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

within my own vicinity
i search for simple serenity
tending to my own tendencies
mending without amenities

sick and twisted remedies
a bitter sweet identity
my slit-wristed entities
the enemies of my memories

recollecting collections projecting selections injecting protection infection dejection
dyslexic narcoleptic rejecting dejections ******* complexion complicating interjections
perplexed inspectors intercept pterodactyls relaxing in backpacks extracting disillusion
contortionist philanthropist dejected transgression implementing eradications of moss buying patrons
eclectic perfectionist rests limp-wristed whispering disparaging remarks to the wait staff
trombone percussionist impressed and impoverished gravelling wistfully mimicking Rickles
I sit half disheveled grinding my wisdom teeth feeling the fleeting muse sitting in disbelief –

Pantywaist,
This shows no taste.
Light in the loafers,
Maybe for gofers.
Squats to ***,
Who? Not me!
Limp-wristed,
It it’s twisted, maybe.

***** and sissified,
Maybe somebody lied.
*** and ******,
You’re a bigot.
Bigass Fruit,
Zoot and all root.
Tuttifruity,
Call to gay duty.

Half a man,
Sometimes better than.
Tinkerbell,
Go to hell.
Airy-fairy,
You’re just scary.
******* bandit,
I can’t stand it.
*******,
Bigass *******.

Silly queen,
Quit being mean.
Flutter-by,
Can’t pronounce butterfly?
*****,
Don’t get handsy, mate!
Nancy boy.
Political ploy.

Just some of the words
We gays have all heard
With each imprecation
The implication
Is that we are sick,
Definitely twisted,
And the end result
Is that each insult
Pushes the speaker
Further away, and weakens
The hold on a reality
That homosexuality
Is just another normality.
In short, reality.

within my own vicinity
i search for simple serenity
tending to my own tendencies
mending without amenities

sick and twisted remedies
a bitter sweet identity
my slit-wristed entities
the enemies of my memories

Daddy
woke up
one morning
to mommy puking.

The curly jet-black knots of hair
on his pink-white chest
shivered
under the slicing ceiling fan.

He scratched his *****, and cleared his throat in a metallic ****** of congealed beer and bile,
it sounded like he was cutting something in his mouth with his tongue.

Rolling over,
he fumbled for his golden Rolex
on the night table,
pushing off
mommy's bangles
and bracelets
jingling to the floor
in a golden mess
that seemed wet
with light.

Rolling over,
back again
to his back
he clicked on the Rolex.

He held up his wrist in
the sun,
and,
**** me,
the light
was coming off it so hard
and strong
that he had
to cover his eyes
just to keep from seeing
all that light
and talent.

"You all right in there?"

He asked,
slipping on his boxers,
working his ****
with his golden-wristed hand
into the fabric.

In the bathroom,
mommy heard daddy's wrist click,
she wiped her mouth
on an oversized shirt sleeve,
and held her stomach.

An accumulation
of cells
split
over and over again
floating and shaking
in mommy's ******,
and she didn't know
what beer and bile
could make.

She didn't know how hard it would be
to cut that thing out.

I was thin wristed and restless looking for another fist to bruise
Another wall to tumble down another coping mechanism to abuse
and there you sat dressed in black swearing on a filthy church pew
Talking of all the boys you almost loved and how all of me applied to all of you
Whirlwind summer whiplash stomach sick in my Sunday best
If the good Lord tries our patience then you were my final test
Raging lows to soaring heights I found heaven in the back of your hand
You stitched me up just to tear me apart no one can humble me like you can
An answer to prayer
A song unsung
The unspoken fear in the back of my lungs
A slight of hand
The long drive home
Another night in bed wishing I had left you alone

Lately I've been thinking about becoming bigger than my body
I've been processing you through **** demos on my phone
Through grey skies and empty bottles
Through blank stares and perpetuated silence
( I used to need a rhythm to write but the white noise in my head seems to work)
I've been turning corners and changing lanes
Doing the dishes and doing my time tangled in empty sheets
And it seems okay
As long as I'm not by myself for too long
Because if I let the white noise in I'll be swimming in black till the weekend
I'll numb myself in neon shades
White hot and weighty
Glimmering image of the silver screen dream
Spent shadowed twisting out into the intersection until I remember that you are not the same as you once were
And I am not the girl you needed
I'm just processing
And working on becoming bigger than my body
More than my bones more than my skin more than my gender more than a character in someone else's life
More than a thin wristed timid thing weighted down by years of neglect and indifference
More than a pair of wide dim eyes
More than myself.
I'm sorry I didn't call you back.

