~oPuS~ Revison

[ficosdarkness]

Slipping away to the place I come from,
where I can't hardly breath, I find comfort in pain.
Sliding barefoot across the razor's edge of madness,
then turning right, just shy of my insanity,
because I don't want to get left.

Day tripping to the dead zone,
with booby traps and IED's
carefully placed along the way,
in case someone gets in or I get out.

I arrive upon a gate made of solid alabaster,
smooth and cold to touch, like the face of death.
Too heavy for me to push open, too slick for me to climb.
I find myself peering through a keyhole...
I spy with my eye, La carnival de morte' !

Beyond the door, another world,
protected like area 51,
with 12 foot high electrified fences
topped with barbed wire, the wire wrapped
with white twinkling lights and party balloons.

Over head, just within reach,
a catcher is suspended upside down from his trapeze,
his calloused hands prepped with chalk,
reaching out, he waits to swing me over the fence
to the dark side where my "mojo" lies.

It's Studio 54!
A haunted disco tech full of shiney people
dancing the dance of the dead,
coming alive to the white noise in my head.

The dance floor, confetti freckled with vivid colors that pop!
Brilliant blood reds, mixed with deep purples
and even richer blue's swirling about like tiny tornados.
They take their form as cuts and bruises,
that I wear like my own crown of thorns,
producing the dopamine that feeds my flow.

I squint my eyes to bring my fantasia in closer,
re-establishing intimacy,
allowing the pain to become real.
It's a techno colored dreamscape
set on a backdrop of pitch black darkness.

I have to move around myself, to get to me,
realizing that I'm just as far in as I'll ever be out.
Coming and going to bring back pieces,
for approval, accolades or sustenance.
Gas, grass or ass no one rides for free.

Knowing that if I stay too long or go too deep,
I may not be able to find my way back.
I need more time on this side,
to look for a rusty tin box, shaped like a heart,
that I put out of my way long ago.

The box is full of tiny chards of brightly colored glass
and a handful of little sparkling orbs.
They bring to mind the old time disco balls
that spun to life the "thumpa thumpa"
beat of days gone bye.

Yet those shiny little bobbles
in that rusty heart shaped box
are not what I came here for.
I'm looking for a part of my soul,
the part that I give away in verse.

Soul searching for my "ch'i".
I've stashed it here, behind an old fun house mirror.
I have to bring back a gift never offered before,
so I lay myself open, in the form of a stanza,
a metaphoric blood letting, for the masses.

Painting pretty "Picasso like" pictures of my guts,
using colors that pop, brilliant blood reds
and deep purples with even richer blues,
I paint a verbal portrait simply titled...

~oPuS~



Slipping away again,
back to this place that I come from
where I can't hardly breathe,
I find comfort in pain,
sliding barefoot across the razors edge of madness,
then turning right, just shy of my insanity,
because I don't want to get left.
Day tripping to the dead zone with booby traps and IED's
carefully placed along the way,
just in case someone gets in or I get out.
I arrive upon a gate made of solid alabaster,
smooth and cold to touch, like the face of death.
The gate is too heavy for me to push open,
too slick for me to climb I find myself peering through a keyhole...
I spy with my eye, La carnival de morte' !
Beyond the door, another world,
fenced in, kept and protected like area 51,
with 12 foot high electrified fences
topped with barbed wire and party balloons.
Over head just within reach,
a catcher suspended upside down from his trapeze,
wearing neon pink tights with sequins
his calloused hands prepped with chalk,
reaching out, he waits to swing me over the fence
to the dark side where my "mojo" lies.
I see colors there in the darkness, it's Studio 54! Ha ha ha!
Studio 54, in Area 51,
a haunted disco tech full of shiney people
dancing the dance of the dead,
coming alive to the white noise in my head.
The dance floor is confetti freckled
with vivid colors that pop...
brilliant blood red mixed with deep purple and even richer blue's
swirling about like tiny tornados
then taking their form as cuts and bruises,
that I wear like my own crown of thorns,
digging their way into the thin skin of my scalp,
embedding themselves in my skull ,
producing the dopamine that feeds my mojo.
I squint my eyes to bring my fantasia in closer,
re-establishing our intimacy,
allowing the pain to become real again.
This pain is where I live. It's a techno colored dreamscape
set on a backdrop of pitch black darkness.
The trip in is a "mental mission impossible",
moving around myself to get to my mojo and realizing
that I'm just as far in as I'll ever be out.
Coming and going just to bring back pieces of me,
for approval, accolades or sustenance,
gas, grass or ass no one rides for free.
Each trip leaving another carbon footprint.
Knowing that if I stay too long or if I go too deep,
I may not be able to find my way back through the visible static.
I need more time on this side to find what I came here for,
a rusty tin box, shaped like a heart,
that I put out of my way long ago,
full of tiny chards of brightly colored glass
and a handful of little sparkling orbs
that bring to mind the old time disco balls
that spun to life a "thumpa thumpa"
beat of days gone bye, snorting white lines,
then trying to stay within them.
Hauling ass with shuttervision.
Headed back from a place that I didn't want to leave,
but knew that I had to... and the beat goes oooooon,
and the beat goooes ooon.
Yet these shiny little bobbles
in this rusty heart shaped box
are not what I came here for.
I'm looking for a part of my soul,
the part that I give away in verse.
My "mojo" and I've stashed it here,
in the deepest darkest caverns of this place.
In my "Area 51", way down inside the abyss
behind an old fun house mirror.
I have to bring something back,
a gift that I've never offered before.
I lay myself open, in the form of a stanza,
a metaphoric blood letting.
Painting pretty "Picasso like" pictures of my guts,
that I pulled out of that rusty heart shaped box.
Using colors those that pop, brilliant blood red
and deep purples with even richer blues,
I'll draw a verbal sketch of myself, simply titled...
~oPuS~

