Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
  May 2014 Celtic Lass
Michael W Noland
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.
Celtic Lass May 2014
footsteps darting down the stairs--


Fingertips of night smudge and smear their ebony gloss streaks
Down dusty, grimy glass--
Swallowing your spectral image
In the glazed glow of neon-rainbow billboards.

A twenty-first century Lancelot, you don your callousness
And self-loathing like a tarnished suit of armor--
On a chilviarous quest to save two-hundred-dollar Nocturne Ladies
                                                   From drug-primed pimps....
                                                   T h e m s e l v e s.....
                                                    But--n o t  from you!

Passions fire, and my love, follow you
Through myriads of abandoned, midnight alleyways,
And already I have squandered the ghosts
Of your deceptive warmth, and poisoned promises.

The heaviest of down comforters
Fail to cease my chills
And I am as bloodless
As before your first lethal kisses.

Your inevitable absence is the deep burn of frostbite,
Your eventual return an addiction--
The relief insatiable neuralgia--
                         I  c r a v e  your presence.

Your vanishing is like slicing away strips of my skin--
The carving, and cutting release a chronic, arctic cold
That confronts me from within my crystalized soul....  
                           I freeze, and die,  e a c h  time you leave.


From within the hollow of our bed
The mist of a heroine-induced haze rises--
Enfolded in the memory of your lingering lust, I slip
between the sweat-soaked sheets, and pain-drenched pillows....

Longing...promising...hoping...that I'll be  gone--t o m o r r o w.....
Waiting...bargaining with the darkness...listening to.....


your footsteps stumbling up the stairs.............
Sometimes--relationships are simply mutally-enabling.....T O X I C I T Y
Celtic Lass May 2014
Your mica eyes
****** their sinister gaze--
Grim and glowering--
Gouging into gaping heart-wounds
To commence continuous fresh ooze
Dripping from festering, unhealed centers.

Your darkened desires
Derive insidious pleasures
Watching the writhing and wasting--
The squirming of my weakening spirit;
You grin at the gruesome handi-work
Of your impaled butterfly.

The brilliant brevity
Of my soul's prismatic patterns,
Exsanguinates in frantic, futile beatings
With shredded, useless wings--
Faint flutterings fade into memories;
Anguish appeases from silent screams
To inevitable fatal numbing....

                                ( Release me--
                                   P L E A S E--
                                    I need to soar!)
For what are we if our very souls be held captive...we are as an impaled butterfly---unable to soar, our spirit weakens, and dies....

— The End —