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.

Uht

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.

Overhead Lighting

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.