Hiccups

I once desecrated,
a sacred space.
Diaphragm squeezing
A chokehold
Amongst the busts
Of decapitated saints
Unable to turn their eyes heavenwards.
 
Ancient walls stuffed
With oysters
A sea which brushed against
The shore of my arms

• Wailing

Seagulls,
That scream out at the spot
Where Beckett was slain.
 
Sleeping beauties
In their lead lined beds
At the dinner table
Of bread
And blood.
 
Stairs that decend
to darkness
to vaulted bed chambers
for men without heads.
Their breaths stolen
As swift as the theft of my own
Breathing.
Gasping.
Oh god.
There is no bed for me.