"scruple" poems
We are frail
But could be stout
We are patient
But could be tired
We are deep
But could turn shallow
Rather true
But pick the fraud fellow.
Whoever we are
Are carved from jolts
Which heart embraces
And grabs then stitches.
But when the *****
Had too much dinge
And no more yarn
Left to sew the bits,
This marred love
Will become dust
For a weeping man
To succumb in scruple.
Jun 4, 2015
Jun 4, 2015 at 12:54 PM UTC
Last night I dreamt I cohabitated with
Two beasts, both loved.
The one, a young lioness
The other a spry lamb
I had raised the both from infancy
But the lioness, who was then entering her adulthood began to size up the lamb.
And it occurred to me that in order to
save
the lamb from the lioness
That I must **** and eat it myself
It is the inescapable nature of a lion to
Hunt and ****
livestock
So while there was no scruple or problem for me to have these two animals,
They could not abide one another.
So I did it.
I slaughtered the lamb and cut it's flank and got at its tender meat
And I cooked it and served it with Marsala sauce and that night the lioness and I dined on the flesh of our old friend.
And I became aware eventually,
Between my ravenous gnawings at the meat
That the lioness was not eating.
She was
Staring fixedly
Directly at me.
She did not blink.
And I stopped feasting on the lamb.
And as I did I saw her eyes dilate
And she pounced across the table
And she gored me with her great claws
And split my gut and spilled my innards
And she ate me bit by bit still screaming
Still covered in Marsala sauce.
Before it was over I had but a breath in me and I cried,
"But why?!"
And I realized that it is the inescapable nature of the lion
To hunt and to ****
Not just livestock, not just lambs.
She had hunted and killed us both.
Jan 27, 2014
Jan 27, 2014 at 5:06 PM UTC
stand(ing) here alone in the dark
like a head of tack pirouetting away
to no music - only acrid scruple
of this being with and not being with,
one is always alone.
space occupies the potteries in
the garden as a steady arm of light
stills in its mouth, a flowering dark.
it is only 3 o'clock in the morning
and the heat clambers the wall of
the vacuously atrabilious moment
of just plainly existing. the slender
harlequin of moon, like an old lover
having its own way with me, a child's
yelp coming home — the hermetic
air crushing the light, slivering it
revealing all the ensconced phantasms
too commonplace like a fork in the road
that i know, or the wayward metropolitan
that teems with a concatenation of roads
and gutters bilious with the squall of day.
a figure moves entering a warm miasma,
receiving the star of aloneness,
vacillating between
place and placelessness
telling this originary of repossessing
the moon with a hand in my hand,
pressing a question of where
have you been all the raging while.
Oct 8, 2015
Oct 8, 2015 at 3:52 PM UTC
we did not Dye in vain!
by michael r. burch
(from “songs of the sea snails”)
though i’m just a slimy crawler,
my lineage is proud:
my forebears gave their lives
(oh, let the trumps blare loud!)
so purple-mantled Royals
might stand out in a crowd.
i salute you, fellow loyals,
who labor without scruple
as your incomes fall
while deficits quadruple
to swaddle unjust Lords
in bright imperial purple!
Originally published by The American Dissident
Notes: In ancient times the purple dye produced from the secretions of purpura mollusks (sea snails) was known as “Tyrian purple,” “royal purple” and “imperial purple.” It was greatly prized in antiquity, and was very expensive according to the historian Theopompus: “Purple for dyes fetched its weight in silver at Colophon.” Thus, purple-dyed fabrics became status symbols, and laws often prevented commoners from possessing them. The production of Tyrian purple was tightly controlled in Byzantium, where the imperial court restricted its use to the coloring of imperial silks. A child born to the reigning emperor was literally porphyrogenitos ("born to the purple") because the imperial birthing apartment was walled in porphyry, a purple-hued rock, and draped with purple silks. Royal babies were swaddled in purple; we know this because the iconodules, who disagreed with the emperor Constantine about the veneration of images, accused him of defecating on his imperial purple swaddling clothes!