[billy]

hi fd.
i like the title and the fact it has musical connotations because i feel the poem has the same.
it feels like the 1st person in the poem (not necessarily the writer) is really opening up.

a good train of thought poem that has a lot of powerful lines in it.
a few nits first, redundant words;

Slipping away again,
back to this place that I come from
in the above again is redundant because of the second line.
moxy is used 3 times, can another word be used to replace two of them.
and lastly, do you think it would be better if you took out stuff you think don't add to the poem. something which is hard for a poet to do
specially if it's a personal piece which i suspect this is.

nits out of the way, i love how much you put into the poem, it overflowing with thoughts taking us from one place to another at a rapid pace. the pin in the poem is evident, but on another level it feels like theres something else like hope waiting to be found, maybe in the inner self of the fist person. it also shows how hard it can be to wrench a poem from the emotional us and put it too paper.

a gift that I've never offered before.; i think that's what all poets strive for.

thanks for the read Fd (jmo)

[ficosdarkness]

hi fd.
i like the title and the fact it has musical connotations because i feel the poem has the same.
it feels like the 1st person in the poem (not necessarily the writer) is really opening up.

a good train of thought poem that has a lot of powerful lines in it.
a few nits first, redundant words;

Slipping away again,
back to this place that I come from
in the above again is redundant because of the second line.
moxy is used 3 times, can another word be used to replace two of them.
and lastly, do you think it would be better if you took out stuff you think don't add to the poem. something which is hard for a poet to do
specially if it's a personal piece which i suspect this is.

nits out of the way, i love how much you put into the poem, it overflowing with thoughts taking us from one place to another at a rapid pace. the pin in the poem is evident, but on another level it feels like theres something else like hope waiting to be found, maybe in the inner self of the fist person. it also shows how hard it can be to wrench a poem from the emotional us and put it too paper.

a gift that I've never offered before.; i think that's what all poets strive for.

thanks for the read Fd (jmo)

Billy,
"Slipping away, back to this place that I come from" works nicely. You're right it is redundant, thanks for that. "Mojo", "Chi", "flow" that's a can do as well. Nice catch, I don't want to fall back into that repetition groove. I think there are some noncontributing lines/words that can definately be trimmed out, good stuff Billy thank you. I'll shake the tree and see what leaves fall out. This one was a ride for sure, I'm looking for something... I'll find it. I'm pleased that you enjoyed it!
fd

[billy]

as i said somewhere else, it looks like your mojo came back

[addy]

I adore the richness of the internal world you put forward, there's something welcoming yet at the same time unfathomable about it. There's probably some repetition in this piece that can be cut out, but there are other thematic repetitions worth keeping (for example, the red blue and purples as images for bruises/pain but also vibrancy). A wonderfully evocative vibe. Thanks for the share

[ficosdarkness]

I adore the richness of the internal world you put forward, there's something welcoming yet at the same time unfathomable about it. There's probably some repetition in this piece that can be cut out, but there are other thematic repetitions worth keeping (for example, the red blue and purples as images for bruises/pain but also vibrancy). A wonderfully evocative vibe. Thanks for the share

Thank you addy! I went to a very deep place to find this one in myself, where as the verse usually finds me. I do see a few places where an edit is necessary, the repetition came from me reacting to what I wrote, like "Ha ha ha Studio 54 Studio 54 in Area 51", I actually wrote down my reaction after I read what I wrote, I'm not quite sure why, but I do feel that it's not instrumental to the piece. I'm stoked that you enjoyed the read, very cool.
fd

[heslopian]

I liked the "heart shaped box." I don't know if you meant it as a reference but it reminded me of the great Nirvana song nonetheless. This is quite a lovely stream-of-consciousness narrative. One suggestion I will make is that you try dividing it into verses, as then I feel it would be easier to digest. Also I don't get the idiosyncratic capitalisation in the title. All just my opinion of course. Other than those nits this is great. I love how the last line recalls the title, and the very personal landscape you convey here is strikingly vivid. You make private pain publicly accessible with enviable skill.

