"presupposition" poems - Hello Poetry

so you're disappointed that you're disappointed and maybe that's to be expected some folks make beds out of their catharsis differently than others it's this list of things you lost in the fire or how jealous you are of people who never came back up for air you're crying so the faucets leak out of solidarity & someone asks you why the floor is wet so you tell them "we've been weeping here forever" then they want to give you a mouth full of presupposition by saying "are you going down with the ship?" & you look them in the mouth like Leo is handcuffed to a pipe five decks down you look at them like you just woke up from that dream everyone has where all their teeth fall out maybe it's an intervention a hearse vs station wagon origin story a clearance sale & everything's gotta go or maybe it's the dream where you're at the docks from your childhood and there's a little girl unmooring all the ships because she thinks they'll float away but every time she unties them they just sink they just sink

0

Mar 13, 2015

Mar 13, 2015 at 5:20 PM UTC

TomLeveille

whispering the wrong parts

so you're disappointed that you're disappointed and maybe that's to be expected some folks make beds out of their catharsis differently than others it's this list of things you lost in the fire or how jealous you are of people who never came back up for air you're crying so the faucets leak out of solidarity & someone asks you why the floor is wet so you tell them "we've been weeping here forever" then they want to give you a mouth full of presupposition by saying "are you going down with the ship?" & you look them in the mouth like Leo is handcuffed to a pipe five decks down you look at them like you just woke up from that dream everyone has where all their teeth fall out maybe it's an intervention a hearse vs station wagon origin story a clearance sale & everything's gotta go or maybe it's the dream where you're at the docks from your childhood and there's a little girl unmooring all the ships because she thinks they'll float away but every time she unties them they just sink they just sink

43

Stake claim, enslave Falling behind A wake so odd Cosmic, wretched truth Will all compose With repetition Til all devolves Equally wrong choices, with dire stakes Options weighed, time again Derived presets, and presupposition Derivative motion, placed on this clean slate And left for a lifetime Of horrid substitutions

0

Jun 30, 2018

Jun 30, 2018 at 5:37 AM UTC

Boggy

Latency

Stake claim, enslave Falling behind A wake so odd Cosmic, wretched truth Will all compose With repetition Til all devolves Equally wrong choices, with dire stakes Options weighed, time again Derived presets, and presupposition Derivative motion, placed on this clean slate And left for a lifetime Of horrid substitutions

13

written while talking to a dear friend, Irene, who i met on my travels to Paris, and who i'm spotted with, in a photograph, by the Moulin Rouge, hunched in homage to Quasimodo, with Paul the wild haired australian. i'm always depressed before composition and the first whiskey to stop me throwing up anything i might ingest, but then the seemingly graceless magpie with its extended tail flies into eyesight, then the blackbird, the crow, the seagull (huh?! 30 miles inland and a ****** seagull?)... and then i open my eyes a second time, take off the eyes that see lust gluttony colours and shapes, and put on my x-ray spectacles of looking at a white page and typing for a while... and then a song crops up and it bothers me, mortiis' parasite god from the album *the smell of rain*, if there is such a thing as a parasite god, we'll be constantly thinking about it, it will be an ontological implant of ours to then debate whether we're atheists, theists, gnostics or agnostics... it would be a burden, indeed an oversized tapeworm to put it mildly - but then the other description floating about, the entitlement of a title, akin to prince, knight, sir, baron or baroness or even a marquis... the lord of hosts... and with vain attempt at sounding in blossom of a magnolia tree attentive of courtesy, a host is someone who contains a parasite, why would i want to contain a parasite of thought in me, that would necessarily sway me from denoting myself an atheist, theist, etc.? atheists do indeed uphold the principle stated in this song i mentioned mortiis' parasite god; i among the jews a parasite of the host of ancient egypt; i mean, they always say they're atheists or whatever, they want that little sticker at a speed dating gathering *hello, my name is, queue (oh sorry, Hugh)*, but when it comes to defining what sort of thinking defines you as such and such, it's vaguely satisfying to hear a presupposition label, followed by a string of even more unsatisfying propositions, and since i'm not a fisherman in that department, i think i'll just stick to what i know, or at least what i think i know.

