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. She has also published another novel, In The Days of Ford Cortina, in August 2021.
Rummaging in darkness before the dawn I find pharmaceuticals dull the air An even keel, stricture to rhyme A righteous anger at technological bliss. I am at a loss for modern living Sleeping in holes for sake of mortification Electric blanket, nonetheless, stalls my fasting Comfort calling at bleeding hearts. The more confused, the better. A puzzle redeemed A cloth cat reigns supreme in childhood Bleeding for want of a radiator key Watching the streets for signs of frustration. Paying as you go, savings paramount The great white hope finally bails out Crying, disappointed, shaming the family A mature reflection near misses the point. The computer is stuck again. Flowers For the season that’s in it, a competition sealed Lying about mobility, least cool, declared Mystery for exposure to a beloved charms. Computers have their own issues. Typical. Stuck before dawn on a laptop screen Mending, ending, a life of its own Notwithstanding an argument in its own lunchtime.
Is technology never going to get its revenge? Biding its time, in time to boot The user up its ass when least expected. Literacy stands up to ceremony. Nothing like a bloated surety Can obviate glitches as they are wont. Printing ignominious articles at will Hard copy is my only friend Until the electricity packs it in. Staring through windows None the wiser for incessant stares God give me patience, while sitting down. A generation fed, watered by soundbytes Calculating upwards a dismal fate Abscond for a while, quickly return. A cup of tea a perfect procrastination A certain pornography returns to the fold Buried in encrypted files, a cramp of style. Stepping on ceremony, a fanfare of small time Patience whittled down to nanoseconds Thrown out the window, a desirable option now. Technology lives, breathes itself now. Poisoning its master through a catalog A prophecy wrecking its betters.
The New God’s Table
Misgendered en route to a flying start We cannot hear the slight altercation Surreptitious romance behind the hall Kissing to sleep the ignominious alternatives. We eat to soul’s content, a race To the finest hours of our being Wishing that out mutual sin will rise Above the bockety spring of our sport. Constantly on guard, against knowing titters An invisible love letter burns the dream Footballing the consequence, a love singular That enables a secret soul to danger. Writing against type, a second apartment Exposes out very innards to ill effect Cost-effective ignominy sinks ambition Staring on the bus was my only prize. Rumor mills poison our mutual slaughter A distance between us, punishing the warmth Of an adolescent soul, surly at best Reading primitive diaries cost-effectively. You get what you pay for. Down to experience Your edible necessity of censure Phasing out shame, a secret worth keeping Photoshopping a delicacy between two souls.