[ficosdarkness]

I liked the "heart shaped box." I don't know if you meant it as a reference but it reminded me of the great Nirvana song nonetheless. This is quite a lovely stream-of-consciousness narrative. One suggestion I will make is that you try dividing it into verses, as then I feel it would be easier to digest. Also I don't get the idiosyncratic capitalisation in the title. All just my opinion of course. Other than those nits this is great. I love how the last line recalls the title, and the very personal landscape you convey here is strikingly vivid. You make private pain publicly accessible with enviable skill.

Jack,
Kurt Cobain is my main man, if he hadn't took himself out in that manner, I'd want to be a combo of him and Jim Morrison when I grow up! (with a touch of Elvis of course) The reason behind the "oPuS"... I wanted to hold on the the underlying possibility that there is music in all things and at the same time portray that the music at times can be a bit maniacal. In this piece I heard circus/carnival music in my head while writing it, I thought if I made the letters "catywampus" that would bring the reader in closer to the music? Verses are a good idea, thank you Jack. Thanks for reading the piece too... a little "welcome to my nightmare" bit for one and all. Cheers
fd

[addy]

I see you went with Jack's verses suggestions with the edit, plus taking some stuff out. It did make it reader-friendly, and as for flow I thought it was already excellent from the original so no problems there.

It was a joy to re-read this. You took what should be dysfunctional thoughts and emotions, and you turned it into something beautiful and empowering and electrifying. In this poem, you were to the reader like a psychedelic, feminine version of Prometheus. A great trip.

[billy]

Slipping away to the place that I come from, is 'that' needed?
where I can't hardly breath, I find comfort in pain.
Sliding barefoot across the razors edge of madness, razor's
then turning right, just shy of my insanity,
because I don't want to get left.

Day tripping to the dead zone,
with booby traps and IED's
carefully placed along the way,
in case someone gets in or I get out.

I arrive upon a gate made of solid alabaster,
smooth and cold to touch, like the face of death.
Too heavy for me to push open, too slick for me to climb.
I find myself peering through a keyhole...
I spy with my eye, La carnival de morte' !

Beyond the door, another world,
protected like area 51,
with 12 foot high electrified fences
topped with barbed wire, the wire wrapped
with white twinkling lights and party balloons.

Over head, just within reach,
a catcher is suspended upside down from his trapeze,
his calloused hands prepped with chalk,
reaching out, he waits to swing me over the fence
to the dark side where my "mojo" lies.

It's Studio 54!
A haunted disco tech full of shiney people
dancing the dance of the dead,
coming alive to the white noise in my head.

The dance floor, confetti freckled with vivid colors that pop!
Brilliant blood reds, mixed with deep purples
and even richer blue's swirling about like tiny tornados.
They take their form as cuts and bruises,
that I wear like my own crown of thorns,
producing the dopamine that feeds my flow.

I squint my eyes to bring my fantasia in closer,
re-establishing our intimacy, is 'our' needed?
allowing the pain to become real.
It's a techno colored dreamscape
set on a backdrop of pitch black darkness.

I have to move around myself, to get to me,
realizing that I'm just as far in as I'll ever be out.
Coming and going to bring back pieces,
for approval, accolades or sustenance.
Gas, grass or ass no one rides for free.

Knowing that if I stay too long or go too deep, is 'that' needed?
I may not be able to find my way back.
I need more time on this side,
to look for a rusty tin box, shaped like a heart,
that I put out of my way long ago.

The box is full of tiny chards of brightly colored glass
and a handful of little sparkling orbs.
They bring to mind the old time disco balls
that spun to life the "thumpa thumpa"
beat of days gone bye.

Yet those shiny little bobbles
in that rusty heart shaped box
are not what I came here for.
I'm looking for a part of my soul,
the part that I give away in verse.

Soul searching for my "ch'i".
I've stashed it here, behind an old fun house mirror.
I have to bring back a gift never offered before,
so I lay myself open, in the form of a stanza,
a metaphoric blood letting, for the masses.

Painting pretty "Picasso like" pictures of my guts,
using colors that pop, brilliant blood reds
and deep purples with even richer blues,
I paint a verbal portrait simply titled...