Keywords/Tags: royal, purple, imperial, Tyrian, Byzantium, porphyry, swaddling, clothes, porphyrogenitos, mollusks, sea snails, royalty, kings, lords, emperors, popes
Mar 28, 2020
Mar 28, 2020 at 4:35 AM UTC
DEDICATED TO THE FAT HIDEOUS BETTY, MY NEIGHBOUR
**Does anyone here know of a good mohel?
As I urgently need someone to circumcise
My neighbour's Yorkshire terrier, canine boil
Needing lancing, joybringing to my eyes.
A kindly mohel simply will not do;
He must lack scruple and human pity;
That hound’s not been bathed for a year or two
So th'event might turn out a bit ******
Yorkshire terriers are of two classes:
The insistent yapping ones we all hate
And the ***** ones with hairy arses;
But both look good nailed to your garden gate.
And he needn't be a mohel either,
Merely someone with a willing cleaver.**
Mar 26, 2015
Mar 26, 2015 at 8:05 AM UTC
537
Me prove it now—Whoever doubt
Me stop to prove it—now—
Make haste—the Scruple! Death be scant
For Opportunity—
The River reaches to my feet—
As yet—My Heart be dry—
Oh Lover—Life could not convince—
Might Death—enable Thee—
The River reaches to My Breast—
Still—still—My Hands above
Proclaim with their remaining Might—
Dost recognize the Love?
The River reaches to my Mouth—
Remember—when the Sea
Swept by my searching eyes—the last—
Themselves were quick—with Thee!
1.8k
637
The Child’s faith is new—
Whole—like His Principle—
Wide—like the Sunrise
On fresh Eyes—
Never had a Doubt—
Laughs—at a Scruple—
Believes all sham
But Paradise—
Credits the World—
Deems His Dominion
Broadest of Sovereignties—
And Caesar—mean—
In the Comparison—
Baseless Emperor—
Ruler of Nought—
Yet swaying all—
Grown bye and bye
To hold mistaken
His pretty estimates
Of Prickly Things
He gains the skill
Sorrowful—as certain—
Men—to anticipate
Instead of Kings—
1.8k
Sometimes,
in spite of every moral,
healthful,
or social scruple I may have,
I crave the taste of
monosodium glutamate,
of fried red meat,
of watered-down grocery store pilsner.
Sometimes I even sit,
a cheap beer in one had,
an even cheaper cheeseburger in the other,
and watch snowflakes drift on the wind
out my window,
with no shame, no guilt,
no thoughts even.
Just cheap beer, fast food,
and my humanity.
Dec 14, 2015
Dec 14, 2015 at 3:19 AM UTC
Dear Venus of my Heart,
The Solstice of blue, once flourishing with fiery flowers red, the petals of our garden froze. The chimney of our cabin of dreams, ambitious as Alexander's attainments, pops with the fog of the remnants of heat. We used to defy the now frozen roaring raging river of time and drink from the abstract notion of forever. For me, it felt like years embracing the elation of our entangled hearts, despite the days that went by. But reality is a grey mirror, and, in a hoard of wretched ways, I wronged you. Our Ecstasy, even extremely enlivening, was fleeting in behalf of my secret despair.
Imagine I a long-lasting love, a motto that guards me of any break. An unpierceable vowel, a couple for life, to live like lions loyal, bold and courageous yet entwined. So, to pour my emotions akin to the biblical flood and undergo an Ophelia, or even a Mimì, to subversion it distresses me. The motivations of mine may map me as an adamant, but I am a romantic, a believer of one true love. I just worry my machine shall yield to the snap of the edge and the ever yearly youthful yearning of restless consummation repels me. While passion is the feeling of the flesh, love is the feeling of the soul; one mate shall be fate. And my soul longs for you in spite of the lonely length that loosens our bonds.
Thus, out of my outrageous offense, I repent. I lament my vanity, this vividly voracious scruple of kissing way before and tragically after the priest's last words without a care for the bride. I apologize for this erroneous early enamor and the ceaseless insistence to the raw departure, leaving echoes of you in pictures of us. But now alas is time for my final parting, to let go because move on I shall. Heart breaks for heart's sake.
