“The Maiden Of Procrastination” (A Poem)

by Anton Martin Smith antonmartinsmithwrites@gmail.com

This poem was meant to be written.

It was a close-run thing,

With pen almost hitting the page on multiple occasions,

However, Procrastination’s elk-like swiftness batted each of the pen’s tentative literary forays away.

Alas, The Pen didn’t make even a single “dot” appearance on the page – period.

But The Pen showed redoubtable courage under fire,

& if not for an unfortunate series of events – namely these:

Musical distractions of classic rock ‘n’ roll nature;

Dreams of past misdeeds towards various long gone & now fictionalised exe’s;

Too many tasty crunchy bloat-ey chocolatey snacks;

And the big daddy reason:

Multiple acute (but not very cute) pangs of self-doubt –

Yes….that old chestnut.

Yes it had seemed that in the end – Procrastination won this battle.

And oh my – what would have been!

It was going to be a real rollercoaster of literary truth & amusement.

The effervescence of true originality was set to bubble over all meridians & latitudes of Earth & beyond!

And I’m probably overstating it but –

The world may have tilted just a little off its axis in a slanted form of metaphorical joy.

Oh what a pity the battle was lost & alas nothing ever was written into the papery folds of space-time at all.

I’m sure someone far smarter & way more Ancient Greek-er said it before me, BUT:

When Procrastination wins – a bit of our future self, doth die.

Luckily there abounds one prescriptive partial solution to the sad wings of Procrastination’s foul swoops.

& It is thus:

Let ye write of thy valiant battles lost to that un-fair maiden-of-procrastination.

For then you have succeeded in the rare art of making something from nothing.

Which many of the more astute quantum minded of you will already know,

Is not entirely out of the realms of all possibility.

After all – is this poem not a testament to that oft disregarded fact?

The writer now wishes to congratulate the enemy of Procrastination for their hard-fought victory.

But the Pen holder is at least proud that they showed some old-fashioned last minute plucky-ness,

By retreating, recuperating & retiring to a handy place right behind the left ear.

& the would-be writer avows fiercely to return much stronger in the next Pen vs Procrastination theatre of war.

So ’till we meet again my anti-ephemeral anti-friend & arch enemy,

Till our next very weary psychological-warfare coupling,

Till our much-needed warring embrace,

Till in taking up arms we both inadvertently till the soil of that literary battle-scape called paper.

Or to modernise I guess I should really say ‘puter.

You never know – one of us may win the highly coveted “Iron Uncross 1st class”.

Yes, Fair thee well O’ our always defiant, ever-present adversary! –

O’ Unfair Maiden of Procrastination

Bye-Bye for now.

“Frivolities At The Asian Eatery” ( A Poem/Prose).

by Anton Martin Smith antonmartinsmithwrites@gmail.com

It’s time for some Pork Donburi with Miso Soup –

I think to myself as I cross the road.

The little Japanese eatery is now open late,

It’s a slice of urban chique in my sleepy-rural-small-town-hollow.

I wander in for value dinner, having spurned my regular Chinese haunt –

But only for tonight, just for a change.

For loyalty must be spliced with the spice of occasional dissent –

Less the proprietor becomes lazy toward you,

Less they take you for granted.

They must be regularly reminded you can still freely eat elsewhere.

Yes – in life there are always ‘games being played’,

& with age you realise games exist for good reason.

So, I order the Pork Donburi – nice ‘n’ spicey – with the miso soup, it goes down a treat.

On the way out I buy some cheap leftover counter sushi – the proprietor gives me some free chicken too.

I noticed that when serving the Korean man sang his words.

Now here-is-some-pork-donburi-for-yooou, now here is yooour change

I knew he was Korean, for I had asked him if he was Japanese, & he had corrected me.

I can’t remember how, but I ended up telling him that I was writing a novella.

I told him that ‘we writers’* often inject a real-life character we see out & about into our writing.