~oPuS~

a brave edit and one that really improves on the original Fd. just a couple of small nits but nothing much. nicely done. jmo

[ficosdarkness]

Slipping away to the place that I come from, is that needed?
where I can't hardly breath, I find comfort in pain.
Sliding barefoot across the razors edge of madness, razor's
then turning right, just shy of my insanity,
because I don't want to get left.

Day tripping to the dead zone,
with booby traps and IED's
carefully placed along the way,
in case someone gets in or I get out.

I arrive upon a gate made of solid alabaster,
smooth and cold to touch, like the face of death.
Too heavy for me to push open, too slick for me to climb.
I find myself peering through a keyhole...
I spy with my eye, La carnival de morte' !

Beyond the door, another world,
protected like area 51,
with 12 foot high electrified fences
topped with barbed wire, the wire wrapped
with white twinkling lights and party balloons.

Over head, just within reach,
a catcher is suspended upside down from his trapeze,
his calloused hands prepped with chalk,
reaching out, he waits to swing me over the fence
to the dark side where my "mojo" lies.

It's Studio 54!
A haunted disco tech full of shiney people
dancing the dance of the dead,
coming alive to the white noise in my head.

The dance floor, confetti freckled with vivid colors that pop!
Brilliant blood reds, mixed with deep purples
and even richer blue's swirling about like tiny tornados.
They take their form as cuts and bruises,
that I wear like my own crown of thorns,
producing the dopamine that feeds my flow.

I squint my eyes to bring my fantasia in closer,
re-establishing our intimacy, is our needed?
allowing the pain to become real.
It's a techno colored dreamscape
set on a backdrop of pitch black darkness.

I have to move around myself, to get to me,
realizing that I'm just as far in as I'll ever be out.
Coming and going to bring back pieces,
for approval, accolades or sustenance.
Gas, grass or ass no one rides for free.

Knowing that if I stay too long or go too deep, is that needed?
I may not be able to find my way back.
I need more time on this side,
to look for a rusty tin box, shaped like a heart,
that I put out of my way long ago.

The box is full of tiny chards of brightly colored glass
and a handful of little sparkling orbs.
They bring to mind the old time disco balls
that spun to life the "thumpa thumpa"
beat of days gone bye.

Yet those shiny little bobbles
in that rusty heart shaped box
are not what I came here for.
I'm looking for a part of my soul,
the part that I give away in verse.

Soul searching for my "ch'i".
I've stashed it here, behind an old fun house mirror.
I have to bring back a gift never offered before,
so I lay myself open, in the form of a stanza,
a metaphoric blood letting, for the masses.

Painting pretty "Picasso like" pictures of my guts,
using colors that pop, brilliant blood reds
and deep purples with even richer blues,
I paint a verbal portrait simply titled...

~oPuS~

a brave edit and one that really improves on the original Fd. just a couple of small nits but nothing much. nicely done. jmo

billy,
The first line is our jumping off point if I took that one Ln 2 would have to follow. I think, yes it's necessary because it is something that happens with me, 2 steps forward, 3 steps back, then 5 to the side! Pain IS where I find comfort unfortunately 86% of the time. Good catch on the 's in line 3! I love your eye! "our" in p8 Ln 2 not necessary at all, thanks for that! p10 Ln 1 again factual and I think necessary to the flow, but oh how I do love hat eye! Thank you again billy you're awesome!
fd

---

I see you went with Jack's verses suggestions with the edit, plus taking some stuff out. It did make it reader-friendly, and as for flow I thought it was already excellent from the original so no problems there.

It was a joy to re-read this. You took what should be dysfunctional thoughts and emotions, and you turned it into something beautiful and empowering and electrifying. In this poem, you were to the reader like a psychedelic, feminine version of Prometheus. A great trip.

Dig it! How "groovy" to be able to take a trip without drugs or money, yeah? I knew that Jack was knocking on the right door with his suggestion just like when billy suggested shorter sentences to add form in a prior piece. I want you all to know that I'm learning a great deal and appreciation does not begin to descibe how I feel with your critique's. I know that my poetry is a bit on the dark side but so am I, that makes the actual writing of the work kinda' painful. I feel like the fun part is the times when you all jump in here with me, you bring a candle in the darkness. Sometimes billy brings a torch but light is light in the abyss! I am always grateful however See you all on the next ride!
fd

[billy]

my mistake Fd, i never meant is that line needed.

i meant the word...'that'
and the word...'ours'

sorry if was ambiguous

[ficosdarkness]

my mistake Fd, i never meant is that line needed.

i meant the word...'that'
and the word...'ours'

sorry if was ambiguous

No worries billy