The Viewing
Jan 27 2024
Mould bloomed on the ceiling
like a creeping black malignancy.
Bloom, because it's alive,
like a deadly plant
that flowers enticingly.
It had a perverse beauty
that fascinated me
and I couldn't pull my eyes away.
Like the compulsion to jump
when you’re standing on a precipice
peering over the edge,
a terrible femme fatale
men cannot resist.
Not to mention the musty stench
behind the closet doors,
the mildew in the basement
tainting the stale damp air
with its wet sock smell.
So I could barely breathe.
And wondered
if there were dead bodies
under the concrete foundation,
whether the basement would flood
in a wet spring,
if I’d be on the hook
for taxes owing.
Nevertheless, she said it had good bones,
a little fixer-upper
handyman’s dream;
which is real estate for money-suck
and sinkhole.
The little house of horrors,
where someone actually lived
before it was sold
and burned for the insurance.
Bad wiring, they claimed
short circuit.
Spores of toxic mould
billowing off
in clouds of greasy smoke,
seeding the world
with a black poison
impossible to kill.
I noticed a little mould where the counter meets the wall. The air conditioner was dripping quite heavily there, and I would often let the wetness sit too long. It reminded me of that unpleasant little rental from years ago, as well as the mildew I used to have in the basement. So the first line was a natural. And from there, it was just the usual stream of consciousness. Which feels more like automatic writing than it does focused creativity: I'm as surprised where it ends up as the reader!
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