Patricia Walsh was born and raised in the parish of Mourneabbey, Co Cork, Ireland. To date, she has published one novel, titled The Quest for Lost Eire, in 2014, and has published one collection of poetry, titled Continuity Errors, with Lapwing Publications in 2010. She has since been published in a variety of print and online journals. These include: The Lake; Seventh Quarry Press; Marble Journal; New Binary Press; Stanzas; Crossways; Ygdrasil; Seventh Quarry; The Fractured Nuance; Revival Magazine; Ink Sweat and Tears; Drunk Monkeys; Hesterglock Press; Linnet’s Wing, Narrator International, The Galway Review; Poethead and The Evening Echo. She has also published a novel, In The Days of Ford Cortina, in August 2021.
Work in Progress
Cataloguing a surprise of advertisements born to fail like an unwritten dialogue, promise of resurrection before the bullet takes you evacuation notices the creature you really need deserving glory under the eye of the pen. Intrusive technology excoriates the script, not young enough to marry these off, a turgid uniform is duty to the masses going hell for leather, a familiar disposition photography, being truth, dances on the walls. Kissing these extremities, forgotten by now reminded by the spiteful to never drink these ‘out of order’ notices steal the protected this beloved’s rejection on back of the worthless staid control of a conference braids the difference. Falling repeatedly, cameras at hand not passing deliverance to return as a gift, stories of private massacres fitting the bill treating the sincere badly, no forgiveness there watching the ascent of a bitter high noon. The common tea-lights populate the nested tables punctuating with paces a progress still going turning through culture a marriage still bleeding reports of good times, of exclusion foretold poisoned by kisses giving slyly, just like that.
Taking the seat of a gentrified moron, out of sight, happier that way, preferred instance the need not to bend to a merciless whim especially through the fashionable distance. Interviewing just for the catcalling, sour grapes poisoned in plain sight, calling to this office sardonic acolytes twist and turn the blade, better to see this miscreant struggle forth. Criminal to hold a torch, promised to others crying on the loudspeaker to garner attention not taken aback, despite nutritious shadows hard currency, defined through serial cigarettes. Grateful to be unmarried, noli me tangere, sweating under duress, communal lies persist common culture shocking through mutual deeds this sorrow pervades through likely scenarios. Feeding through coffee, regrettably through mis-sold rapid-fire insults let love lie bleeding sitting noisily down under cover of drunkenness constraints on the page not solving anything. Siblings under the skin. Instruction to be fine saintliness on the sly a bit much to ask, typing up aberrations to a closet exactitude dying before scripting the solemn curse.