After I told him this, he said in child-like fashion (in a good sence) that he wanted to be put into my novel.

I told him that’s it’s mostly finished & the characters are set – but there was still a slim chance.

I warned that he’d to be interesting enough to be chosen to travel onto the pages of future fiction.

He said that he also sung Karaoke, aiming to gain my literary affections.

I said that that doesn’t cut it for a Novel, Novella or a Short Story – but he might make a poem.

“Poems are easy enough to make” I tell him.

He’s a good friendly guy, & his food is tasty & at good prices.

He probably works too hard yet everyday he still wears a genuine smile.

Which can’t be easy over the long term especially so with silence-loving-small-town-folk.

It’s only fair that I spend at last fifteen minutes whipping him up a free poem –

After all he’d given me some free spicey chicken, hadn’t he?

It’s a fair trade – spicey-but-still-tasty-leftover-sushi for some personalised-slice-of-life-poetry.

Plus, he’ll get a bonus smile next week when I read him his poem in person.

And if he surprisingly asks me:

“Praytell – why did this poem cross the road?”

I’ll know he’s not really the-singing-Korean-chef-with-a-Japanese-eatery-behind-the-counter-of-a-small town at all –

…perhaps something far far more sinister or perhaps even beautiful**

All-in-all I would summarise all this as the following spinning-newspaper-tabloid-headline:

“Deadbeat Poet Says Frivolities At The Asian Eateries Are Less Than Frivolous”.

*Yes, it sounds like I had my head up my own ass – I agree with you oh reader.

** when read in public this must be said with a theatrical nod, indicating an ulterior motive may be involved.

“The Watchers” (A Poem/Prose/Spoken word )

by Anton Martin Smith antonmartinsmithwrites@gmail.com

They hide away from anyone with brains who might educate/enlighten,

About that stuff that they know very little about.

For their fragile still teenage ego could not survive it.

For that would make them have to be honest with themselves:

They would have to squarely face their demons:

That they peaked in high school – & it was a fake peak at that.

For that was the place where they could hide ignorance,

Disguise it as ‘coolness’ via the trick of aloofness.

They still use this trick at age 25,35,45,55.

And the really committed losers do it till the death rattle sounds.

It’s one of the saddest things that you’ll ever see day-to-day,

Amoungst so many of the Earth people.

They miss out on their intended lives,

To use their own phrase – they make ‘old fools’ of themselves,

They turn away those who can help them grow.

We only hope this crapulent solipsistic behaviour is not madness or badness

But is because of some weird as yet undiscovered warped form of Milky Way shyness.

Oh you Humans when will you learn?

For I can tell you – Us Pleiadeans are getting rather sick of you all,

We are considering abandoning our elected post as the watchers.

The Galactic Federation is considering dropping you entirely,

Swapping you for another more paletable intergalactic zoo.

Yes earthlings – the Trappist star system humanoid oiks throw considerably less shit at each other.

So, don’t take us ‘watchers’ for granted, ok?

For now just rest at ease, o’ wild Humans.

For just like on Earth,

The wheels of Galactic Justice also move slowly.

You can still turn things around.

Us Pleiadian Watchers all doubt it – but in theory it’s still possible.

“Circa 1984-87, The Ballad Of NZ” ( A Prose Poem/Spoken Word)

by Anton Martin Smith antonmartinsmithwrites@gmail.com

The Politicians were too young,

Or too stupid,

Or too lacking in real life experience,

Or too Professorial,

Or too academic,

Or too Lawyerly,

Or in truth – they were all of the above.

High on bad Neoliberal theory.

The so called “Washington Consensus”.

The Corporate Raider Lobby got to them,

In true ‘Wolf in sheep’s clothing’ fashion.

They were sold a story of “growing up & becoming worldly”.

For the Anglo-American Wolf did cry:

“NZ’s is just a silly backwater – don’t you want to be suave, like us?”.