0

Mar 16, 2016

Mar 16, 2016 at 1:46 PM UTC

removed.polaroid-scrabble

mortiis (the smell of rain album)

written while talking to a dear friend, Irene, who i met on my travels to Paris, and who i'm spotted with, in a photograph, by the Moulin Rouge, hunched in homage to Quasimodo, with Paul the wild haired australian. i'm always depressed before composition and the first whiskey to stop me throwing up anything i might ingest, but then the seemingly graceless magpie with its extended tail flies into eyesight, then the blackbird, the crow, the seagull (huh?! 30 miles inland and a ****** seagull?)... and then i open my eyes a second time, take off the eyes that see lust gluttony colours and shapes, and put on my x-ray spectacles of looking at a white page and typing for a while... and then a song crops up and it bothers me, mortiis' parasite god from the album *the smell of rain*, if there is such a thing as a parasite god, we'll be constantly thinking about it, it will be an ontological implant of ours to then debate whether we're atheists, theists, gnostics or agnostics... it would be a burden, indeed an oversized tapeworm to put it mildly - but then the other description floating about, the entitlement of a title, akin to prince, knight, sir, baron or baroness or even a marquis... the lord of hosts... and with vain attempt at sounding in blossom of a magnolia tree attentive of courtesy, a host is someone who contains a parasite, why would i want to contain a parasite of thought in me, that would necessarily sway me from denoting myself an atheist, theist, etc.? atheists do indeed uphold the principle stated in this song i mentioned mortiis' parasite god; i among the jews a parasite of the host of ancient egypt; i mean, they always say they're atheists or whatever, they want that little sticker at a speed dating gathering *hello, my name is, queue (oh sorry, Hugh)*, but when it comes to defining what sort of thinking defines you as such and such, it's vaguely satisfying to hear a presupposition label, followed by a string of even more unsatisfying propositions, and since i'm not a fisherman in that department, i think i'll just stick to what i know, or at least what i think i know.

43

.*don't worry, inter-racial mingling is prominent in the first generation of a white dad, and a black mum... 2nd generation? well... that depends... if a woman deems her father in high esteem, she marries a white guy, and her children end up, pejoratively white... or she carries on the splinter fetish... and marries a camel-jockey... and hey presto! a full rainbow! slurs... ******** slurs... let's begin with one... in the north of England... vermin says so.* i'll just say the uncomfortable ******** that you wont: Oreo to a ******* ****** your ***** all night... made crumbs... your incy-wincy spider of a **** couldn't get you a one-night-stand... ******* to an Oreo: so... you think that i care what ******* ***** chooses, or makes preferences of? or are you worried that i don't really want to **** an Oreo girl?! well... unless she's from the Bahamas?! ****** make a choice! hey... **** as many... what is this innate, a priori presupposition judgement where... where... like... i don't want to **** your women? what's up with that?! you boast: now i'll boast... it's only fair that way... yeah, and with regards to the women you ****** i started thinking (as a child) of injecting human ***** into the body of a dog... after all... my best childhood friends were dogs... Axl (a Doberman), and Bella (an Alsatian)... what? your best friend was bush-meat? ****** we can party... but some advice... you know the best place to put out cigarettes on a human body? near to the bone, on the knuckles... it's like... coupling nearing the bones is... a complete hard-on.

