She, house

Italo Calvino said: The more enlightened our houses are, the more their walls ooze ghosts. Describe the ghosts that live in this house:

Image credit: “love Don’t live here anymore…” – © 2009 Robb North – made available under Attribution 2.0 Generic

“So I have taken up a challenge to describe ghosts;
well let me tell you a bit of history that concerns me
  ghosts are not always a species and yes they 
  dio not manifest as poltergeist but are poltergeists like
 aneurysm are or lerts be milder and state they are fireflies 
 exploding and regrowing like phoenix embers
From the left side of this house pic I see a woman
Probably the shadow tones inspire tomes of long hair
But it’s easier to see women ghosts than male ones
that says something about many cultures
ghost the lingering violent types are usually women
while the noisy and petulant types are usually male –>
–> preferably adolescent looking as the ID and Super Ego 
 probably needs a sense back to  “accepted realities”  and that sir or madam
 or “.” is quite a sad affair on its own

Well, let’s get back to the main story and it’s this. This lady here or I am calling her that
is showing me her glaring profile because I wandered and trespassed into something
bad and that is her own kind of bad and she doesn’t like me eavesdropping or do anything
because droppings are bad scenery ain’t it?

I suppose that place was the kitchen but she is standing like a surgeon with instruments out
not a cool in delicate harmony with the craft; obviously she despises the kitchen, the art of cooking and the wooden sweetness of plates and the porcelain afterwares is not hers to adorn and I think the only reason she is standing here because most people knew her here and she just wants to mock them. 

So, there is a message that needs deconstruction but maybe there is no academic frivolity (actually I like deconstruction a lot but I know some people shoot ants with it when it need not be)
and so there is just the smoothness of the dark shadowy hands, no knife, no maniac mythologies of hysteria.

I get it you destroyed the house and were proud to do so
Not because you hated its nice design, (though I don’t think its Victorian and I am dunce of these quaint (like not small as potatoes small but like novelty small) types of architecture please don’t hate me for my ignorance) but it’s country pleasantry
made you feel like throwing it off the sky if you could and it’s not the house but how the house works with a crisp dawn to say “hi” to you hollowly and the burnt embers of a day with an injective authority of a night always ringing to try to tell you what to do. And though the house is small it’s lards large and greediness cannibalized by the torture of you where each failure or triumph goes through as the same. Rape, rape, rape. And they do so because such punishing order and sex and sex and order and beating and what not is considered what can bev done only to women but ironically you have proven them so horribly wrong. Snapped in two that arcane madness by becoming hysteria of a myth for a while and it was damn ugly but damn pretty because it was you post breaking point egg crack when only the poach was on and no yolk was out.

Now the door is annexed like a threshold like with slim logs
as if someone has to jump over into this madness because
it seems to you that only tragedy like that has to be jumped into
and you want no other way and will rather want it this way

But you are not dead

Far from it

Well, your life here is dead and that is what the mockings smiling unworking ghost 
is showing and that is what sums off the place; it is usually the slave not the tyrant who shows the honesty of a life, a place –> a life in a place. but guess what  you are not a slave nor a tyrant anymore you are just you

And so I see you smiling mocking in a kitchen that is not you holding nothing
showing me that you are strength; and glimmer in and out showing me, telling me

“I am alive now.””

Speak yer mind

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