This poem is taken from Stand 226, 18(2) June - August 2020.

Linda Black Three Poems
Misdemeanour

For the life of me. Accordingly fixated apropos an earlier thought. The bell dangles. At which there dingles. Insufficient evidence, not for want of error.

Breadcrumbs, ants on the surface. One can feel sorry, as with slugs. Which takes me to the garden. Tidying up is the bane to chivvying on. Things to prepare. A little basket atop the dresser. Put upon. A jar of wasps on the window ledge. Jammy buggers.

Takes away. Old Park Road, Ingledew Crescent, blue moon. Suppose the dolls’ home came to good use round the children’s home. I searched for it in the Hayward – little lights in empty rooms, some in total darkness. Everyone was out.

Little makes for sentiment and what’s wrong with that? Came tumbling down. Friar Tuck and all that. Have you ever had a conversation about mangles? What fun they were.

I arrange it all, counting back. Handstands were for others. Blood might rush to my head. Would you put Smarties in a pewter bowl and leave them lying around saying eat me in different hues, all chattering at once, and then chastise? Of course not.

So, what’s on telly? Forget it, I didn’t really mean. Several jigsaw puzzles are waiting to be done.


Summative

 Something shakes the infirm – an ailment within. Let’s leave it there. What has been said? In its base form aggregate reminds of tar on the wayside – an instant childish drop back. Flint in the mudflats, and in the sand (Skegness) a hole filled with sea.

Taken as a whole, tea with sugar reminds of dish-water, which was how it tasted she said (due to the esteem in which that particular brewer was held). Sources unite in what may be believed. In law the impossibility of the lay-mind may be seen as a jest. Funny this business couched in wig and gown, with all due respect to the unexpected outcome.

Everyone likes to laugh in admiration of mirth, in place of community. When I was a kid, people used to cover me with cream and put cherries on my head. It was tough in the gateau. (Acknowledgements due.)

Back inside the component parts something concretes. A wobbly experience this growing up thing. In-laws notice first commenting on the sofa, cups and saucers wavering through the hatch. Choose your construct. Usually coconut pyramids on a backdrop of doily.

Arguments count – inflections court misery, soon to be realised. The colour that surrounds can charm (brocade), or lead to dysfunction (gate-leg table). Thoughts to work on (bric-a-brac). We must look up to something. Finally said, it all adds up to much.  


 Plosive

Routines make the way clearer. Follow the one in uniform. Spit into this. Put your feet up. At 36 weeks he bursts out.

Personalised disorder in private, not some flimsy curtain unfit for purpose. You should see the insides!
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