0

Nov 2, 2018

Nov 2, 2018 at 9:56 PM UTC

removed.polaroid-scrabble

"cultural war"

.*don't worry, inter-racial mingling is prominent in the first generation of a white dad, and a black mum... 2nd generation? well... that depends... if a woman deems her father in high esteem, she marries a white guy, and her children end up, pejoratively white... or she carries on the splinter fetish... and marries a camel-jockey... and hey presto! a full rainbow! slurs... ******** slurs... let's begin with one... in the north of England... vermin says so.* i'll just say the uncomfortable ******** that you wont: Oreo to a ******* ****** your ***** all night... made crumbs... your incy-wincy spider of a **** couldn't get you a one-night-stand... ******* to an Oreo: so... you think that i care what ******* ***** chooses, or makes preferences of? or are you worried that i don't really want to **** an Oreo girl?! well... unless she's from the Bahamas?! ****** make a choice! hey... **** as many... what is this innate, a priori presupposition judgement where... where... like... i don't want to **** your women? what's up with that?! you boast: now i'll boast... it's only fair that way... yeah, and with regards to the women you ****** i started thinking (as a child) of injecting human ***** into the body of a dog... after all... my best childhood friends were dogs... Axl (a Doberman), and Bella (an Alsatian)... what? your best friend was bush-meat? ****** we can party... but some advice... you know the best place to put out cigarettes on a human body? near to the bone, on the knuckles... it's like... coupling nearing the bones is... a complete hard-on.

51

I find myself paddling against the current. Those ahead ask why I am falling behind. Those behind don’t see how every stroke wears me down. It takes everything I have just to stay afloat. "We began this race after you and have already overtaken you, how pathetic." I want to give up. "You have to keep going, you’ve already made it so much farther than us!" I want to be better. "Then BE better." I don’t have the strength. "You wouldn’t have made it this far if you weren’t strong!" I worry the current is stronger than I am. "It is no stronger than ours surely." My canoe strains against the pressure. "Your canoe is a GIFT, you mustn't waste it!" I close my eyes for the briefest of spells, try to steal just a moment of rest. As I reopen them… I realise that it’s gone. My goal. What was my goal again? I have been paddling in this current so long... Where was I going again? All I remember is the agony of each stroke, The words of condemnation for my failures The presupposition of my achievements. "You’re a disappointment, you should give up." "If you give up, you will be a disappointment." "You’re not good enough to be here." "You’re too good not to be there." "Look at your failures!" "Focus on your accomplishments!" My canoe breaks, and I am plunged into the icy waters of uncertainty. I have forgotten what my own voice sounds like. I need to hear it. I open my mouth to remind myself, but nothing comes out. Instead, the current consumes me; inside and out. What could have been and what could never be are gone. I am gone.

0

Jul 22, 2019

Jul 22, 2019 at 12:26 PM UTC

sylvrebells

Grad School Angst

I find myself paddling against the current. Those ahead ask why I am falling behind. Those behind don’t see how every stroke wears me down. It takes everything I have just to stay afloat. "We began this race after you and have already overtaken you, how pathetic." I want to give up. "You have to keep going, you’ve already made it so much farther than us!" I want to be better. "Then BE better." I don’t have the strength. "You wouldn’t have made it this far if you weren’t strong!" I worry the current is stronger than I am. "It is no stronger than ours surely." My canoe strains against the pressure. "Your canoe is a GIFT, you mustn't waste it!" I close my eyes for the briefest of spells, try to steal just a moment of rest. As I reopen them… I realise that it’s gone. My goal. What was my goal again? I have been paddling in this current so long... Where was I going again? All I remember is the agony of each stroke, The words of condemnation for my failures The presupposition of my achievements. "You’re a disappointment, you should give up." "If you give up, you will be a disappointment." "You’re not good enough to be here." "You’re too good not to be there." "Look at your failures!" "Focus on your accomplishments!" My canoe breaks, and I am plunged into the icy waters of uncertainty. I have forgotten what my own voice sounds like. I need to hear it. I open my mouth to remind myself, but nothing comes out. Instead, the current consumes me; inside and out. What could have been and what could never be are gone. I am gone.

