"marginally" poems
As the laser rays from Science City lit up the night sky in a resplendent rush of colours, I watched on, quietly , from the balcony; my mind racing back to the class 9 Basics of Economics book and to that class.
Utility. A major concept in economics.
I had understood it so well then.
I had paid full attention to the teacher when she had explained that once I had had a spoonful of Biriyani, a little bit of my hunger was satiated and I would enjoy the next spoonful a little bit less than the first.
That was how utility operated, marginal utility diminishing with every spoonful.
Today, as the rays light up the sky, I think of him, and of the principle of utility.
Does the principle apply to first love as well, as it does to the first taste of Biriyani?
As love's bittersweet concoction explodes, does it render the following loves as only marginally utilitarian then?
As the first rush, first blush fades, as love's faces change, do we begin to get satiated a little less than the first time?
And is it really because we are already a bit full, a little satiated?
Or is it because the hunger gnaws on, craving that first rush, once again?
Mar 11, 2016
Mar 11, 2016 at 10:10 PM UTC
Never sure who's boss between us
He comes when called
several minutes later...
Blinking sweetly
smiling as only cats can
Golden, half-moons of sunlit bliss
watch fat yellow-jacket
marginally motivated
The hunt cannot compare
to the soft grass with its tender clover
a full belly
and the meeter-of-all-needs nearby
But the quick jitter-dance
of an easy moth
sends the tiger
to the jungle of forsythia
Gleaming, stalking stripes
Alternating white of paws in precise approach
The prey? Too quick
The predator? Too old and lazy
prefers attention
Lumbers slowly back
lolling against coffee cup
Enough....
On needles of white pine
a secret lion has lain down
waiting only for the lamb
Aug 24, 2017
Aug 24, 2017 at 7:05 PM UTC
I'm only lukewarm, marginally mediocre.
Not quite laid-back enough to be considered cool
Nor adequately exciting for red hot.
Just going by, average, as a rule.
I'm much too old to be reckless and immature,
Yet not as old as wisdom and a good war story.
Not so rich to live out luxurious abandon
but far too rich to be tragically sorry.
I'm unremarkable, uneventful, uninteresting,
Uncool and unattractive, unfit and unaware.
I assume I'm just not- I'm everything 'un' already,
A stale glass of water, gone oddly warm in stagnant air
I am lukewarm, at best.
Perhaps some day I'll be blast frozen
Or I had once been boiled hot.
For now though, there are no cubes of ice
That I can swallow and be more than not.
I am the everyday masses, lost in the throng,
The not-particularly-bright, non-slacker, no-name brands
That believe they're not good enough- or quite the sharpest prong.
We, the herd lost in the middle bench lands-
We're wild and we're sober,
Frightened and unafraid.
We're nothing like you, but we're just the same.
But we, the ones who spend our lives
In the middle bench,
will be alright.
We can persevere, we can.
Jul 31, 2014
Jul 31, 2014 at 1:12 PM UTC
a poem for the perturbed
partially peeved
marginally miffed
indirectly disturbed
not for those in love
not for loss or for longing
not for the haughty highbrow
half hazardly happy saps
that drown you in their
dizzily delerious
words about joy and wonder
this poem is for the average joe
joe sixpac joe normal
kicked back, laid back
ignoble informal
working class
pain in the ***
foul mouthed, burnout
college drop out
that doesn't have two
sweet words to rub together
this poem is for me
and you... if you want it.
Dec 20, 2016
Dec 20, 2016 at 9:31 PM UTC
If it gets you through the night,
you could sit there on the couch and pretend that I’m not listening.
We’ve been over this time and again, yet here you are flipped
from side B to side A. I hope your tape breaks and this message
is flipping in the wind on a tab with a marker
marked red. I hope you understand.
My life feels like vacation but my… well everybody
will promise you violence over practically nothing
and I think I deserve a better planet. Instead I’m here.
It’s marginally all my ego, but mostly I just want to disappear.
