Saturday, February 6, 2016

Three Poems by Patricia Walsh

Mauvaise Foi

So much for camaraderie.  Sorting your fix
by the bandwagon, take no notice
of what lies behind, samey, repetitive
cliche rears its grubby feet.

The blind man navigates the tables and chairs
compensated in senses for lacking sight
nothing is sacrilegious to my burning eyes
rotting through insomnia, coffee overload.

Too wired to function, condemned to be free
at a tight end, trademarks always suffice.
Consumer culture invades our privacey
hackers in the background make fools of us all.

Not sleeping, not eating, a ticket to a mess
of someone's making, not just my own
growing tastebuds to deal with the situation
sprouting aggressively to hold up pretense.

A void in the cityscape cries out,
editing out typos to heart's content.
Navigating through a mess to stay afloat
references to failure finally going amiss.

Not posh, not eternal blue sky, am I,
but sprawled on the hard drive for evermore,
a song for the dispossessed soul, a lost and found
not exiting in glory but through spite.

False Detective

A benevolent informant, a world of persecution
skulks in corners awaiting doom.
A twelve-year's old life is interesting now.

A dictionary of anger, biography of outrage.
She'll hang you out to dry, no mistake.
What crime fits the punishment I'll never know.

Staring out windows, a multiplication
salves all curiosities save depression.
Attention sought and delivered in time.

Freedom for discos is out of the question.
Social life unimportant, toxic at best
paving ways towards derision, if you're lucky.

Healing the brain is another question entirely.
Inside the upstairs will keep you sweet
an illusion of studying for ever more.

Letters to friends go censored.
Phone calls go through silent screenings
to glean some excitement, an innocuous scandal.

Every move I make is known, for my own good
paranoia becomes me, a constant glare in the corner
watch my back for the reporters, fleeting as they are.

A rod for my back, repeatedly every day
around surreptitious corners, looking with intent
on my latest design, however chaste


It pays to be a total bitch sometimes,
guarding your heart against transience.
Hoarding wedding rings against circumstance
hoping for an eternity of surmise.

Some unbound paper trail follows you home.
A missive attack on my fleeting person
exposed between sheets of rancid bedtimes
pages of desire not lost on annoyance.

Stale perfume, holding close, dependence
the promise of a future with me runs riot
my watery applause does not dissuade you
not marriage proposals promise night.

Asking for derision never rang so true.
Courtship by letter engenders a fear
paper dolls hem me in, marauding creatures
death and defeat are our only options.

Meanwhile, the tarot cards change, you, bold fiancee
push away your honor, out of sight
never wake again, in joyous sleep
suicide by duvet is your only answer.

I did not attend, nor entertains such paperwork
nor produce an armalite from a paperclip
appropriate as it would, in your pulped arsenal
laying down your pen in gracious defeat

Patricia Walsh was born and raised in the small parish of Mourneabbey, Co Cork, Republic of Ireland and now lives in Cork City.  She has previously published one collection of poetry, Continuity Errors, with Lapwing Publications in 2010.  She has also published in various journals such as Revival Magazine, The Snapping Twig, and Rain Party Disaster Society.  In the latter publication, she is to be featured as guest poet of the month.

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