I would not refuse to *******.
not on a mere ethical technicality
a cursed dialectic sheared and far less pretty
than the contents of your *******
smooth as oysters lips from where your barraged ocean
falls on salty fingertips

you shall bathe in this warm artifice of my adoration
and be my play waif,
my relief from the wristed finesse
that I have become so used to

and I shall take you away from this place
where the chill of a boneless glass sustains
the shadows and fog of a self-financed ******
and Eurydice might still be expected to rise
from beneath a carpet of stone blossom

but in the sober morning a killer may raise
the bones of dead eyebrows and watch the moping steam
evanesce from the wet heart bed
bled full of drowning lungs,
the mangled target of perspective reduced
to something so blessed

i have always wanted to write a poem that
thin wristed

smiling at stupid jokes

with hair tiny thousands dark

wanted to listen to French jazz on Saturday mornings

Knobby-wristed boys stroking my thighs
Arms wrapped 'round my waist, filling my ears with their sighs
They hold me, and they ask most politely
To touch each of my ******* when they're pressed against me tightly.
I'm lost in the haze; it's a plume of smoke in my brain
Requests patter past me like drops in the rain.
The room is dark, outside it is cold
I am older than they and they are not as old
'Round my soft unkempt body, they wreathe their desires
We don't ask, "Do you like me?" We are not liars.

you may hear both sides of a story
but you believe the side of the one you love
and my dear, you've loved each chapter.
and as much as you might wish
you'd never read those words,
they still ring inside of you
but you skipped the epilogue,
which confessed that both sides are true;
it is possible that the hero is also the villain,
and the angel also the demon,
and the sweetest caramel skin masochistic,
and the ivory wristed sadistic.
And the fire that had engulfed them both at one time
was the reader, with much to learn.
Because with pleasure came so much pain,
caused by each of us to the other,
and for that I almost wish I never touched her,
but I am more than thankful that a part of her touched me,
for I too once was just a reader, with much to learn.
And I read of a flower who cracked the strongest concrete,
I was afraid that I might have killed it,
so I left the bud there, to blossom under another's water and sunlight,
for I have much to learn on the art of forgiveness of others and oneself and the art of suffering in silence.
Let her teach you something. Let her whisper oxygenated truths into your ear and believe that it is all true, because it is, to her and to me and to you.

I get my power from the people
the people with dark skin
or the racist or the sexist
I'd guess you'd say my kin
sure i'm a ****
but they'd vote for me again

go on you gay boys
and pack your fudge
you make me sick
but I wont judge
your limp wristed vote
will give me a nudge

no comprendo
no problemo
our border is abierto

ladies our babies
you can ****
I know you wont use it
but you can have a free pill

you abandoned your men
to promote other races
what I got planned for you
we wont see your faces

your just a tool
until your country splits
then i'll stick your high heels
where just the heel fits
barefoot and pregnant
no silicone ****

my IQ is low
the conclusion is forgone
more further proof
that I am a *****
i'm changing this place
I got my muslim groove on

I **** on your laws
and you don't do a thing
i'm strutting around
like I was a king

catch me red handed
I couldn't care less
my back pocket's got
the main stream press

they repeat my lies
like a brainless parrot
while I lead you away
from buffet
with a carrot


in the office of oval
the loss is a total
that taste in your mouth
it's totally scrotal

to liars and ****-ups
promotions i'll give
our national security
will leak like a sieve

if I was a civilian
and still such a villian
my worthless *******
in prison would be chillin'

when America aint free
blame it all on me
you'll be china's *****
just wait and see
third world country
from sea to shining sea
on one of nato's thrones
is where I'll be

i'm the fascist, smashist
of the constitution
I can't over state
your future disillusion
I'm here to **** up
your state of union..