Forever and always,
H
PS: The fog shrouded our cabin of dreams. I feared going back to our place. But doubt no longer clouds my view, so I cleared the mist. Still, the chimney's black stains cannot be cleaned. Hope for this house rests on its grave. However, a new home is just around the corner. It is up to you to build it with me. I will be waiting.
Jan 13, 2021
Jan 13, 2021 at 3:22 PM UTC
(Dedicated to Eric Onyebuchi Jibero)
What an excruciating blow
You have dealt me!
A brute's uppercut offloaded
A smashing hit delivered
Like a monstrous boxer
Desirous of fame
With an amateur to tame
At this one bout too many
Wherein you have hit me below
The belt as a sadist deriving joy
From my anguish
And relish
From my enormous loss
Oh mower,
Nay hewer,
Can't you feel anything?
Can't you see?
Can't you reason for a while
With your prey?
Can't you pause to ponder
Just for a brief moment
So you can take a good decision
Choosing the right tree to fell
Instead of bringing down a mere
Sapling with your obedient saw?
Why deal sweeping blow
On a mere rookie?
Can't you distinguish
Between the ripe and the unripe?
Between the hen and the chick?
But hawks like you can pick
Meat amidst bones as Moses
In a basket amidst bulrushes
Of Nile to spare from Pharaoh's
Infant-eating sword
And in wisdom did you wait
Patiently to visit Methuselah
At the zenith of hoary hair
Master of double standards
Eyes gorged
Conscience seared
Heart cold like frozen chicken
******* dry and drooping
Like a hag's
A ruthless scorpion
That stings even babes
Rampaging ravager
Notorious brigand
Marauding machinery
Eliminating without scruple
Whoever you choose
Whose hireling are you?
God's or Satan's
Or both?
A blank cheque you flaunt
To cash as you wish
But can't you condescend to a negotiating
Table when a mere sapling is marked
For a cutting down?
Being a professional boxer
Long in this senseless trade
You should have seen the heap
Of pain you would leave
In my heart by this cruel blow
Against a budding amateur whom
You have served voracious earth
Whose stomach is a leaking tank.
Nov 2, 2010
Nov 2, 2010 at 5:22 AM UTC
I left you without qualm
or hesitation, taking perhaps
the shortest path
through that red door
of doubts and roads
without redemption
I left you
standing in the plain
of shattered moments
walking on the edge of all
the maybes and the whys
but kept you deep in the veins
emptied of any sorrow
and regret, wrapped in
all that makes the
thoughts the single sense
I kept you
as the voice that raises breath
and blood and heart
in the dawn, in the rise and fall
of all our steps
toward each other and away
I kept you without fear
without a scruple, without
regard to rights or wrongs
and in the certainty of each
and every yes inside my head
taking that never ending walk
without qualm or hesitation
Dec 31, 2015
Dec 31, 2015 at 6:24 PM UTC
Your eyes,
they catalyze-
an anaerobic exercise
of my loosely stitched heart
& sepia stained scruple
If you squint once more
i might rationalize
a brief grasp,
graze,
and galvanize.
Mar 26, 2013
Mar 26, 2013 at 7:12 PM UTC
From north to south, in every province hence,
A shout rings out, a call to arms—and war:
That snake which slithers silent o'er the fence,
Shall swallow swift this ancient land once more.
As rough the beating of the battle drum,
Still rougher are the hands of men who ****
Though noble cowards scruple to succumb,
Too oft are they dismissed for men who will.
Let rivers red run over tranquil fields,
And stain the hands of peasant, peer, and priest,
Till foes who've wronged us either die or yield,
Then only will this nation scorned know peace.
This way, I guess a billion souls or more
Have fallen victim to barbaric war.