I swear; If I break a heart I’ll fix it, but I’m a disease and a symptom,
and I stick like bad religion. Worshipers take shelter from this cult.
I’d even stab you if I had proper motivation,
and I didn’t treat myself like my own martyr for nothing.
The “real” me may only be what you make of me anyways.
My image of myself only exists within my head,
and in that image I am rotten with perfection.
My only corduroy is torn and smells of bleach,
but I’m too sleepy to change into my skin.
I swear I’m more than just an ordinary sin,
just because I’m also my own martyr.
Mar 25, 2014
Mar 25, 2014 at 10:11 PM UTC
I skim the page
For any sign that
You acknowledged my presence
Atop the rooftop party that day
I skim the page
For the sign that
Everything was marginally magical
Below the ground of our feet that day
I skim the page
For I have seen the sign that
I needed to see.
Apr 24, 2015
Apr 24, 2015 at 5:48 PM UTC
There are few things I hate more than watercolor,
I muse to myself
As I sit watching
A rigid man
With the perfect posture, really,
Casually watercolor the coffee shop around him
As if we all are just the backdrop
To a life of routine normality
Succumbing to the occasional confrontation
With hot beats of caffeine--
A subject to be posthumously entombed
Executed marginally
Flattened and kept in a sketchbook
That will,
Most likely,
Be a dust collector given one year's breadth.
The cynic in me
Hopes he mistakes the water cup
For his coffee cup
In his feverish efforts,
Sitting slack and unaware
Right next door.
But unintentionally,
It's the bias
Creeping in.
Secretly,
I've never really been
That good
at watercolor.
Jul 27, 2017
Jul 27, 2017 at 4:12 PM UTC
*A Story of Scientology and the
Mental Health System Connection
GILDED CAGE*
Unlike the pampered, well heeled clients of my "faith", I didn't enter the Fort Harrison Hotel via the opulent main entrance. I made my appearance through the back. The garage entrance was less than hospitable. And, I noticed, there seemed to be people living in the cold, drafty motor housing! When I asked about this strange berthing, Noah was much less than forthcoming. "RPF", he mumbled. Well. What's an RPF when it's at home? Then I saw a few of the denizens of said "RPF". I knew very little about it. Only that it was punishment. For people were "out-ethics". WOW. The RPF "sleeping quarters" had bunks three high, and was protected only marginally from the winds that swept through that garage.
There was an RPF person who was coming through the breezeway as I entered. He stepped aside very deferentialy, and said, "Excuse me, Sirs!" to Noah and I. WOW. I'd never had THAT kind of treatment in my life! I guess I was someone important! This bubble was burst immediately. I met the I/C of the FRU.
She was not in a good mood, as I recall. But, then, who ever really was in this Organization? She DID TRY to be nice. Greeted me clammily, and put on a spurious smile. She recognized I needed sleep, at least. Upon walking through the building, the rooms got more and more posh. I was to get to my berthing through the hotel lobby, apparently. It was grand! But in a sort of an outdated way. I really don't remember much else. Except for the conditions in my sleeping quarters. Only marginally better than the RPF! bunks three high! Junk everywhere (some of the new recruits had yet to figure out that they should cull their possessions to a minimum). Guess who was designated the top bunk? You got it. And moi was not a happy camper! As I climbed the rickety ladder to the top bunk I remember thinking, "How much lower can a person go?"
I WAS, EVENTUALLY, TO FIND OUT.
Mar 23, 2017
Mar 23, 2017 at 3:56 PM UTC
Alone in the city of melancholy,
I feel the street sides smoldering my hazy eyelids.
At night the moons of lanterns touch me only marginally
and wing cracked moths circle the illuminated edges of the panel building's decayed balcony -
gentle; endlessly.
Infinite depths of gray beneath the stone canyon skin
of 1980's asphalt-wrinkled face of my ardently antagonized Berlin.
