by James O’Brien
The percussion on your teeth,
A drum roll, precision revolver,
Rattling around an abyss dissonance.
A voided revulsion of mouth,
A choke spasm of oesophagus.
Choke now cunt,
Choke now.
You will confess,
Blood on the walls,
Blood in your lungs,
A bag of famine rags,
Each day a blood smear counting.
Even in sunlight,
They served you blood as evidence.
