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
produce what you can, on pain of
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
true or false or otherwise, screeching demise.
The eerily judgemental speeds the plough,
burning all and sundry to keep things
incentivise work like never before,
no amount of apology can dissuade that.
More fussy about alcohol, good, ill,
cursed to sleeping rough once time passes
safely passing that hurdle, standing alone
cutting swathes across examinations in due
Returning to the fold, simple massacre
the producer’s helper finding the darkest
clock-face on the mortar forgives
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
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
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
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
retiring at a slow pace, artistically rich.
Tomorrow bodes even worse, a sportive
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
Life-changing excuses, taken out with the
burning tantalising magazines out of spite.
Too adventurous for some, even if all in
fantasy without guilt in love with the
My Minion Book
Getting up from seats to satisfy various
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
regular drives home a cause for gratitude.
Weaving funny stories, in a haze of
feeling shame from my work unhorses me,
eating from production-heavy glasses
sacrilegious condiments through a gravy
Playing continually in red, intractable
drinking alone is a joke no one can cure,
being watched from various angles,
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
Theories of demise milked beyond
lifelong embarrassment resonates through
a public diary, however brief, still
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
Sleeping under demands, requests futile
of places to stay, clothing
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
nicely groomed to its use to an optimum,
frequenting the gingerbread house on every
an unlikely rehab from top to toe
spare cuts do the business, a tea-based
straws breaking backs miss their chances.
Now, I am alone, before smart phones and
Ultimate sacrifice no more than a whimsy,
laying down in peace, a pardoner’s
sleeping though you are now, a luxury of
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
slowly imbibing was you watch from afar.
An exit strategy hardly beckons,
pointing out classic hits over the tannoy,
disembodied photographs grace the
playing games where provided, entertaining.
A hardly crafted tattoo graces your
barely covered under buttons, displayed all
closed-circuit conversation of no
looking strange a price to pay for
Hooked on decent manners, a prolific swing,
born-again criminal over suitable drugs,
championing one’s talent for better
on condition of including you in my canon.
Bare shoulders reveal a wealth of fashion
crying only for yourself, incarcerated
slotting in sex wherever possible
deceiving nurses with your extravagant
An astringent collective, drinking
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.