If we were on a canvas;

I. Ocean blue greys in heavy handed strokes,
Bleed into a green of sun lit canopies .

  Burnt umber and soil with quick wristed flecks of something like the yellow of thick honey

  Intermingling over deafening white, the colors collide messily but not unintentionally

  Not oil, not acrylic,  not even water color .

  Rather something made truly of these very things,

  Ocean depths and hurricane hights, black tire marks burnt into cement and the mud that squishes beneath bare feet. The colors of momentary bliss . Unapologetic and unraveling.

II.  Dust collects heavily on a lustrous and listless painting , dimly lit in an empty gallery.
 
   Only my fingertips disturb the sediment of dust and salt, the face of these colors only haunt me .

  And those who remember seeing it look sadly apon me and tell me only; that there are more muses in this world than one.
 

III.   You're somewhere doing something ,
    But no matter what satisfaction is gained
You know there is no recreation of those hughs,
And a piece of you too mourns the capability to finish the art set in place by fate and choice.


If we were on a canvas , we would be hidden in lonely parts of eachother, because whatever we made this of is stained into our skin no matter how hard their loving hands try to cleanse them .
We are the very mess we create.
Unapologetic.
Unraveling.
Undeniably human.

a something quietly poem does

touching through new lips
sound and says

a something slim
wristed glasses hair
darkly which bunch
around the shining edge

of her cheek

(moon scarred by hard youth) perhaps

which makes me smile
suddenly without
thinking to smile

.

Shame disgusts me
Tastes bitter in my mouth
A sour cucumber skin
Follows me like a wraith
Haunting my room with
Clicks and creaks
The storm cloud
Of my frizzy black hair
The imperfections of
My destroyed body
There's nothing I can do
That will not wrench me
With those agonizing
Sexualized stripes of pain
Known as shame
Even if my room
Smells like afternoon sunshine
I will always stink of meat
So let me be
Let me sink my own teeth
Into my own neck
End it all and get away
From this pounding
Tidal wave of petrifying
Intoxicatingly frightening
****** wristed
High on fasting
Torn to pieces
Suicidal
Shame

if you really want to **** with people and make a bold
artistic statement

be an artist that  doesn't take ****.  

i went thru the limp-wristed flowery hipster phase  -- with  yellow button ups from goodwill
and  green shoes.

I was prey


now  I say prayers

It’s hard to untangle a supernova
from the hope
that it might explode…

We’re all a little bit in love with it;
our demure undoing and unmade sense,
our limp-wristed magic,
our dour dashes.

We all know some things need to be left unsaid,
but what if the last word is yours and you say it?
What if it becomes the last true thing,
even if it’s not?

When the sky stretches open like a yawn,
and the ground cracks like a grin,
we’re all a little bit thrilled.
Constellations burn like cognac,
satellites swirl like smoke.

The senseless will sharpen the shimmer
of sad-star-ellipsis, then spin them into a wreckage
of exclamation points and full stops, falling
from their own weight and into ours.

We’ll put our spines to the ground like fossils,
tremble with wide eyes and open hands,
and then listen for your last word:

Wishes
suspended
in a filmy lacquer
like a child's secret utterance
set
  in
       invisible
                  liquid-hope
                         ­        based on nothing at all
are like blemishes in an otherwise perfect diamond

How, in a lugubrious world
     hanging
     by
     a
     single
     extruded
     wire
     of
     tenuous
     mercy
can there be
mines beneath shallow graves
dug by slaves with bloodied fingers
and frightening visions
of those thousand-foot-deep-burial-wells
clawed into the forehead of the world
     in fake-searching
              of a new
                        and magic
                                        element
           ­                                         to brag-mix
into toothpaste or a new and improved Brylcreem
  (now formulated for your pets and guaranteed to make a difference)

