
Shall we join the men?

The lecher, the money man, the one
who’s hot in the latest pants,
the one who’s scratching his crotch
The dandy and the one with ants in his pants
and Catch Up Jack who can tell you who lives where
and who earns how much and whose car is Posh
and who is not worth anything
And Old Joe who can’t let go;
Earnest Man Proper
who answers in farts;
the men who are all sport, who form the Drunken Fans
must gamble
and lay a bet on everything that moves, flies or creeps
whose eyes are roving to the other side;
the man whose religion is to convert
cos he’s so uncertain he must drag others along
And his intellect is false from the start



(3)
*So, shall we?
I rather find my own company pleasant;
besides, I prefer to *******

listen people, profits attract milestones
bar graphs and charts of shareholders
catch no fish, only stones prevail
speak no parables of numbers
i know two fish,five loves can and will feed five thousand.

who said, the birds and the bees have 4o hour weeks
and summer holidays in the sun
six weeks of laziness and gym routines?
go fishing instead. make no fishy business of it.

i say, directors, loose garb is better than pin-stripes
tithes better than fat bank balances full of fat.
would you give an eye to your supervisor? No
so watch your manners. no point in being
the undercover boss handing out peanuts for
poor employees and ******* dollars from their cheers
and less hours on the last floor shift!

I know tv does a lot of good, but so do bibles
and psalms and rock anthems and mary magdalene.

no point in raking in money singing
jesus christ superstar!
im just two thousand fourteen years late
on this board of whingers. AC- DC/BC?

get a life man, the next train to eternity
is only here on a whistle-stop.leaf your clothes behind
and head to the first **** beach
around the bend. lucifer is red hot there. times
have changed, man. whats next on the agenda?

© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 3 days ago

- See more at: http://allpoetry.com/poem/11693097-Jesus-on-the-Board-of-Directors-by-Marshall-Gass-noguest­#sthash.NyZSTkRp.dpuf

We had a little visitor,
his fur was brown and white,
He ran into our lounge one day
and gave the wife a fright.

He popped out of the skirting board,
and scurried 'cross the floor,
The wife has said she does not want
to live here anymore.

I said 'He was just curious-
a gentle little mouse'
She said, 'Then let him poke around
in someone else's house!

If he's not gone by Friday night
I'm going back to Mum's,'
I thought about it long and hard
and fed the mouse some crumbs.

I bought myself a humane trap
to catch my furry friend,
and placed it where I knew he ran,
so I could apprehend.

Next morning when I checked the trap
my little mouse was there,
I tried to pick him up but he
just zig zagged everywhere.

I took him to the garden shed,
where my wife never went,
My sanctuary from nagging voice
where happy hours were spent!

Went to the shop and bought a cage,
to keep my new friend in,
We got to know each other as
I taught him discipline.

The wife began to rant and rave,
when I went to my shed,
Suggested I should pack my clothes
and move in there instead.

I'd had enough, she drove me mad,
she tried to spoil my life,
That's when I went back to the shop
and bought my mouse a wife!

Needless to say, they got on well,
if you know what I mean!
Within six weeks the babies came,
I counted them - FIFTEEN!

Then five weeks later...more arrived,
I was inundated
Words In my book 'How mice can breed'
are very understated!

And so my master-plan was born,
I let them loose inside
the house that she had made her own,
since she became my bride.

I sat there in my male retreat,
and waited for the screams,
Sure enough, they deafened me,
but fulfilled all my dreams.

She didn't even pack her bags, she
ran back home to mother,
A pair of whingers - it was clear,
they deserved each other!

And me? I love it on my own,
surrounded by my mice,
It's great that she's not here to moan
it really is so nice.

I cut my toenails in the lounge,
walk bare around the house,
No one to nag, in fact, it's just
as quiet as a mouse!