“You must sell all those great ‘bad’ assets at a fire-sale to us”

“You must work more for less, so we can charge more for less”

“You must be a part of our single-blind experiment & guess who the blind one is dummy!”

“Now be good little slaves now stupid-o’s & do exactly as we say!”

“You have reached your destiny – as our fully propagandised automoton living breathing data points”

“And don’t worry if your society becomes a living hellscape – we promise to buy you a coke”

“Oh, wait did I say that out loud? Please forget I said that O Backward-o NZ 1980’s Politicians”

The Dopey Politicians took it all in hook, line, & ‘stinker’.

The Corporate Raiders took over,

Took over the minds of our oh so feeble Politicians.

And while we “The People” sank further into the mire,

They all said to us:

“Oh look at that beautiful mire you’re stuck in – I reckon some daisies are about to sprout”

“Oh, look you’re sinking further, don’t worry breath through this plastic drink straw”

“Oh no! You’re not breathing – oh well at least you can’t ever lodge a protest vote”

This is the ballad of the giant swindle that shoulda-neva-‘appened.

Yes! This was the shit-show called “NZ Circa 1984-1987”.

Yes! – We now have no bananas!

Well – none at affordable prices anyway.

Which is pretty strange – given we’ve been in a Banana Republic,

For 41 consecutive mire-filled years.

Oh well! I guess this is our lot in life.

For we went from hard-truth-seeking-knowing-soldier-farmer-labourer-types,

To weak willed bender-over-ers & take-it-up-the-butt-ers,

In only Thirty-Nine short years.

Yup we the people folded to those Anglo-American-Politico-Demons to easily.

Alas we were so open minded, that we not only let our brains fall out,

But we let them roll under the ocean & all the way across the Tasman,

Stopping only when they landed in Keating et al’s far-lap.

This was Circa 1984-1987, The Ballad of NZ.

And PS – we never got the Coke.

Musings about our Kiwi (& Aussies) lives. (A Blog post/update)

Today I was wondering about Kiwis (Sorry you Aussies are relegated to the P.S. section) – I was wondering why we are so reclusive. I came up with this line of thinking:

Why do we NZ’ers not know that our ultra-reclusiveness is something we are deeply hamstrung by? Does this mean we’re stupid as well? Or is it arrogance? Perhaps it is simply a form of entrenched genetic PTSD stemming from our ‘Let’s escape our shitty UK lives’ ancestry. yes – that’s gotta be it!

So this kind of makes me feel better – we are probably all suffering from a heavily entrenched & now genetic level PTSD. It’s not because we are stupid, or arrogant at all. And besides, we are natural ‘Mr Fixits’ – you can’t be stupid & know how to fix everything – so case closed.

So while I feel happy about this – this is still a worry. Becasue while ultra-reclusiveness may help us ‘tinker away happily fixing things in sheds’, it is bad for our mental health to be so insular. This is under the thesis ‘ a problem shared is a problem halved’ thesis. We don’t share our problems – especially males – so our mental problems are relatively doubled compared to the (perhaps only mythical & not actually real) ‘happy problem sharing society’.

Yes we try to get better on this – but I’m not sure we can force ourselves to be better. I think that will only help us perhaps ten to twenty percent. To change 50% we have to somehow change who we are. I don’t know much – but I’m sure that won’t come from talk alone. So the answer must be this:

We need to find a new project to totally enliven us – but what the hell would that be?

I will end here – becasue I don’t have the answer to this problem. Hopefully (to use an overused term) it ‘sparks debate’ & some genius will save us all from our ‘hideaway & tinker syndrome’. But the worry of that course of action we often look for a saviour in all the wrong places. Just look at 20th Century History. in the hope of getting better, we better no get worse.

Good luck to us & all others like us (Eastern Europe?)!

