Debriefed poems on Hello Poetry

Yenson Aug 2018

But why do they do all this, I asked, shaking my head pitifully.
Its unimaginable  the amount of time and efforts they expend,
over nothing. Not to mention having the inclinations for such
absurdities!.

She leaned in closer and whispered conspiratorially as she puts
down her glass, while she waved at me to lean in closer too.

Her cute lips barely moved as she whispered theatrically,
" this is a secret, don't quote me."
I nodded.

" POST TRUTH" she uttered, " It's all post truth, they have put
all their people in a post truth world and they all live in post truth now"

"Do you know what Post truth means?" she asked, her eyes glaring inquiringly in a straight gaze at mine.

"Yes I do I replied, basically its, ‘relating to or denoting circumstances in which objective facts are less influential in shaping public opinion than appeals to emotion and personal belief’", I trotted out. Leaning back in my seat, I considered this, and what she had just shared.

My plight has been Orwellian, from the very start, but I honestly wouldn't have believed people would be so gullible in this day and age. But then who was it that said " No man ever went broke overestimating the ignorance of the public".

Internally I processed things again, Welfare spounging Crooks burgled me, I gave them a piece of my mind, crooks call on their Socialist mates, who then launched an unjustified campaign of
slander, vilification, harassment, hounding, intimidation, ruining
my marriage, career, reputation and my health. I, the victim of a fowl crime becomes the villain and the criminals gentrified working class heroes.

It all seem implausible in Modern Britain, this day and age, yet it's all true.

My silence prompted her, " I don't like it myself and you already know how I feel about them, but..... and she shrugged her slim
shoulders and the look of sadness and resignation in her eyes says
it all. I felt sorry for her, only God knows the leverage, inducement,
threats or dirt at play for her cooperation, given the nature of the ***** politicking that's been playing all these while
and the  results of former experiences. Poor thing, I mused,
knowing her private life was at stake now..

In Post truth terms, you are a rich arrogant privileged and greedy chauvinistic parasite who deserve all you're getting and more.
Their propaganda machine is devious and slick.

I couldn't help acknowledging the disingenuous politicking at
play here by our Red comrades, the nasty racial undertones of my
plight had been white-washed, the theft of my hard earned possessions is bye the bye, the bullying and intimidation by the
neighbouring criminals and their subsequent gangstalking covered up. now, what remains is hapless me, alone, unsupported and just the heinous distortions, the misinformation, exaggerations, slander and disinformation exists, and all these are falling into receptive ears by the bucketloads. The general public's moral compass has been twisted and befuddled if not totally obliterated.

I sat in silence and for a short while, we both avoided eye contact,
finally we looked at each other. She knew I had got the picture and
for a second I saw sorrow in her eyes. Then it was gone, you could
almost glimpse this was a sentiment she wasn't allowed.

I had seen that look before from quite a number of others, nobody dares act against the wave, nobody wants to be considered a traitor
or a sympathiser.

I tried lifting the mood and changed the topic, we made chit-chat
and found laughter in some places, we finished our drinks and left.

On the street walking I once again felt sorry for her and made a
conscious decision not to see her again. I was a persona non gratia
now, and it's not healthy being my friend. Friends are compromised, debriefed and used as baits or informers. I have become a dangerous person to know and the truth has been murdered, cut into little pieces and then incinerated into ashes.

They had perhaps forgotten that TRUTH lives forever, the truth
is the TRUTH and remains the TRUTH, no matter what you do to it.

FOR NOW HOWEVER WE HAVE POST TRUTH, HOW LONG THAT WILL LIVE FOR?
Your guess is as good as mine!

Goodbye dear friend, I watched her walk away, there was an unusual slowness in her steps and she looked back at me just as I was turning away, I did not turn to look back at her again,

I knew I will not be seeing her again................

Post-truth politics (also called post-factual politics and post-reality politics) is a political culture in which debate is framed largely by appeals to emotion disconnected from the details of policy, and by the repeated assertion of talking points to which factual rebuttals are ignored.
‎History · ‎Summary of the truth is contained in the poem - WHERE IS JUSTICE on this site..·

#truth #justice #reality #racism #***** #politics #lies #post

Rhianecdote Nov 2014

UndieTakers are no FUNeral

Someone stole your ****** and now you're feeling under.
Debriefed but not on how to deal with this outfit.
What to do? go out? fit in? Irked but no shoes or shirt.
Took it off of your back and replaced it
with a lack of faith in what this place is all about.

