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 May 2014 n0cturnal
tdf
Waiting Room
 May 2014 n0cturnal
tdf
last months magazines
a stack of uncertain time
that is collapsing
-tdf
 May 2014 n0cturnal
joanna dibble
brief cool green hour interrupted by sunrise_ pierced with waves of shimmering heat
I gaze into the lapis lazuli embedded behind your eyes

And I read the words that are engraved on its pristine surface

“I hide in the dust of diamonds and bathe in Luna’s glow”

Inscriptions of a fiery passion from the heart of Aphrodite

What deities were praised to conjure such an immaculate apparition?

A vesper turned mortal by the north wind

Gilded in the feathers of seraphs-on-high

And garbed in the fineries of the seventh son of a seventh son
I'm telling lies to terrorize tame territory,
and so they'll strip me down, string me up, and bleed me dry of glory.
Mourning from the morning after, hanging from a ceiling rafter.
Two rows of platinum canines, call me a gangsta-veloci-rapper.

Truly emancipated, drinking whiskey from Lincoln's skull.
Proclamation of my bank roll grants more ***** than animal control.
Flicking cigarettes at MC's who think they're superior,
into their passenger window to burn holes in their interior.

I run all night, jiggle my handle after flushing.
All the plump gals seem to love me, I've got their cellulite a'blushing.
I don't like *****, but I'll sip on something Russian,
if you ship her in the mail first class from your Middle-Euro cousin.
tlp
 May 2014 n0cturnal
joanna dibble
hasty poet scribbling
unwilling to wait
while the world sinks in.
and the poem arrives.
i recognized this in my poetic efforts recently.
my "aha!" moment.
writing is a gift, and patience a practice
 May 2014 n0cturnal
dj
I'm eyes
in hard transparent plastic
the eye behind my eyes
doing its own viral will
like a demon, an obsessed molestor
I'm in this rush, a stampede of
thoughts like shoulders & breifcases

and now it's totally lost

maybe you didn't think
maybe you wouldn't care
I'd've told you sooner
but couldn't find the word.
OCD
AM I JUST OCD
IS THIS ONLY BOTHERING ME
SHOULDN'T POEMS HAVE A RHYME
OR AM I REALLY WRONG THIS TIME?
 Apr 2014 n0cturnal
Fox
Why is hellopoetry.com black and white? I've always wondered about this... why my colorful photographs are required to travel back in time. How does this effect the poetry in any way, shape, or form? But I understand the wisdom of this design now. And it sets a great metaphor for all of the people of the pen involved in this truly noble motion, this secret society for people with passion, talent, and troubled minds and souls. Hello Poetry is black and white not because it has to be monochromatic and modern, but because us poets fill these pages with enough inovativeness and color already with our words, ideas, thoughts, songs, senryus, ballads, heartbreaks, insecurities, that adding literal color to this website would be overwhelming. These soft undertones of gray, black, and white may be considered drab and depressing to some, but to us poets it represents timelessness. And this is probably why we are all here. Hourly, daily, weekly, monthly, or even yearly publishing poems. Because we all know we are not going to live forever, and we are so entirely insignificant in the broad scheme of things and of the universe itself, that it is a bit comforting and helpful to have this coping mechanism or soft blankie to calm our fears, that this literature we write, however insignificant it may be, is absolutley permanent. And that maybe someday it will be remembered so a small bit of us may live on. Tom Riddle knew the needs and wants of man kind before anybody else realized it. Maybe he was just trying to cope with the fact that he is insignificant. These poems are all our Horcruxes so *viveamus per camenam nostram.
^^^let us live through our poetry
 Apr 2014 n0cturnal
JLB
I  find myself diving inside of you where the weird dream shamans draw sketches of naked humans.
And you’re a human, and we're both naked. You’re purple, you’re just the perfect shade. I place my flag inside, to abscond us away inside of a womb where our world will open to portals to all of our favorite places. A floating haven, of cashmere. Gestating where the climate is warm and damp, and coloring me dark with wine—sweet wine of lovers, penal, forgotten, and fermented anew in maternal rite, because…
This swarming melodic nectar that swims through my nostrils and rolls in my eyes cannot be drank casually. It’s the elixir of love. I love you,
And in you, I find that I love myself.

What’s more, the shamanists exclaim, “She wants to give you all of herself.” Yes, they’re right. Even what I do not love so much, I want you to have, if you’ll take it, because I have to live with it, and if you live with me, you’ll have to live with it too. And then, when you crack open your sternum to let the things in, the scribes of my life’s doing, of ancient passion proclaim! They burn their papyrus scrolls soaked in the blood that I drew from my veins to pass unto yours— and you swallow them whole like divine burritos. And then we are ready for the world to fall suddenly, if it felt so inclined. Now that our chests are pressed together, and our tongues are fused tight.  We are the daughters of the prima mother. We are the goddesses of our dreams.
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