~oPuS~ Revison

 
   
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...
my personal abyss, my personal hell.  
  
I have to move around myself, to get to me,  
realizing 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 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".    
Stashed 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 a pretty "Picasso like" picture 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~