© fey (17/08/23)
Aug 17, 2023
Aug 17, 2023 at 10:58 AM UTC
I think there is a time in every man's life when he finds himself in a quiet place and he gently puts his hands on his face and lets them drip down his skin as he thinks "Oh God, what does my father think of me?" It is this very thing that happens to me every day, and I find it difficult to release myself from the idea that finding a quiet place on a daily basis for this ritual is not far from destiny. I remember when I was a child I had such a marginally religious fear of thunderstorms that it would cause me to turn the television to the weather channel so that I could reverently temper my dread according to the forecast ahead of time: this is the same horror that washes over my heart when I see my father slowly approach the picture of my life to make his first appearance of the day. He is both ghost and man: a man that I know now as someone who lives teetering on the fence-post between acquaintance and friend, and a ghost of the person from my childhood that was once in a marriage to my mother that was full of teeth and rage who was not my father, but rather an incarnation of shame and disappointment.
May 9, 2013
May 9, 2013 at 8:47 PM UTC
I'm in dark sunglasses
outside of Dunkin Donuts again
taking more wifi by the throat
and tearing it into this machine.
No money,
probably $50 in debt by now.
I'm tired of today already.
Trying to hide my face,
or something about me.
I don't ******* know,
I don't particularly care either.
Let's talk about something else;
My generation.
How long are we going to cough blood
until we get our **** together?
Are we slowly losing rights
or slowly gaining consciousness?
How many days are we going to to hide
our red stains away from strangers?
Is it a push towards more
"politically conscious" neo-liberals
or
pants-shittingly insane radical conservatives?
How many more mornings will we spit blood
into our bathroom sinks?
Is it nationalism, mutually assured destruction of the self,
or culture, identity, the return of humanity?
Humanity, you know, does exist.
There's just a marginally greater infliction of dehumanization
stemming from the systems we've built.
They're grinding us down.
From flesh to meat.
How much longer till we're closer
to being dinner than eating it?
Jun 18, 2014
Jun 18, 2014 at 2:23 PM UTC
I’m trapped in the constellations
Because I tried to grab the stars
But the moon screamed
I screamed
Echoing across the celestial
So the city of lights awoke
And the extroverts below
Cry out at us
To force us to remain mute
As if they control the solar system
But the moon ignores them
Thus, I ignore them too
The rays liquify me
As I try to connect the dots
But the images I arrange
Are mocking me
Laughing through the sky
Teasing the Milky Way
And the sun scoffs our feud
Too galactic to engage
Only observing
As I bounce between the fiery lines
Surging into boundaries
Too torched to care
But for the introverts beneath
There’s only a catalina void
Where the established figures
Are marginally vitiated
Dim flickers
Lost in the distance
So I’m overshadowed
By this lunar eclipse
Helplessly cornered
Inside the myriad configurations
I scream
Because I tried to grab the stars.
May 31, 2017
May 31, 2017 at 7:11 AM UTC
Day in, day out
Think on it more
Figure it out
Think on it again
Maybe you'll learn something
Day in
Work for scraps
Hate yourself
Your education
Day out
Day in
Care for everyone
And it becomes no one
Failing to relate
Day out
Day in
Gaining weight
Curse your habits
Dive right in
Day out
Day in
Try some drugs
Not a solution
Marginally pleasant stopgap
Day out
Day in
Love your parents
Providing shelter
Resent them regardless
Day out
Day in
Wake up exhausted
Fall asleep awake
Simply nothing left here
Day out
Day in
Write another's words
Forget your own
And step in line
Day out
Day in, day out
The future is blurred
Figure it out
Coming up blank
Maybe the cancer is already growing
Nov 3, 2014
Nov 3, 2014 at 11:24 PM UTC
A fat young woman sat reading her graphic novel
(don't you love it that they call comic books graphic novels
nowadays so as not to offend the mongos who read them?)
