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14th Anniversary Edition, Live Encounters Poetry & Writing Volume Six Nov-Dec 2023.
Carcinogenic Heart, poem by Patricia Walsh.
Exposed on cue, this awaited profanity,
dredged from obscurity into another lie,
ripping up papers no one likes anyway,
a to be in when the building collapses.
But what does it mean? Poor miscreant believing,
rescued from drowning in our despite,
translated from memory in a flash of boldness,
constant agony abided like a necessary scratch.
Wading through fiction, more ridiculous the better,
timely excavations scrape past the prize,
not to worry through nomenclature, caught on cue,
idealised portraits matching to fantasy, more like.
Titles having their day, given serious abuse,
regaled through reservation in the thick of things,
being hard-on parentage, not showing this life
cut across best wishes, never growing up.
Why not get an occupation? Bothering otherwise,
stoked to silence a remuneration, embarrassed since,
whatever is important will out, for sure
shoulder-surfing for funds a probable glitch.
Poisoned to the core, the marrow remains tasty,
quatrain to anonymity, not good enough anymore,
not at all personal, performing the high art
referring to dissipation a perfect score.#
Not Just Radioactive!
A fascistic leaving, on being cautioned outright
weekly meetings come by undone.
Cursed momentarily, predicting the outcome,
of every social outlet, burning at an end,
a cigarette stain on the psyche, you know.
Returning for pleasure, taken too heavily
out of sight and sound, disguising couples,
contained anarchy for those who can cope,
saying nothing on the nature of this arrangement.
Caring about finishing on a higher note,
surmising through probabilities as to why not.
Not kept, so be sure you have a copy,
wasting occupation over a dutiful grant,
dodging the catalogue of a silent climax.
Regretting through anger, and a lonely bone,
promising to write in honour, not really likely,
poisoned through some victuals, happy weekdays
a cigarette redeeming the happier hour.
Insisting on mouthing on the quiet, not quite,
clunky translation, leading the homeless pursuits,
the stationary car, a shelter from ordinary life,
holding on to favour, if not an honour,
simple transactions mark you apart from the dead.
The Canary Is Out Of The Box
Slatted windows reveal another light,
as much to concur defeat with a spade,
wasting more time with a sleeping dog,
wholly respected as it is with a destiny
sociological pursuits enchain no one.
Not working to speed, cigarette in the mouth,
unprotected pride eventually gives up,
speculating the next move, comfortable again,
dependable dying in the course of time,
another holiday guilt tripped to extinction.
This soundly hospital resurrects the pride,
triumphant fantasies set things straight,
cementing destiny outside the door,
watering these flowers with a confident air,
the private war stalled, ready to go.
Never being a piece of work, ever.
Underhand tactics to get a job is good,
minding oneself in the course of exposition
prescence of Christ in a golden sceptre,
heavenly politicians getting what you deserve.
Thinking this is funny, despite the affliction,
talking through hats to dissuade the competition,
finding excellency of sorts in final conversations
flying out of purpose, the singing is gorgeous
once flown, never forgotten, rest in peace.
© 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 across Ireland, The UK, USA, and Canada. She has also published another novel, In The Days of Ford Cortina, in August 2021.