Marble Rolling & Other Poetry by Patricia Walsh

To What We Lost – Patricia Walsh

December is upon us! We have Patricia Walsh carrying us through the beginning of this month with rich poetry to savor. Look below to sink your teeth into it!


Marble Rolling

Marble rolling along the floor, perfected
Punctured preferences following suit,
Walking in a heightened show, laid on thick
Crying on bilateral shoulders an obvious trait,
Called-upon to dusk the husk of a tired unison.

The creeping expense, poisoning the back pocket
The high moral ground awaits its garden
Showed with wanton recollection rebelled
Cutting the alcohol with some sensical traits
Toxic association swollen in a hard-won smile.

Raging against closing time, manners forthcoming
Never holding a flashbulb to the ready-made,
Caught on high, too fall to sunder,
Access some arias till the recidivist squeaks
Tinctured through inclusion of another’s aside.

Scarred as needed, read from the bottom
This technological product behoves it’s gait.
Not permitting this mistake, willed as a wanted
Penny dropping into the well of softened need,
The necessary blood siphoned through suffering.

Coffee dropped down to you, courteous, satisfying
Wishing for the other side of the bar, clothed
In the cloths of heaven, this easier time,
Gone into pursuit of rarefied blood
The darkened whistle unheard, as if wanted.


Trapped Nerve

Needing a seat like any other, price already paid.
The acrostic beginnings burgeon on well
The rancid oasis beats to the sound of the converse
People wanting less to do with whole numbers.

Wanting more food, expenditure allowing
Watered-down prizegiving strip-lighted away
A turnover of friends meet and greet over snacks
Burnt and activated a fad contrived.

Watching over rainfall, the height of fear,
Aware of what is done, guilty in paperback,
Mourning simple losses as if life depended
Intercepted through sunlight, stranglehold overdone.

Ripped clothing over wealth, perennial fashion
What is not understood is recycled by the book,
Popularity in mid-road crushed in bed
More useless the better, impressing the singular,

The criminal proceeding, high-wire jewellery
Watched through competition, fingers in pies,
Aggravated eyelashes a pulchritudinous mess,
Fed rubbish through the gills a slotted burn,

Scruffy out of love, criminal affection aside,
Fed every sort of theory at the going rate
Persecution laughably easy, turned into affability
Not seen or sought for, ever again,


Detransition

No mannerly dichotomy can save us now
Karmafied baby dykes renege on form,
The mangy dog stands guard, for free,
Suited and booted, surveying the detectives
This luxury goes forth to asuage the few,

Ample brains being cooked, fed upon,
The unrequited feast dangles to oblivion,
Selecting broken hearts to disintegrate
The disinnocent going fast and easy with the times,

Streamlined blood, eating with another purpose
Reflexive sorrow bends back all supreme
Asked-for littering too glorious for some,
Sized against airstrikes on another country
Remaining in the news, God-feared like that,

Arrested improvement, go home and go to bed,
Intrusive conversation relaxed and enjoyed
Layered with accusations on how it was done,
Rattled into invalidity into seats being taken,

The overly serious disposition, dispatched home.
Finding massacres where the room does lie
Novelty dye jobs erupt the binary position
The better to offend, audition to high heaven
Seeing to burn-out the disciplinary station


Corrugated Walls

Glorified sweetness comes home to squawk,
The proper exits go through over written joy,
Exhuming sadness that goes through publication
Heard through corrugated walls, watching the money.

Giving glances a break, glossing over guidelines
The blighted handwriting matched for its colour
The ascertained corners run through your hair
The holy vocals singing hallelujah gone through.

The foreigners speaking native tongues
Gone home to suburbia, spectating where needed,
Writing at a loss to weaken the fingers,
No longer a typecast that determines the weight.

These defunct riches, faltered beyond recognition,
Advertising the divorce on a solemn counter
Clockwise, working perfume on tenterhooks
Elusive maturity stands its own guard.

This disgusting currency, spent out of glory,
Going through motions to fall once again,
Priced out of the market by the entertainment
The tin being needed again to be returned.

Needed to cry, whatever reason should suffice
The dismantled lover stalls the merry dance,
Hibernating from the scars of useless fashion
Relating to, hardening the thin walls of guidance.


Poet:

Patricia Walsh was born in the parish of Burnfort, Co Cork,and educated at University College Cork, graduating with an MA in Archaeology. Her poetry has been published in Stony Thursday; Southword; Narrator International;  Trouvaille Review; Strukturrus; Seventh Quarry; Vox Galvia; The Quarryman; Brickplight, The Literatus, and Otherwise Engaged. She has already published a chapbook, titled Continuity Errors in 2010, and a novel, The Quest for Lost Éire, in 2014.  A further collection of poetry, titled Outstanding Balance, is scheduled for publication in early 2021. She was the featured poet in the inaugural edition of Fishbowl Magazine, and is a regular attendee at the O Bheal poetry night in Cork city.

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