- apologies apologies I digress from my narrative I fear -
her eyes followed the words slowly one by one
and her lips very visibly mouthed each syllable
as though such a pathetic process might help the meaning
to sink in at least partially to her poor addled half-educated wits
(in case you haven't worked it out by now I should explain
she was a bit stupid in fact much thicker than two short planks,
but I suppose that's an unkind thing to say really
but what the hell this is ******* free thought association
and stream of ******* consciousness isn't it?)
Bearing in mind that the poor fat cow had a brain
only marginally more adroit than a bluebottle's
she was doing quite well as she had after all
reached as far as page five after only two hours
when something marginally untoward occurred
as she suddenly felt a nasty pain in her tummy
and in some atavistic sort of way that realised she was on
the verge of having a miscarriage which was quite
a shock bearing in mind she didn't even know
she was seven months pregnant at the time
having been unable to read the birds and bees manual
she had been given as a present by her mummy.
But it was just as well taking everything into consideration
bearing in mind she was unmarried (surprise! surprise!)
and had no idea who the father might have been
as (how oh how can I put this delicately?)
she was totally the village bicycle having been ridden by everyone
including most of the teachers at the ******** folks home
where she lived in some squalor at state expense
but never mind as all's well that ends well
as her staggeringly brutal low-iq daddy would have killed her
for bringing shame on the family escutcheon
and because the downturn in the economy
meant that there was a three month wait for a bed
in the nearest mongo maternity ward
so she just kept on reading and would you believe it
she had reached page seven by the time
it was all over apart from the mess on the upholstery.
Jan 7, 2015
Jan 7, 2015 at 1:59 PM UTC
He follows in the footsteps of a dead man,
a wild man, an ill-tempered storm
who lashed out at the world so he wouldn’t conform
to the ordinary life from which he ran.
Now that man is dead as an empty beer can.
He follows anyway, trudges on through the lukewarm
waters in his wake; trudges on to deform
the monotony from which his life began.
He thinks he may as well be wed
to his drinks and his smokes and the girls in his bed
all faceless and nameless and only marginally alive.
He never wants to know that absolute dead
feeling that lurks in people’s heads.
He wants the blood in his veins to pump, his soul to thrive.
Mar 1, 2015
Mar 1, 2015 at 2:45 PM UTC
Here I go again
On this road called life,
I called mine a joke,
Help me I am broke,
But not money,
I don't need a twenty,
I need honey.
Here I go again
Threading this path,
Mine is comedic,
Borderline neurotic,
Marginally pathetic,
Definitely hectic.
Here I go again
On this road alone,
Thrown and blown to the unknown,
I am the unknown.
Here you go again,
On this lane,
Your laughter remain
One you couldn't contain.
Here we go again,
Life is amusing,
But never entertaining,
Life is comical,
But never logical.
Do I make sense?
Is this intense?
This life
At whose expense?
Feb 18, 2021
Feb 18, 2021 at 7:36 AM UTC
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of the teeth in Germany but the reason for the attire of the twelve was buried with the seeds of the gifts of the Jews or of the air at the same time to try them; and the Golem in Europe, said: "1, which will started learning"
Nov 3, 2018
Nov 3, 2018 at 11:41 PM UTC
His headphones fit in ears
that haven’t listened for years
I spend most of my time
looking down at my phone
which is marginally better
than feeling alone
mass communication
has fulled our isolation
once love was a rocket
now we only connect
at the USB socket
Aug 25, 2023
Aug 25, 2023 at 5:34 AM UTC
It’s a broken world
we need imperfect solutions
and there are plenty of questions
is it even possible to correct systemic
problems with individual solutions?
I recycle, so everything’s ok, ya?
some would usher in a revolution
while others would stand pat, thinking
they can marginally beat the house
the young believe the old are problematic,
out of touch and largely to blame for the world
the old push back on youthful, impractical,
self-indulgent and self-righteous idealisms
both groups must eventually wrestle with thorny questions
I doubt we could all agree on a short manifesto
or even a pithy rallying cry.
How about something brutal, almost offensive?
