“Wormhole Kiss” and other poems by Patricia Walsh

Dead to Cliché

An apocryphal stain, hanging around classes
Gulping up refreshments in a bold eye
Windows of opportunity shun entitlement
A rainy reason cuts across the sky.

Terror pervades the burning opportunity
To declare oneself fit for purpose
Relief after paperwork and a spell’s decorum
Bureaucratic selves taunting the figure.

Not to be disturbed, I find myself awake
Repeating styles and forms to discontent
Asking for reviews, slighting forestalled
Repeated letters on form of a glory.

The snake of cars hitting the lights
Time and again, like a Lego attachment
I still must cross, rain or otherwise
Unreliable buses do come eventually.

Cigarette burns a distant pleasure
Being chronically side is not an option
Screwing the state for a crust now and again
Spltting hairs on a recharger’s time.

Sick with worry, measuring the steps
Of an uphill sojourn, picking the procedure
Of an eye’s breadth, lighting off circumstance
Necessary for comfort, a bolt of the obvious.


No Organic Signal

En route to disappointment, nay never no more.
Alternative roads converge on a dereliction
Cutting through expectation on a rough journey.

No size or forms can save me now,
Supreme power in the country interrogates
En route to heartfelt home, a ticket burned
Holding cards on terror that is rightly yours.

Some deliberated proceeding dot, the home
As yet unfinished, a suitable dwelling
Assuaged by company, to worry come the time.

Enough room for everyone, hedging bets
Satisfaction on arrival, doing the right thing
Cannot stop me burning, for fair or foul
Some heritage at risk from modern conveniences.

If he shows, he shows. Some sentient remains
Recharged by necessity, a language unlearned
Killer finish, burning the unnecessary.


Crown of Hawthorn

The country’s prize lies in wait
For panic to set in, a caustic revelation
Unhorsing me, petals flowing in the breeze
A favourite yardstick stalling for decorum.

No unnecessary confessions will sweep the floor
Privately cutting through selfsame defeat,
Colons and commas punctuate sudden loss
Tattooed permanently, reminding of a defect.

The sun finally burns, not before time
Shepherding animals into growth, a prayer revealed
Some caustic words establish boundaries
Scorching earth over family concerns.

Jokes run dry on the weight of expectation
Doing the right thing is standard procedure
In spite of attitude, misunderstanding vocation
Constantly missing each other, bloodied comprehension,

Some government of the vacant house remains
Disability of the mind a sublime embarrassment
Another cross for the making, burden of proof
To not measure as you would like, disappointment burning.

A house will surely be a home again, given construction
Of eaten windows and blighted cement, this is
Better than the real thing, this is surely mine
A domicile kissing the last, a friend in store.


Wormhole Kiss

Studying the sleeping country, in a way fashionable.
Slip-knotting the excavation of a fighting peer.
Visualising glory at the expense of quiet
Being advised to same by my betters.

It doesn’t make sense, therefore it’s not true.
Scrawling hand-writing cutting through grease
Of latent psychobabble, rewarding finances
Depleted since yesterday, winging it home.

You can check your bank balance here.
Flashing lights at your common stance.
Eschewing lights out, summoning sense,
Austerity on a local level cures all.

The missing ingredient still bugs the pharmacist
Selling at a profit the practices, played
Privatising an ego reap dividends somehow
The right sort of violence presses ahead.

Already out of ammunition, and it’s not Friday
Property is theft, as is said, eschew the market
Stealing your savings away, exorbitant markings
Being a slave to the bank, indentured.

No one goes in or out. This points certainly
To a soul wrecked, poor in spirit
Poor thing lost in a balance sheet
Smarter for less than the average pleb.


Cowardly Soul

Five years’ plans are a lot to take in
A chunk from one’s life irreplaceable
Nationalising train wrecks from another’s sin
A question of language eating home.

Down to the bones of me bum, laughing at poverty
I take on many tasks to see me right
Voluntarily working, suiting the nighttime
Where the moon is cried for all the time.

Slipping in and out of windows, a famously high drop
Underscores a necessity of holding the fort
With a sword in the thatch, fighting whoever
An enemy only bearing factual news.

Nothing to descend. Swearing not to have children
Close ranks with progress, sleeping in time
Wiping hands on the tablecloth in front of spies

Not wearing a hat to keep secrets in
The dark-furnished bedroom keeps the time
Looking out for favours detached from kind
Not sullying the gait of your colleagues.

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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