So you hung up your ***** laundry for all to see and they took it.
No mystery just misery. To the wanderer who said "if home is where the heart is, than I'm cynically homeless" unaware that if home is where the heart is YOU are always home.

They may have taken the shirt off his back but he would have given it gladly, cause that's not the sort of belonging he longs for. Wasn't quite his idea of clothing the homeless, but its done nonetheless.

But you got your head, shoulders, knees and toes so who needs clothes? When you're transparent. To the one who feels alone, take comfort in the fact that someone's now literally walking in your shoes... and socks ... and shirt.

Solitary days still leaving him contemplating underwhere? And underwhy? But what's garment to be will be and he'll be alright because his light shines bright, even if he doesn't see it in the glare. There's something fresh in the air. It's a mean feat, but once he learns to stand on his own two, in the space of a haunted Manor will stand a Man. One that can, will and do.

Dedicated to my fellow pundamentalist (I don't need a Dr) Dre, humble host of the hostel on the loss of his laundry...

#depression #home #hopeful #isolation #puns #belonging #wordplay #theft #hostel

Paul Butters Jan 2017

Me The Individual

Human skin pigment ranges from pale yellow, cream, pink to dark brown.
There is no black or white.
Some African tribes are charcoal grey, but not black.
There is but one race, the human race.
Beware anything that Divides us.
We must Unite for the Common Good.
Welcome to Planet Paul.

The fictional “Prisoner” of the sixties said,
“I am not a number, I am a person.”
He also claimed he was a “free man”.
He shouted defiantly that he would not be pushed,
Filed, stamped, indexed, briefed, debriefed
Or numbered.

I couldn’t agree more.
Nor will I be labelled or classified.
“My life is my own”.
I’m an individual human being.
Not Working or Middle Class,
Nor white nor religious nor atheist,
Nor racist, sexist, feminist, chauvinist
No Tory, Liberal. Labourite, Corbynista,
Remainer, Brexiteer, Remainiac, Remoaner
Or whatever.
I don’t do labels.

We are each born as single living entities,
Without asking to be who we are.
All in the same “boat”:
A tiny planet on the far edge
Of a spiral galaxy.

My bowels work like everyone else’s.
I belch and ****.
From time to time I’m ill
Or injured.
A man of many moods.
I’ll live and die like everyone else.
For the bottom line is,
We need to Unite,
As We are All the Same.

Paul Butters

It started with a comment on Facebook........

#life #humanity #philosophy #me #earth #wellbeing #unity #individuality

SamBee Feb 2013

Lay down your armor

And you lay down your armor,
your shield,
sword,
stripped of assurance,
debriefed of all promises of security,
killing all chance of defense;
offense:

And you lay down your amour,
your loyalty,
promises,
giving unconditional passion,
killing all chance of betrayal;
keeping all chance of pure bliss.

Robert C Howard May 2016

Captain Toro

Dedicated to William Shakespeare, Gene Roddenberry,
Lewis Carroll and Franz Joseph Haydn.*

The power scythe roared and quivered;
Had he chops, he would have licked them -
So rabid was he to taste the fray.

Verdure clad stalks by the thousands
Eschewed all feint of
Futile resistance -
Falling like spineless wimps
Before the carbon breathed Leviathon's
Cyclonic advance.

Pausing only to quaff
A long draft of energy potion,
Toro relentlessly carved a swath
Across the battle ground -
Vorpally snicker-snacking his way
Toward the mission's
inexorable termination.

A single command
Brought the roaring vortex to a halt.
Victorious, sans medals or ceremony,
Captain Toro was debriefed
And escorted back
To his lonely barracks
To sleep, perchance to dream
Of past and future triumphs
In the jungle wilds at the confluence
Of Prairie and Missouri Avenues.

*August, 2007

Devi85 Jan 2018

Bar Work

Picture the scene.

You are a waitress. You've been in the job eight months.
Your manager Marie spends her breaks chain smoking often getting through 3 in quick succession whilst she broadcasts the minute details of her woeful life as if rehearsing for her sob-story performance that will propel her to the next stage of the X-Factor auditions. Whilst you hold a certain amount of disdain for Marie, so unwilling to make the changes to help herself, you admire her ability to keep mental score of those pulling their weight in the bar. This is something that comes into play with holiday requests and favourable rotas; Marie is nothing but fair and will not play favourites with the staff. Still Marie is not on shift tonight, so there has been little need to keep up the false smile and can-do attitude. It's a Wednesday, 9pm and it's been a slow night.