36

My life's presupposition is volatile meaning. Unfathomable disposition dispersed amongst the heavens. Until one blightful day, I become; the bounds of my existence tethered to soil and flesh, understanding nothing but suffering. Blood and bones interwoven into another unfathomable hypothesis; potentiality and its unknown repercussions. Adhering only to the reality of mortality and the confines to which that is inherent. Its like dropping an anchor in the ocean of being, with the assumption that every ripple made will contribute to the tide, with or without the ability to float. But I sink either way, for that is our duty. To move under the bounds of gravity and the tides of reality until we reach the bottom of our fruitfulness. And then we return to the volatile meaning from which we came, that ripples outward as our contribution to the future.

0

Jan 23, 2023

Jan 23, 2023 at 3:47 PM UTC

jesse-ramon-claudio

Ramblings

My life's presupposition is volatile meaning. Unfathomable disposition dispersed amongst the heavens. Until one blightful day, I become; the bounds of my existence tethered to soil and flesh, understanding nothing but suffering. Blood and bones interwoven into another unfathomable hypothesis; potentiality and its unknown repercussions. Adhering only to the reality of mortality and the confines to which that is inherent. Its like dropping an anchor in the ocean of being, with the assumption that every ripple made will contribute to the tide, with or without the ability to float. But I sink either way, for that is our duty. To move under the bounds of gravity and the tides of reality until we reach the bottom of our fruitfulness. And then we return to the volatile meaning from which we came, that ripples outward as our contribution to the future.

1

Distance from resistance Missed shifts in risk persistent When I'm remiss in the kisses of listed insistence Your confidence wishes assistance in the blissful existence of Any preexisting feelings amiss of desistance You lock you load the slock to hold Secure and compound the slur to hound The insecure, the bound The insincere and the frowned Until Your blow quells the next risk Swollen from a deft fist Stolen by a neck twist Beholden to your inner drift at the mirrored wrists Of the monster betwixt this fixed rift of our mix The signs won't unwind in your mind They can't hide what's behind a sombre face unlined and undefined by your take on this time Let's realign it Let's redesign it Let the lock smash with a rash motion borne of flashed emotion Torn from some shared idyllic notion Of a presupposition for mutual commotion Or even of a genuine devotion Give me the whole of the role of shrouding your soul Or the hole for which it was sold I will mould the folds and hold back the cold With my own old extolled blindfold Good enough? Should be tough No rebuff Could be Maybe - love?

0

Apr 8, 2015

Apr 8, 2015 at 9:02 AM UTC

poppy-perry

To Console a Self-Critic

Distance from resistance Missed shifts in risk persistent When I'm remiss in the kisses of listed insistence Your confidence wishes assistance in the blissful existence of Any preexisting feelings amiss of desistance You lock you load the slock to hold Secure and compound the slur to hound The insecure, the bound The insincere and the frowned Until Your blow quells the next risk Swollen from a deft fist Stolen by a neck twist Beholden to your inner drift at the mirrored wrists Of the monster betwixt this fixed rift of our mix The signs won't unwind in your mind They can't hide what's behind a sombre face unlined and undefined by your take on this time Let's realign it Let's redesign it Let the lock smash with a rash motion borne of flashed emotion Torn from some shared idyllic notion Of a presupposition for mutual commotion Or even of a genuine devotion Give me the whole of the role of shrouding your soul Or the hole for which it was sold I will mould the folds and hold back the cold With my own old extolled blindfold Good enough? Should be tough No rebuff Could be Maybe - love?