Dylan Thomas suggested we rage against the dying of the light,
but then again, it seems that's all we do these days—rage.
There’s a Korean concept called hwabyung,
or “burning sickness”—an intense, suppressed rage
that can blind and destroy us if we’re not careful
Science says we face a direct and bludgeoning future,
that we must be tenacious with the next phase of our evolution
—but must we be adults? Science is so 2014, and we’re all so smart.
.
.
Songs for this:
Dance the Night Away by The Mavericks
I Hope You Dance by Lee Ann Womack
Dec 28, 2024
Dec 28, 2024 at 1:15 AM UTC
I've realised how difficult it is to see when you're not there
When you don't shine with a smile that blows people away
When they yell and scream so loud I can't stay with them
When all I want to do is slip away
And fix myself
I've realised how difficult it is to smile when you're not there
When you can't laugh at stupid things that aren't funny
When they giggle amongst themselves about boys I don't know
When all I want to do is sleep
And forget myself
I've realised how difficult it is to breathe when you're not there
When you can't block out the people with your marginally carefree attitude
When they poke and **** my consciousness without even realising
When all I want to do is jump
And lose myself
Finally
Aug 26, 2014
Aug 26, 2014 at 7:44 PM UTC
Mens sana in copore sano
so they say
which these days is a worry
as the sedentary blur
sees a time-lapse
of my fattening *** shift
marginally on the sofa
while the pallor of my skin
makes corpses wince
and message u ok ***
Given my increasingly potato shape
what state will my cabbage brain be
when they finally give the all clear?
When we are once again allowed near
I envision sitting with my primates
grunting fear as the brave one
reaches for the monolith
Mar 23, 2021
Mar 23, 2021 at 3:49 PM UTC
I. These phrases may be used interchangeably.
In the case of this patient, we expected nothing less. As a marginally dissociative fellow, this comes as no surprise, it happens all the time. Everyone from the white coats to the volunteers and cabbies are in on it, or should I say, they were in on it. They snickered. They laughed. They blew cigarette smoke into his eyes. They ashed in his trashcan. With a patient like this, when they see the finish line, they go for it.
II. Not a single person cares.
Business is business and routines are routines. The world keeps turning. The coffee keeps brewing and sitting lukewarm in large paper cups. All the flowers are dead and so is he.
III. You will not be remembered.
Well, at least not kindly. You see, patients like him were an obligation; more of a liability than a person. One of those. Pretty run of the mill, but this guy was different. He carved his name into his forehead with a letter opener. He wanted an open casket for some ******* reason I guess.
Nov 16, 2014
Nov 16, 2014 at 5:38 PM UTC
Through the darkest, coldest night
This house makes so many noises
Whose ghost wants to keep me awake?
Don't you know I've learned to ignore you?
A knock on the ceiling
I've heard it before
And the creaking sound of
Motionless doors
What are you trying to tell me
Groaning frame
Aging timber
Fighting for footing on a
Faltering foundation
You don't want me to know your names, do you
Would I recognize them?
I lived in this house most of my life
And I've believed that demons came along
Attached to a woman whose soul had rotted out
With her child molesting offspring,
Oh yes, demons tired of him
And bid him fond adieu
As he walked out of the house they soon would call their own
I've seen them work their mischief
I know they're here
I don't let them get to me
But the ghost
Or the ghosts
Are more troubling
They make so much noise
It's impossible not to notice
Almost as impossible to ignore
Put on some music
Listen real close
Beethoven, Mozart
Some other ghosts
For I do think out specters
Enjoy good classical music
I know it's just the house settling in
Buckling and shifting
All houses are alive
In that regard
It doesn't matter
I'm not afraid of ghosts
And demons only marginally
I know how to get rid of them
But exorcisms ain't cheap
these days
Furthermore the success rate is not encouraging
Easier to live with demons and ghosts
On the frijid evenings in mid-January
As there will be no company
Jan 12, 2015
Jan 12, 2015 at 12:48 AM UTC