Patricia Walsh was born and raised in the parish of Mourneabbey, Co Cork. Previously she has published one collection of poetry, titled Continuity Errors, with Lapwing Publications n 2010, and has since been published in a variety of print and online journals, She was the featured artist for June 2015 in the Rain Party Disaster Journal.
From the well of embarrassment comes a theme
in the ashes of concentration comes a life.
Slumped forward on a desk, drooling in time
to the click of the clock, dismembering credibility.
A special chair holds me upright.
The quiet room harbors a simple delight.
Not undertaking the mountain of being
therapeutic mishaps keep on giving.
Form and content continue their battle,
staying in the picture, a love unrecognized
the great unwashed permeates my standing
cheap perfume covers a multitude of sins.
Auguring for concern is a stranger’s battle,
the admonition per se, interest in a scolding
exposition in mortification, juggling with meds
repeat offending, refusing to learn the lesson.
A blood-red breakfast becomes a staple,
eating out of others’ hands, a fait accompli,
taking time while sneezing, looking askance
at independent spirits’ rank demeanour.
Bolt upright for part of the day
sleeping in company, alone, not sharing my dreams
winding down ostentasiously, but never forgetting
the joke that is me, laughing to myself.
A sterile grudge, incubated for years
bears fruit, suddenly, on a razorblade.
Violent without sound, guilty without spectacle
descend on workmates, noticing nothing amiss.
I am used to the taunts by now,
the glorious times you had without me.
Informing my folks of holy transgressions
preserving alcohol for sane imbibing.
I plough the same furrow of my misery,
compassion fatigue becomes its own,
barbed remarks floor you easily
a conception realized in the wake of slander.
A price to pay on the back of ridicule
promises made of marriage run derides,
moral statements a one-edged sword
found by little bitches soaring overhead.
Everything is yours now. Take it in both hands
the sated appetite gorging still,
keeping contact at a distance, fast amelioration
a flower girl at parties, a diminutive friend.
Plagiarised from source, cobbled together
from dribs and drabs, a uniform mess,
advertised for convenience, a desirable mix
is yours for the taking, an ersatz bargain.
What would you do with all this value?
Drip it on your wall, a gargoyle par excellence.
It well becomes you, a medieval terrorism
eating into decorum once denied.
Nothing comes from nothing. A tacky imitation
looks down from above, mocking hubris
a domicile adorned with the plunder of the past
is all yours now, a bejeweled box.
Everyone will laugh at the gargoyle’s instigation,
beautifying yourself at a catalogue’s expense,
tempter and tempted call on your attention
to see what was you and still to come.
This will rot, built-in obsolescence arrayed
fashion the great leveler, always at hand
to sweep the offscourings of our lives
trickery, a bargain offer seized.