Buried With My People
Animated,
pirouetting on another grave,
obvious
certainties collaborate on spec
a literate exit,
closed on a myriad of lilies
slave to form,
meaning never sacrosanct.
It’s a given,
these trite platitudes
laughing once
the deed is done, sipping the free
wanting to be
remembered as a humorous sight
distributing
pleasantries worn thin as always
solitary, once
bereft, facing a mess of particulars.
Tweaking into
some shape or form, niceties
covert truths
demanded a singular audience
tears on the
public eye, enough to comfort,
burning with
open sleep, never getting over it.
Favourite songs
declare themselves open,
standing on
nearby graves almost a given
borrowed flowers
on the grave, a good touch
names in-store a
finality worth pursuing
falling into the
hole suddenly understood.
Picking through
associates, resurging from the slush,
beef and salmon
meals airbrushes the decorum,
the animated
church recollects all its darlings
under cover of
one god, abandoned as he is.
Inducing Vomiting
It is impossible
to know the consummate way
obsolete lights
pervade the entry level
this unusual
mistake walks through apologies
classic shows
funded by anonymous states
perfected food
assuages the foreign country.
starting out on
a literature well-worn safe
prohibitive
postage dictates the purchase
foreign death
from an easterly wind a given.
Whatever
happens, you will always be loved
picking through
fault aside, cutting this down
the summer
stench through a perfect letter
rarity of form
wholly passes through enmity
this easier life
doesn’t wash well, probably.
Balcony or
stalls, not given a hard choice,
highbrow insults
taken on the quiet, forever
drowning on the
banks, an existence for now
just going home,
a disgraceful entity
poetic gems
hunting through various tirades.
Repeatedly
performing, selling out these venues
art being quite
useless, hiking up the price,
dark lovers
clamouring for some redemption
in house food
wanting to be a genius,
lamped in front
of others, this embarrassment returns.
A strange way of
sweets, pennies a boon,
cola bottles a
speciality, fizzed or unfizzed,
Lukewarm Coffee
Biding time, the
unspeakable being the undrinkable
bleeding on the
quays a favourite trait
testing and
tasting too much, so what
local notices to
announce some right affairs.
Going like a
juggernaut on the new motorway
destination a
poor reward for strenuous effort,
looking at the
state of affairs draining off water
the puss of you
picked through infinite boredom.
Right bus, wrong
direction. Sidling through traffic
the diesel slave
scales through mediocrity
flushes of
brilliance over an announced terminus
walking through
sweatened brows a treat.
This jovial
alcoholism, meeting the convenience
freaking out
over affection, given the go-ahead
saccharine balls
not even covering ground
coffee now cold
enough to drink, albeit slowly.
Shunted for
convenience, biros getting depleted,
holding on tile
the sweet end, obsolescence gaining,
killing
hard-wired facts, fake news aside
tactical
diatribes hardening this little break.
Granite
certainties, this architecture rising,
distributing
numbers at a cost worth taking,
traditional
time-serving, scribbling for dear life
the coffee
remains a prize, making thing work.
PATRICIA WALSH
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. She has also published a novel, In The Days of Ford Cortina, in August 2021.
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