By Martin Anton Smith

The beer can sat in the slobs room,

Having been the last one discarded.

He sat among all his older peers.

He was thrown out unceremoniously,

After 7 minutes service To humanity.

Flung parabolically into the corner,

Aimed at an overflowing,

But probably never to Be emptied bin.

Hitting its fullness & so bouncing to the floor

On top of the carcases of earlier used up cans.

A veritable mountain.

“Mount Aluminium”

or

“Mount Aloominium”

If you are American.

Now dear reader or listener:

Let’s put ourselves directly amongst the beer cans social milieu,

In ‘fly-On-the-wall’, or gonzo reportage fashion.

On Mount Aluminium,

There was always A collective sigh,

A psychic energy forever floating around.

A dispiritedness, if you will.

While beer-can-to-beer-can communication,

Is usually telepathic,

In words it can be translated

From Can-ton-ese,

To English

As the following labelled thought forms:

“Why can’t he take us out”

“We could become Something better”

“We could make something of ourselves”

“Some of us could end up as ladders”

“Some of us tennis racquets”

“Some of us surgical equipment”

“Some of us ‘love devices’ “

“Some of us could literally go to Mars,

As part of a space ship”

And I as a keen observer of the universe,

Summarise the discarded beer can’s struggle for life thusly:

You see, at heart all these beer cans,

All dream the nearly impossible dream:

To go from

A fat mans lips – to Mars bound space ships.

And as a firsthand witness I can say hand on heart:

Unfortunately, even today in our modern computerised world,

Life for the average upwardly striving, crumpled & discarded beer can,

Is still crushingly empty, downwardly mobile & very very….

Bitter