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    poetry


    dots Submission Name: The House on Tulanedots
    --------------------------------------------------------





    Author: lukewarm
    Elite Ratio:    6.38 - 621/624/173
    Words: 214
    Class/Type: Misc/Misc
    Total Views: 383
    Average Vote:    No vote yet.
    Bytes: 1408



    Description:
       A certain kind of survival-meanness.


    Make the font bigger!! Double Spacing Back to recent posts.

    dotsThe House on Tulanedots
    -------------------------------------------


    The house is crumbling inward.
    In every direction water spouts
    burst forth, wood floors strain,
    windows stick shut.
    Paint flakes from skin like eyelids
    rubbed early in the morning.
    The frozen muscles of the high roof-beams
    begin to splinter under the weight of the collapsing roof.
    They go one fiber at a time; the sharp crack
    of an accidental gunshot
    reverberating through the attic each night.
    The concrete porch, broken gravestone
    of some mis-spent Nephilim,
    Begins to shed in chunks;
    gray icebergs dot the lawn.

    I have given myself to it, in fits and spurts;
    Soldered light switches into wrists,
    scrubbed insides raw with antiseptic,
    reached deep inside the furnace to restart its dying heart
    in the still, unmovable winter.

    But I do not love it. Some things are too broken to love.

    So in the evening hours,
    When the house begins to settle,
    When the tiny shriek of the faucet becomes unbearably loud
    and the heat-dried floors creak and give so much
    that I can ply their edges with my toes
    When every last fiber of the house shrugs and gives a great collective sigh,
    I say to myself, “Good.”

    And I plan my escape.




    Submitted on 2016-06-09 18:42:31     Terms of Service / Copyright Rules
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    ||| Comments |||
      This, too, has been up for awhile. I'm hopped up on enough DayQuil to feel like I can maybe say something about it. Maybe not. Let's find out, shall we?

    Maybe because 'nephilim' is religious (or so my hasty googling has led me to believe), but the whole poem feels kinda like you're a dissatisfied creator, especially with the second to last line. It feels very end-of-times-y, and I like that. I like this piece rather a lot, actually, which I think is why I was avoiding saying anything about it for so long. This is really good. It feels fully formed, and there's something there that's a little out of reach. Like, I can read all this different stuff into it, but at the end of the day, I know whatever I read into it is going to ultimately be kinda wrong. But I think that's what poetry's supposed to do, I guess.

    I know for a fact that I didn't pay enough attention in Sunday school, so it's possible that there's a definition or connotation with 'nephilim' that I'm missing. But the definition I'm working with (children of god) makes it so that 'mis-spent' might not be the best word choice? But then again I kinda like it. Reading it in my head, there's a little bit of dissonance like maybe it's a different (better?) translation, where 'nephilim' means childhood of god, not child. And in that regard, I really really like it.

    I'm running out of ways to flatter your ego. I just followed you on prose, so I'll go read some of that now, I suppose. Again: this is really good. I like it a lot.
    | Posted on 2016-09-15 00:00:00 | by etheror | [ Reply to This ]


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