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The Key

February 6, 2016

 Inspired (and partly imagined) by an evening.


A ring around the rosy mash​​

 of flesh I catch in a cage – he gives me

the key, forget the key, forget everything

and teach me to follow your fingers.


A noose around carotid arms

that stretch to beg for air – he tells me

the key, sir, is not choking the chicken

but roughing the rooster against the sky.


A pop of nitrite up the nose

and flesh subconscious fall – he calls me

the key, the grooves against his sides

move Gods and giggles and give me mores -


A more I want to give him, ground him,

grasp him, make him gull – he caws for

the key, claws me like Graymalkin

mewing for mother for sin, for pain.


A no I wrestle from wrists bound,

up and downs, bursting sounds – he howls for

the key - unlock, the cock set free, the clock

stopped, uncoupling his cogs and springs.


A hand upon mine, heaving for breath,

hawk-like talons turned tender chicks - he takes

the key away from keep, and leaves me

liver-ate and nevermore – a solo open door.

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Ryan Oliveira

Ideas.  I'm full of them.

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