36

any one thing a sense that something's missing mustard or special sauce especially for the main course delectable surroundings difficulty compounding asset rich don miner's helmet no presupposition of what it all meant

0

Aug 19, 2014

Aug 19, 2014 at 5:20 PM UTC

alberttheinsider

'the difficulty of loving'

any one thing a sense that something's missing mustard or special sauce especially for the main course delectable surroundings difficulty compounding asset rich don miner's helmet no presupposition of what it all meant

14

ah, but the atheistic scissors bound to expressing ęglish... i.e. english - in: glee & eesh. also another word example: dusz & duś hence the necessary scissors of inherent atheism in english... the first? in article terms the former: an indirect article (a) - dusz and the latter? a direct article (the), again, encompassing prompt, a commanding expression, duś is a word, that encompasses the prompt. dusz? a word that encompasses the verb-inside-a-verb, a consciousness... suddenly being aware of the hedious act... being performed... and realising, that you're aware of social norms, but are unable to transcend toward a plataeu morality that allows you to stop the act you're performing. and the word for soul? dusza.... then there's the word, uduś, i.e. strangle / smother... the element of: voyeurism, in that uduś has someone looking at you performing the act, and duś... has you claustrophoic inside your own head, performing the act... unless of course you address yourself in third person, with no ****** which is a, presupposition? i can't take to enlisting too many nouns to explain the situation... i love the fact that in english there's only talk of trans-gender, or bi-sexuality, elsewhere? bilingualism, and trans-etymology... i find the latter the more interesting category of debate... by no english is so pop and so lingau franca that it has become, slightly tedious... well... that's cute, but the true description of this language is: ******* annoying! trannies with daddy mummies pushing prammies with penguin babies waving 'ello; i miss the classical circus acts, never mind, let's just watch this mature, call it burgundy, circa 1998... full palette, vintage, red... mmm... fry that beef al dente... shimmy shimmy wee, shimmy shimmy, pink on the inside; oh yeah... and that word: ******* plonkers... and that ain't cockney... that's peckhamsprechen... hen hen... not shed light o mighty, spré... spray chechnyan with a: shir connery convenience at the bar - shishtematic, not saken; south london is as much a mystery for someone living north of the thames, as someone living north of the terms heading to newcastle... and the foul gob, told the most bitter-sweet joke.

0

Jun 23, 2017

Jun 23, 2017 at 7:25 PM UTC

removed.polaroid-scrabble

suffocate (α- -θ-)

ah, but the atheistic scissors bound to expressing ęglish... i.e. english - in: glee & eesh. also another word example: dusz & duś hence the necessary scissors of inherent atheism in english... the first? in article terms the former: an indirect article (a) - dusz and the latter? a direct article (the), again, encompassing prompt, a commanding expression, duś is a word, that encompasses the prompt. dusz? a word that encompasses the verb-inside-a-verb, a consciousness... suddenly being aware of the hedious act... being performed... and realising, that you're aware of social norms, but are unable to transcend toward a plataeu morality that allows you to stop the act you're performing. and the word for soul? dusza.... then there's the word, uduś, i.e. strangle / smother... the element of: voyeurism, in that uduś has someone looking at you performing the act, and duś... has you claustrophoic inside your own head, performing the act... unless of course you address yourself in third person, with no ****** which is a, presupposition? i can't take to enlisting too many nouns to explain the situation... i love the fact that in english there's only talk of trans-gender, or bi-sexuality, elsewhere? bilingualism, and trans-etymology... i find the latter the more interesting category of debate... by no english is so pop and so lingau franca that it has become, slightly tedious... well... that's cute, but the true description of this language is: ******* annoying! trannies with daddy mummies pushing prammies with penguin babies waving 'ello; i miss the classical circus acts, never mind, let's just watch this mature, call it burgundy, circa 1998... full palette, vintage, red... mmm... fry that beef al dente... shimmy shimmy wee, shimmy shimmy, pink on the inside; oh yeah... and that word: ******* plonkers... and that ain't cockney... that's peckhamsprechen... hen hen... not shed light o mighty, spré... spray chechnyan with a: shir connery convenience at the bar - shishtematic, not saken; south london is as much a mystery for someone living north of the thames, as someone living north of the terms heading to newcastle... and the foul gob, told the most bitter-sweet joke.

82