                                             PLEASE NOTE:
A child's wish or question should be disqualified due to the lack
of subtext and connived distortion to pre-fashion the desired answer
                                                or result
                   (It's hard to trick youth when it is too young)

The space between burial plots
is reserved to bury the mental oozings
of wishers and questioners
and the ceremonies are to be torchlit processions
                                               marching
                                            back
       ­                                 into
                           ­               rotting
                                          ­      cemeteries
                                      near darkened woods
                                 on the edge of civilizations
              where truth sleeps in the above-mentioned shallow graves
                                            and those sneaky spaces
                                                          ­      in
                                                        ­  between

There are caves and mines below,
                                                      you know
                 encroached and heavily toothed
                 with stalactites
                 and stalagmites
                 of stalac-rights
                 and stalag-wrongs
                 of revivalist lies
                 pouring over stone fangs
                 chomping down on any remaining truth
                 amid blackened deceit
                 fought with limp-wristed efforts
                 by feigning reason
                 and pale blue innocence
                 which always clouds up the lovely prejudice in play
                 with silly attempts to appear decent


Do wishes petrify
or just hold very still under glass
to not frighten the proctors
or their undeveloped wards
                                                  in hoards
                                                          ­      on field trips?

The secret to making wishes come true is hidden in the puzzle:

                    K         R          O          W

                    R                   ­                 O
                                     UOY
                    O                                    R

 ­                   W         O           R          K
                                         #
                  > unscramble and despair <

The current judges always remain unmoved
                                 unimpressed
                      uncaring
and refuse to blow out the candles
until the day that someone judges THEM
in all prejudice and bias of the mind
of good and proper scale bearers
and compromised judges
just wishing for dignified approval

What might the answer be
when a foolish soul, surrounded in questions, asks,
"Does anyone have change for a parent?
It seems I only have a single father to my name."

"I have two career choices in the arts, so I can break him."
           is the reply
"No,"
            answeres the hopeful.
"I need four erroneous opinions to fit into his ear
or the machinery doesn't grind to a complete halt.
Doesn't anyone have the proper change?"

Someone must always sit on the low end
of the teeter-totter of wishes

Won't anyone play with me?
I wish someone would
I need contra-ballast
if only to assuage my conscience

Somebody?
Somebody?
Anybody?
                                   Is no one disappointed in a parent?
                                   Is everyone here made of stone?

So easy a caveman can do it
But few to its word
Convince others
He drew it
Upon set in stone
Scriptures
Speaking their tongues
In all languages’
Origin-
Stories are spun
And from one
White as snow
It becomes
Avalanche
And from dripping red lips
Is the kiss
Of romance
For it dances
With devils
And levels the field
Playing aces up sleeves
Is the Art of its Deal
It will steal
To feed millions
Of stocked-market shelves
As it spells out
It’s death-sentence’s
Prison cells
Of the orphans of its
Unaborted fetus
And its silent night’s
Slit-wristed
Christmas wish list
Just like Jesus himself
Still makes use of its gifts
With the oratory glories
Through gory holes
Seep
Hissing its allegories
And counting its sheep
Deepest secrets of its
Fatal weakness
Sequestered
In festering cores
Of its hordes
Of confessors
Still preaching what it
In its malpractice
Teaching
The meek to inherit
The earth
By beseeching
What it
Seeks to keep
Beggars’ hands
Ever reaching
And pious denial
Disciples
From leaking
Its nemesis
Genuine
Freely
From speaking
Against
What its crying wolf
Fenced-in
Mike Pence’s
Expenses
Dispense with
To bolster its trial’s
Unerring defenses
And while we try
To prohibit
Its urge
Overruling our will
And our subconscious serves
Its injustice for all
Reign of terror sustained
It’s corrupt crusade
Black-money-financed
Campaign
It’s enrapturing trappings
Of fortune and fame
It’s scandalous escapade’s
Ignorance feign
The extortion
Contortionist’s
Warped-picture frame
Of mine’s
Victimless crimes
In the system it games
It’s prescription pops fired
In mental health rain
Ever blameless
It stains
Reputations
Exclaiming
Its puppets insane
Always true
To its name