Too far from the suburbs to be thought of by anyone as a local yet not quite within the reach of the city to be an after-work haunt. A bar such as this doesn't have regulars instead relying on the whims of passers-by. Through the glass door pane you spot an older gentleman making his way into the bar. You look him over trying to anticipate his drink order. Ageing hippy, perhaps a biker. He has a long beard and is dressed in clothes that suggest comfort over style. A real ale drinker. You run through the guest ales in your head in anticipation of inquiry of flavour notes, alcohol percentages and a recommendation which will immediately be disregarded.

He orders a Baileys; every so often they throw you a curve ball. He asks for a tab to be set up. This isn't something that is usually done. Marie wouldn't go for it, but it's a quiet night and middle-aged alternative guys in your experience aren't the type to run out, particularly those ordering Baileys. You decide to go with it, maybe there'll be tip in it for you. You casually watch him as he sets up in the far corner of the bar. With customers sparse sometimes all you have is people watching to pass the time. You try to work out his character. You were way off with your guess of his drink order and try to piece together the story that could somehow reconcile his appearance with his choice of drink. Bar staff, waitresses... is it really so different from psychologist. You ponder on this and discern that you are a people person, not because you're sociable but because you are interested in people.

The evening grinds on. You check your phone for messages, more for something to do than any expectation that there will be any. You lock your phone before it registers that you never noted the time and concede a sigh of defeat as you check again. 10:02. Hippy man has ordered two more drinks since he first entered. No-one else has joined him in this time. Stood-up for a date or was his intention to head here for a solitary drink? Is he escaping from something? After all drinking at home is a much cheaper alternative and he can hardly be here for the joviality of the empty bar. You continue to play detective, if only you could be debriefed after each shift and uncover how close to the truth you were.

It's as if your thoughts have probed too deep and become tangible, he seem conscious of your musings as he's looks over. You begin to feel ashamed at having being caught out before your rational mind kicks in and you realise he is simply catching your eye to settle up. Daydreaming is dangerous when you have an over-active imagination. He approaches the bar and hands over his card to pay. You notice the name on the card, Bill Bailey, and his face forms an image of familiarity as you suddenly recognise his face from tv panel shows. The transaction goes through and you pull the printed paper from the till. You smile somewhat sheepishly and then hand over the receipt for Bill Bailey's baileys bill.

Not a poem but not long enough to be a story either. Just an absent minded musing

Lawrence Hall Jan 2024

Garage-Sale Rolodex for Seventy-Five Cents

Lawrence Hall, HSG
[email protected]

                Garage-Sale Rolodex® for Seventy-Five Cents

        I will not be pushed, filed, stamped, indexed, briefed,
        debriefed, or numbered. My life is my own.

                -Patrick McGoohan as Number Six in The Prisoner

The Rolodex was once a symbol of power
Of knowledge marshalled into sequences
Orderly sequences alphabetized by names
By names and cross indices of subjects and dates

Of enemies or allies or contacts, rarely friends
Condensed in ink on smoothly finished cards
Restrained in place by colored plastic tabs
Awaiting the stroke of an office tyrant’s hand

The Rolodex was subsumed within The ‘Phone
Thus still your life cannot be called your own

Lawrence Hall Oct 2021

Generation Whatever Knockin' at the 502 Bad Gateway

Lawrence Hall
[email protected]
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

                                               Generation Whatever

             I will not be pushed, filed, stamped, indexed, briefed,
             debriefed, or numbered. My life is my own.

                                 -Patrick McGoohan in The Prisoner

Be not defined by dates and stereotypes
The endless clutter of cliches and cant
Generating generic generations
Of worthless weasel words of wanton waste

WHO are you?
Who ARE you?
Who are YOU?

That’s usually no one’s concern but yours
(The cop writing you a ticket gets to ask)

Thanks to Patty M at patty m - Hello Poetry  for lending me the consonant “W.”

Thanks to Patty M for lending me the consonant "W!" :)

nivek Sep 2023

10w Advertisers Escapees

disentangled, debriefed,
the daily onslaught
educated on freedom
how to give it and receive

— The End —