Behind your ear,
the place where no one ever looks,
where the skin is
more intimate than one’s private parts,
I found a lock
submerged in your skull.

I am a Key Maker,
you know.

All my entire life
I labour away inside
|a room|
without any doors or windows
where the only thing
you can see is the sun
shining on bare walls.

It is by this that
I procure keys.

When I put the key into your flesh
and twisting it
opened your body
I saw a shadow
ascending from the key hole
like the bulky figure of a giant.

With my foot
I then stomped on the ground
and understanding rippled
through the cobblestones
like rumour.

I breathed into the shadow
and it disappeared,
dissipated into thin air,
those lazy curls of black smoke.

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Aside

A light is stuffed into your mouth
and a hand firmly placed upon the same
to keep it shut.
You struggle and twist,
let out muffled cries,
but to no avail,
their grip is strong.
You feel
how the light begins
to creep down your throat,
it feels cold
when it drips
down your gullet and your lungs
like pale honey
tasting of that space between
clear nights and empty sunlight
fading
into washed out forget-me-nots
streaked with the dirty gold
you find on the ground of riverbeds.
I wonder,
can you drown,
actually drown,
when there is only light
in your lungs,
which blocks out the air in there
until none is left?
What does that make you?
Can you tell?

Aside

I Followed A Swan

I followed a swan to a lake
where I ended up
standing
on the patterns that
mean loneliness in my tongue,
which I wrap around the wood
under my feet
and when I jump,
the waves ripple gently around those feathers
still cloying my stomach in one enormous lump
[if I were a whale,
I could make pearly gold out of them,
which I then could cut out of myself,
leave it in the sun to dry,
as it has been done for many years,
I hear].

You could see my insides
as well as yours|elf
and what a sight it would be,
if you would care
to take off your white blindfold
and burn it,
so I could smell the stench of burning hair,
taste it
while it lingered in my throat.

You would wear your dress
fashioned from your own skin,
like so many of your dresses,
spinning yourself dry
rather than revealing yourself
like the swan’s sister
in that particular story,
which you won’t remember,
as you don’t even know it,
I’m sure.

It is the You and the I it gets down to,
when you peek under your scalp
and when you look at that lump of bones from my stomach
– or the other way round, it doesn’t matter.
Matter,
it doesn’t matter,
it isn’t matter
at all,
you know.
It is the You and the I.

The You
and
the I.

I Followed A Swan