Mar 14, 2018
Mar 14, 2018 at 11:00 AM UTC
1 “Pursue not with accolade in mind. The hand will remain blank, if not black – blacker at that notion of conflagration. There is a fine line between infinite and obsequiousness. It is all disappearance, isn’t it?” she humbly quipped sotto voce.
2 Whenever I look at a dog, I lose my metaphors. Say, when he gnaws a wall for no reason. Or when I watch the indefatigable motion of his tail. Is it all redundancy?
3 I’d like to think that I sold myself a long time ago, mistaken as hurling a stone into the deep setting of repugnant waters, my body assuming fragrance, or a fall of feather – half-mast at that, in conscious space.
4 I want myself bought back from the dark, oblivion, the constancy of salt in the sea.
5 I fear that when the Sun cleaves through hills, light would be but two bodies never finding each other.
Depth is wedded to loss, cobwebbed into abeyance.
6 Who do you see when you see a shadow? A movement of identity? Or the identity of movement?
And whose land does it continually mark with longing? Or an insistence of feeling? A dearth of space is made aware of its vastness. We must all hide in the night so as to minimize its feat.
7 Speak boldly about memory. Its incandescence, its liminal end. Its forgotten thresholds. How it felt at first light to grasp but not sense out ownership. Be silenced over entrails. I will sojourn into the infinite quiet of your throbbing presence and fade out, the same way you lilted away like a blather of a child in the heat of a haranguing mother, or the predictable yet sudden erasures of sea.
8 I have not, the discovery of landscapes. My next door neighbor’s home is being renovated. I have a fascination for unfinished structures.
9 I look at my image in the mirror: A scruple of metal-reticence. A mangle of scaffolds. I am a home that cannot be assuaged.
10 Disappearance.
Apr 25, 2016
Apr 25, 2016 at 10:13 AM UTC
Done living double life,
Done executing half-hearted attempt,
Done playing safe game,
Done lying inside safety bubble,
Done scavenging through illusion and mirages.
Finally, I am awakened, I am done drifting.
Now, that I know I am not special,
I am just a common man- a mortal.
Trying to live life in present;
hoping to leave a dent in the process.
I am part of this filthy world
Laden with perfect imperfection.
I want access,
I want to witness,
I want to experience things;
Forbidden.
I want to indulge, effacing innocence
With the licentious.
No! No! No! are you getting an idea?
I am not a demon in making.
Least of all- Devil.
You are yet to see the other half of me,
Which I think you will ever see.
Or, perhaps deserve to know.
So don’t come hard at me.
You are nowhere near to judge me.
Don’t call me a savage.
I’m not.
I am just being true to myself,
a bit generous-giving exposure to my alter ego.
Don’t call me sordid- a barbarian.
For being honest, admitting thing or two-
So to say confessing.
I know, for you are no different.
For sure, no exception.
You are nothing but pretending or perhaps unaware of.
I better cherish heinous crime consciously than abstaining
Myself with moral scruple.
For I know now that abstinence will **** us unconsciously anyways.
May 29, 2020
May 29, 2020 at 1:03 PM UTC
Waking, I am left with my thoughts,
to contemplate myself, my being.
Questions of "What am I doing?",
Often tend to leave me fleeing.
Hot water pouring down my back,
in a shower of uncertainty
Standing still and all alone,
with a pressing sense of urgency.
But as always, I shake it off
and soon begin to dry.
The ending of this sentence,
is nothing, but a sigh.
Aug 25, 2016
Aug 25, 2016 at 2:27 PM UTC
I am baffled ghost that thine,
Esteem armes the nobility of lige;
Please'd the scruple valiant of truth,
Folly exprest my valour, my love.
Envied the potions of weary gate,
Fold my shadows nobility too late,
Behold for I have been seal'd;
Bewitching the tempting tongue.
I am ashamed to kiss the wanton harmony,
Lent you my silver quality of lies;
I am blown of love of thine,
Unaware to mistrustful actions of mine.
- ᴘʀɪᴀᴍ ᴘᴇᴀʀᴇ
Jan 30, 2019
Jan 30, 2019 at 1:27 AM UTC