P.s. the Aussies surely have the same ‘Genetic level PTSD’ problem – but they are ultra competitive lot, & can pick on each other rabidly – if that’s a ‘solution’ to their entrenched cultural PTSD then could the solution be worse than the disease? Or am I just dreamin’?.

P.P.S The Aussies are certainly making more money than us – but are they happier? I’m not sure that the truly are. After all – remember your grandparents dictum of it’s not what you earn, it’s what you save….& prices on their side of the ditch are roughly on a par with us (& everywhere else in the western world).

P.P.P.S At least we kiwi’s when stressed can always blindly walk into our back yards that are also giant beautiful nature parks. we defnitely have this over our Aussie cousins as an ‘anti-PTSD pill’.

Cheers Anton Martin Smith

email me at antonmartinsmithwrites@gmail.com

To All The ‘Wild Bill’s’ Of The World (A Poem/Prose)

By Anton Martin Smith antonsmithwrites@gmail.com

You are talking to someone you know.

Another person is nearby.

They try to introduce you this ‘new third party’ – let’s call him ‘Wild Bill’.

I’ll come back to Wild Bill in a second.

Now a partially half-well-adjusted-adult generally does this as an introduce-ee:

They muster at least a quarter smile, aim it towards those they are introduced to, & and emit at least a passably pseudo-cheery hello.

But No No No! – this is not always so!

In small towns throughout the cosmos, namely Earth – this skill is often missed.

Yes, our smalltown Wild Bill – instead of acting like a partially well-adjusted adult who knows how to say hello –

Decides he would rather look like he is at a funeral,

Looking at you cadaverously, without an once of good humour,

As frozen as an iceberg, while his tiny mind ticks over.

Wild Bill is trying to figure out whether you are worth talking to,

He’s hoping he might have known you for a minimum thirty years, but has temporarily forgotten.

Because Wild Bill knows that dealing with an entirely new person from scratch,

The ‘blank page’, if you will –

Is a bridge too far for him – in fact it is far far far far far too far for him,

& thats still putting it lightly.

For his fragile quadruple bubble wrapped ego can’t handle it.

For hidden deep in the recesses of his psyche – he knows if he does this – his cover will be blown.

He’d rather treat the ‘blank pages’ of the world poorly & so come across like a total hick,

Than risk actually being seen.

It is simply the price Wild Bill is more than willing to pay –

For he can stay comfortably unseen, invisible, without ever experiencing any stressful growth pangs,

& who cares what some total stranger thinks of me anyway, he tells himself.

Of course, I’m not hating on the Wild Bills of the world –

As it is always a fool’s errand,

To judge those who know not why they do as they do.

Especially as we are all like Wild Bill in some ways, or at least some stage in our lives.

But in saying that,

It’s bloody annoying when it happens to you all the same.

Unfortunately there is no polite antidote to it, other than to steadfastly not get sucked into their abyss.

This of course takes great practice.

One day I will rudely confront Wild Bill like this:

“Bill, Bill, Wild Bill – oh when will you learn to say hello properly for god’s sake?”

To which Wild Bill will probably reply stony faced:

“Not in this lifetime stranger”.

And then if I’m really lucky – a mutual disarming chuckle & will break out across these dusty windswept savannahs –

Finally allowing me & ‘The Wild Bills’ of this Earth to see eye to eye.

It’s a rose-tinted romantic hope, & as such, I won’t hold my breath.

So, all that is left to think to yourself about Wild Bill, is this:

Wild Bill – may one day your wounded soul find restful peace, with all your undue fears long gone.

You are now a-hoppin’-skippin’ & a- jumpin’ through the clouds with unremittent gay abandonment,

Greeting every otherworldly evanescent stranger you meet along the way like a manically happy labrador,

Who has just now seen his long-term owner & best friend, whom he had mistakenly thought was long dead.

God speed to you Wild Bill.

My “PSTD” poem has been updated/improved….(a note)

Hi there HAPPY FRIDAY!

