Frame

They’ve found a body in my back yard. I imagine what a dead house would look like. A stillborn Brownstone with its Jurassic sandstone hiccupping fossils and family feuds. Terrace houses would ripple rumour and rife gossip from one mirrored house to the next, those prison bars on pavements. A Bungalow would be simpler: no basement layers or levels of intrigue, no Who before the Dunnit. Now I imagine what type of house would best cover a crime…. no room in High Rise or Loft - the body would just float, just hang there. A quickly erected Tent could hide disturbed earth; or a chugging Barge to clog up clay and clods of mud over not yet decayed fingers and thumbs. A Farmhouse has a credible need of a pyre like an Igloo’s plausible need for ice. A Tudor revival wouldn’t want anything of the sort. Then I imagine how the rooms would react: bathroom tiles cracking into brave smiles and kitchens hiding knives in fear of another attack; staircases sagging like the confused brow of a mourning man, a living room offended by the very antonym of itself. I imagine what a guilty house would look like… crocodile tears from a Pacific Lodge and panicked lies of a Flounder, the subtle reveals of a Dingbat. I doubt a Shotgun would even try though, nor the Creole Cottage; just accept its racial profiling. They’ve found a body in my back yard. So, am I a church now I have a graveyard?