Patricia Walsh – LTNC Series


Addled algorithms, a season on ecstasy,

heartfelt persuasions know no limits,

built-in adolescence drives the insecure

sleeping in doorways a superior curse.

Crystalline palaces under shared beds

protection from prying hands before bedtime,

produce what you can, on pain of obsolescence

shame to jettison what engenders failure.

Inferior complexes the hardest in the book,

complicated questions show their ire,

holding one’s own in a mess of radio buttons

true or false or otherwise, screeching demise.

The eerily judgemental speeds the plough,

burning all and sundry to keep things sweet,

incentivise work like never before,

no amount of apology can dissuade that.

More fussy about alcohol, good, ill, otherwise

cursed to sleeping rough once time passes

safely passing that hurdle, standing alone

cutting swathes across examinations in due course.

Returning to the fold, simple massacre permitting,

the producer’s helper finding the darkest hour,

clock-face on the mortar forgives everything,

a call for proper order a proper champion.

Watching Us Burn

The morning’s red sky speaks atrocities.

Rare though it is, beckoning sheets of rain,

washing efforts at painting at nought,

seeping clothes on the dry as recommended.

Never thinking of a local drink to soothe,

enough alcohol to go stale on the sly,

ghastly though it tastes, disbelief at alcoholics

resurrecting examinations in due course.

Swimming in technology for a greater good,

exiting down the side alley once vacated,

actions like milk spilt over camaraderie

misplacing a step where the affairs overtake.

This invisible mind cuts for a better deal

sit down and be quiet, that’s all I ask.

Pay attention where due, on a straightened path,

retiring at a slow pace, artistically rich.

Tomorrow bodes even worse, a sportive adventure,

darkened features have no one to blame,

half-empty glass snugly prising its gun

maturity being tough, at the best of times

an elusive state of affairs, still undefined.

Life-changing excuses, taken out with the rubbish,

burning tantalising magazines out of spite.

Too adventurous for some, even if all in the head,

fantasy without guilt in love with the impossible.

My Minion Book

Getting up from seats to satisfy various groups,

vacating the naked lunch, never again,

shot without mercy after taunting tears

the sated crowds get their own preferences.

Sports injuries is no fault but your own,

twinkling lights shine on without a care,

more important than life or death, of course

regular drives home a cause for gratitude.

Weaving funny stories, in a haze of mistakes

feeling shame from my work unhorses me,

eating from production-heavy glasses

sacrilegious condiments through a gravy boat.

Playing continually in red, intractable future,

drinking alone is a joke no one can cure,

being watched from various angles, scrutinised,

hardly redeemed from one’s loneliness.

Tracking devices eventually kill us all.

The shame of existence wiping the floor,

searing the deficit paid out to society

unfulfilled friendship hardly registering.

Hurt at the time of writing, something was up.

Theories of demise milked beyond recognition

lifelong embarrassment resonates through anger,

a public diary, however brief, still incriminates.

Wild Life & Low Life

Scuppering another’s music as you do best,

black eclipse on form a requisite standard

a pinnacle of pain falls short of closure

crassly sucked, on demand, inconsequential

worming into a life grossly all right,

introducing the dark side of a job well done.

Sleeping under demands, requests futile

of places to stay, clothing notwithstanding,

waitress on guard to see you off safely,

loved, not liked, as her parents wished

scanned demands make politicians laugh,

persecution simplex explains their rule.

Promising redemption on the back of a laptop,

nicely groomed to its use to an optimum,

frequenting the gingerbread house on every occasion

an unlikely rehab from top to toe

spare cuts do the business, a tea-based lifeform,

straws breaking backs miss their chances.

Now, I am alone, before smart phones and revenge porn.

Ultimate sacrifice no more than a whimsy,

laying down in peace, a pardoner’s pole-vault

sleeping though you are now, a luxury of soil

on your own sword of drugs and alcohol,

probably missed, by whom I have forgotten.

Subtle you were, like the quick brown fox

jumps over the lazy dog, perchance.

Stale as it is, pumping alcohol as directed,

slowly imbibing was you watch from afar.

An exit strategy hardly beckons,

pointing out classic hits over the tannoy,

disembodied photographs grace the stairwell,

playing games where provided, entertaining.

A hardly crafted tattoo graces your neckline,

barely covered under buttons, displayed all the same

closed-circuit conversation of no consequence

looking strange a price to pay for solitary.

Hooked on decent manners, a prolific swing,

born-again criminal over suitable drugs,

championing one’s talent for better reading,

on condition of including you in my canon.

Bare shoulders reveal a wealth of fashion

crying only for yourself, incarcerated again,

slotting in sex wherever possible

deceiving nurses with your extravagant poverty.

An astringent collective, drinking unfashionably

moving far away it a hard-worn guilt.

Opportune drugs defining your life

dying in perfect time, a wrong proved right.


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.

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