Technical Angel. A poem by Patricia Walsh

Disposable Income

Obsessed to a point, good level of preservation
Made, not invented, the intrusive interest,
Tied together for closure, sucked-out premise
Drinking under location locked in its purpose.

The hand once held, fizzed under recidivism
The excellent coma none can reach,
Messing up up repeatedly, watching the hard trains
Someone with history goes and ups the ante.

Returning to an undeserved gibe, as helped,
Barking like a dog maintaining ground,
Watering like stagnant solitude, flash in the dark
Hipsters garnering attention on the wind-up.

Some stolen perfume escalates past its bearer,
Extending into the familial, watered down,
Ending affairs at will, pathways to heartlessness
Proffered on mixed media an achievement same.

Caught out of trees, left as long as liked
Going to an occupation that no-one rings true,
The holidayed perfection signed at best,
Eventual hunger claws back its readiness.

True love dodging potholes after the election
Shamed into recognition, none shall realised,
Realising all rules, brain slushed with age
Sardonic traits, one upmanship works likely.

The Nightingale Croaks

Waiting for dawn to pass, excuse to wake
Grabbing the stock-in-trade to move forward,
Excising the forgetful part of one’s anatomy
Paper-bagged in advance, in a towering vote
The dignified jewellery possessed to a point.

The surgical weight-loss chimes it’s disfigurement
Left without preservation, loss overpaid
Opening doors to restrooms, solid as lead
Subtle poisoning, solid water, light to the touch.

Aborting futures for sale of another holiday,
Remaining kind of cute, eschewing hard action,
Depressing residue of preservation complete,
Sirenesque annoyance even has its place
Proffering compensation for an absent song.

Sugar chased out of the light, nightcaps forcing
To be awakened outside, boys being funny,
Living surrogate lives on the watery cheap,
Pulsating the wine in cahoots with its bubble.

The paying customers, saving breed over deed,
Jealously burning works in progress, fine,
The solitary song begets all others eventually
The ever loved doesn’t come crack its case,
Awfully loved to the point of stricture.

So That Flowers May Grow

Winter promised to no one, least of all the perfect,
Constant shower of good-doers ringing false,
Recognizing the lucky patrons idolatries face
Golden resurrections overtakes the cache,
Cleared through the recollection of a finer art
Soft recollection beneath a perennial muster.

Twisted innocent statements to hold your own,
Swamped with crude jokes to finish off
Carbonated soup excels it’s overture
The rough candle slips in its dollface
Advertised sorrow in a type of rudimentary time
Outstaying welcome very likely, eventually.

All being siblings, under cover of midday,
Head-wrecking forms still making a living,
No money received, burning cash in hand,
Keeping track of keepsakes, scored in thrall
To misunderstood prayers blaring in plain sight
Fame being enough to scare the unbelievers,

Keeping at the coalface, for good or ill
Energetic chipping at the canary’s dead end,
Flesh real food and blood being real drink
The poor receiving heaven as somewhat reserved
Splitting the bills again, valuable horseshit
Tasting the water from this holy show.

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