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Michael W Noland May 2014
I back peddle from a paper pedestal, hoping for the best, hoping you don't intend to inspect the wreckage I have left.

I am temptation at its test, an exclamation on contempt, collecting the regrets to my exemptions under stress.

A misnomer to my bets, against the better judgments I neglect, I'm set in my ways, in lucid forays, I've let from my veins,

and I've slept, the whole ******* way.
Michael W Noland Apr 2014
I see the lot, denominated in slots, automated in spots, weakest to the plot, and I'm not, convinced it is wrong, nor minced in my longing for a song, a song to the sum, to the sun, to the one unto the ones unto none, nada, nothing, but a hum from beyond, a rumbling from a haunt, stumbling from a heart, belonging to a spark that departed a long-long time ago, where it started, and I'll go-go back there for the harp, for the halo, for the art of it, standing on the stars, apart, but a part of it, I'll go for the horns, for the dark, and for the parts discarded, I will, try my hardest, to remain in progress, a battery that charges for the harvest of the starkest of the larvae unto the fiercest flies, unto spider webs in fragile skies, finite lines up high, where I'll die knowing I flew, die knowing the truth, the use, the abuse, the ruse, the heights of my sight, igniting in the lie, in the cries, so distant now, but a distinctive growl from yesteryear's child so mild, so wild as to be outed by a new sound, so profound as to drown the complexity out, and simply shout from anyone's mouth, reading out-loud and clear, my cloud, my thoughts, my fear, left right here on a single space, where I placed it and saved it away in the seventh day of this resting case, that is all but closed, a screen saver transposed as knowns exposed, and I'm aroused in knowing the doubts are clothed in lace, soaked on display for my placation's of our days, the daze, hazily grazing on the safe, the fates, locked in a slate, for later placement to a shape, I'm hate, wrapped in a hopeful taste, waiting for a saying to say it all,  ~ I'm spaced.
Michael W Noland Apr 2014
I am sorry, and you are sorry, we can make up in the morning, wake up in our torment, go back to bed and do it all again, before the storm hits, as it's the fragile moments that make this what it is, and it's, beautiful,  ~ whatever it is.
Michael W Noland Apr 2014
I cannot
not compute,
this beauty, it's all around you,
as it can only exist in you,

surrounded in your shades,
your observation unto its grace,

this world,
you make,

It's why I'll make,

looking to your lines, your curves,
defining you by sight, tracing starlight,
then eyes, that shine unto mine,

as life becomes life's
worth living.

The heavens we can trace,
with but a glance to the place,
where by chance we will paint,
on the same lines of a space,
occupied by a fate,
between the times,
that we made,
and bang,

the endtroduction.

But faster, and fast-err, or,
can't not, not, compute,
bigger, better, more, and more,

the fabric,
it dilutes,

pouring from a door,
on another side,
doing just fine,

no further

than the sky.
Michael W Noland Apr 2014
It may be in error,
but it's in
the air

in my daring,
of her

and still of no detriment,

to my caring for her glare,
when she caught me there,
eyes closed,
sniffing her


as to her presence,
her elegance,
her observational,

through her fare

Unhindering my endearing,
to her scent,
in exemption,

as she's staring
unto my intent'
and simply

She, the beautiful mess,
in a light sweat,
on a peach
beautiful flesh,

as her alluring

took me
where i haven't been



Michael W Noland Mar 2014
Invisible divisions of permissible

      envisioned to see
the mission through.

Missing trains but passing through, watching me
    watching you.

   reprehensible vessels
to my ventricle center

     on your bettered batch of *******
jet purpulsing slips of lips

My grips,
    our grip
       on whatever this is.

           My bliss,
      your numbness,


    as blood
in moonlight is,

   ~ black.
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