My latest poem has been updated – & definitely improved. Here is the link

https://antonmartinsmith.com/2025/08/12/my-so-called-ptsd-life-a-poem/

I’ve made it more reflective of how (in those dark few years) I felt when I was thirty five & living in a big foreign city (Melbourne). Melbourne is just like any of the dog-eat-dog big city, but it pretends to be a fluffy cat instead. Isn’t it weird how cities – usually big gnarly ones – delude themselves with some fake arsed-rosie-false-city-hall-marketing-a-fied image of themselves? Of course the ‘super serfs’ in these cities – the ones with ‘good incomes & alcohol’ like to pretend they are rich – but we’re onto them aren’t we! These types are at least good to write about. I guess people (other than the totally downtrodden – who see the truth becasue it’s kicking them hard daily) in big cities (like Melbourne) want to hide the fact they are, for the most part – living in mostly ‘just another run of the mill hamster treadmill’.

But then again, this self deception is normal behaviour for a human, a city, a nation. The brain (or culture) has to create a world which is inhabitable for its owner (s), & it will happily lie to its conscious layer. People (or a culture/society) would rather go insane that to recognise an unpalettable truth: A Big Western City – Like Melbourne Australia – Is At Best A ‘Polished Turd’.

All this makes me want to dress like a serf & haul a giant placard down Bourke St, then stop when I’m in front of MYERS DEPARTMENT STORE & hold up the sign that says:

OH THE DEPRESSIVE GLORY OF IT ALL!!!

IT’S ALL A GAME!!!

CHEAP THRILLS WALLOW SWEETLY,

IN THE RICH HEARTY SOILS OF:

MELBOURNE CBD STYLE NIHILISM!!!

SCREW THE CORPORATE PIGS!!!

(ok I’m too lazy to actually do that).

I will keep this short & quit whiel i’m ahead (behind?) – so enjoy the updated version of the poem!

‘May the creativity live with you’

Martin Anton Smith (aka Anton Martin Smith)

P.s. The ‘main image’ of the poem was created via ‘Grok’ AI – the people of Melbourne may recognise the background as “Flinders Street station”, & the cities flagship newspaper. It’s quite a good image.

“My so-called PTSD Life?” (A Poem)

By Anton martin Smith antonsmithwrites@gmail.com

Do I have PTSD?

Is the question I ask of myself daily.

And If you’re reading this – I bet you do too.

Did I reach a point at 35 when the until-now-buried, seeds-of stress-all bloomed?

Before that mid-thirties limit, my youth could smother it all,

Like some cyborg-ed cold-hearted futuristic bounty hunter.

But then at that critical year in life’s age,

I must had been once again pushed another infinitesimal millimetre,

But this time, time & space had run out.

Now I was found myself finally pushed right up to & teetering over the precipice,

Of that cliff that was designed for me, & people just like me, long, long ago.

Teetering, thereby when the next trauma hit – (likely disguised a pretty human female),

It would send me careering downwards to ‘bottom-cliffs-ville’ with no parachute, & no recourse.

Then when you hit the ground, youth has suddenly gone forever, & the world has changed.

When you look up from the splat-point, you now may as well be seventy.

All the good things that came to you so easily have now evaporated.

But as the years post impact rolled along this “PTSD” has given you wisdom.

And you realise it’s cut that ‘fake-hard-but-easy’ old world away from you,

As a butcher cuts off a line of fat from a steak, & then whacks it, you’ve been made much better .

Ahhh ‘PTSD’ & AGE – heavens secret gift for your aged soul.

And in truth you probably don’t even have “PTSD” – merely some cheaply made imitation.

But each night you’ll raise a glass to the comfort of it all just the same.

Just like the two billion of others just like you,

Who are also convinced they are uniquely sad.

And we all unwittingly raise a glass nightly & in unison to each other,

As we sit in from of our computer screens,

Forever mourning the sudden death of our own past lives.