“A Trip To The Two-Sided Town” (A Poem)

by Martin Anton Smith martinantonsmith@gmail.com

Post Covid – the ‘Sneak Aways’ had all but ‘dried up’.

Prior to all the madness,

As orchestrated by the Politician ‘Bond Villain’ control freaks,

That not only litter the landscape, but carve it up,

Via slights of hand & its extension – the Missile.

Yes – The regular ‘Sneakaway’ jaunts did flow smoothly,

As did the hazy ales & Burger Joint meals.

As did the Rock ‘N’ Roll tunes,

Played by many the lesser known,

Young but also more known & aging,

‘Semi Traveling Wilberrys’.

And the ‘Sneakaways’ always ended as they should:

Half content & half disorientated,

That comes with visitation to mass transit points,

Aka locales of ‘Spiritual Vortexes & Clandestine Battlefields’

Yes – these are ‘The Sneakaways’

The Spots Where There Are Always & Many

Souls for someone to save.

I did take my modern-day petrol eating horseless wagon,

And parked it by the lake – where later I would later rest my head.

The Pool Joint I did end up.

To cut a too long Poem shorter,

It contained the following:

Ten Big Pool Tables

Pizza’s

30 odd Patrons – aka The ‘New Age Gold Diggers’,

The Ones Working in Low Wage Hospo & Labouring & Paying a Tonne For Rent-

i.e half the town & three quarters of the most visible town-walkers

These “most visible town-walkers” are not mining gold any more but are mining ‘experiences’.

But in Truth, the real reasons they are here – will only crystallise years later – after deep life introspection.

When ‘Old Father Time’ strips away all the smoke & haze & thus reality can emerge with perfect clarity.

Yes – here I am in the Pool Bar.

As an aging semi-life-experienced fella, I begun dishing out ‘how the world works’ epithets –

Which were lapped up by these scattered young men, who all pine for the fatherly & brotherly guidance,

That they probably, almost certainly never got.

I Of course, didn’t mind playing the role, as I played Pool & chugged the affordable beers.

But I ask you – what single, childless 45-year-old man wouldn’t?

He would & does for himself – and he helps heal some wounds as the by-product.

I mean it’s far easier & immediately rewarding AND entertaining than being

A a REAL DAD or even a Older Brother.

It Is All reward with ZERO risk.

The Pool night was short sharp & fun & over fast,

A few of us even talked about “If God Exists or not” topic.

Half agreed & Half didn’t.

I found the ratio quite surprising, for a town like this.

After the Pool Bar,The rest of the trip was just sleeping & waking to a semi officious voice:

“Are you living in your car”,

She said to me as I stood outside my car.

“No I live in the other town, I’m just up for a rest”, I said

“Oh ok we are filming a documentary on the housing crisis down here” – she said chirpilly.

“I don’t see it changing – unless they build totally new hermeticalluy sealed towns” I said.

“I think you’re right” she said.

I drove away & left the scene, realising how lucky I am these days.

For I begrudgingly must admit to myself,

I am now probably a ‘Have’ but was formerly a ‘Have Not’.

And I could now simply ‘drive out of it all’.

But the new age gold diggers & car sleepers here cannot do this –

& I ask ‘who will save them’?

It seems no one who is wedded to this earth is willing to.

because they are ok, & human nature is to be selfish

& That, in a nutshell, is why suffering occurs in this world of bounty –

Millennia after millennia.

And maybe that problem is why, perhaps – I keep visiting.

A force compels me to ‘sneak away’ to the two-sided,

Spiritually Warfare’d,

Poorly Welfare’d

Ex Gold Mining,

‘Car Sleeping’

Escapist

Shiney

‘Bountified’

Two-Sided Town.

“The Plight Of The Empty Beer Can” (A Poem)

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

Accidental Free Beer In Cromwell Town

He Was At The Betting Terminals

He Was A Small Older Man

A Tradesman Most Likely

Wearing Fluro Garb

Who Looked Well Beaten By

40 Years & A Million Kgs Of Bricks & Morter

The Gambling Machine Wouldn’t Work

So He Couldn’t Place The Bet

I Was Sitting At The Bar On A Water

Soaking It All In

He Took His Un-drank Bottle

Up To The Barmen To Complain

“The Bet Machine Don’t Work”

“Sorry It Will Be Fixed In An Hour”

“Not Good Enough – I’m Off To Alexandra Town “

& Someone Else Can Have The Untouched Beer”

He Slammed The Oversized Bottle Down.

He About Turned & Brusquely Left

The Old Fella Took It All Too Personally

There Was A Moments Awkward Silence

Then, Taking my Opportunity

I Said To The Barman,

While Pointing To the Vessel

“Can I Have That”

“Sure – Go Ahead”

I Thought About The Irony & Then Spoke

“Its Kinda Funny – He Was Gambling Man

& He Couldn’t Place A Bet,

So He Left In A Huff

Yet He Still Ended Up Losing His Beer To Me,

A Guy Who Wasn’t Gambling At All –

So HE Was Still Gambling – But He Just Didn’t Know It”

The Barman Laughed Heartily.

Despite The Night Being Overall Quite Dull

Because Of The Free Beer Incident

I Took the Night As A Win

And Yes – The Beer Tasted Better Than Usual

And I Wondered If The Same Thing Happened

In Alexandra Town Later That Same Night

But I Very Much Doubt

Another Secondary Poem Was Produced

By Some Other Parallel Poet Wonk Like Me

But I’d More Than Love It If It Did.

“Re-Admitted To the Bar” (A Poem)

by martin anton smith martinantonsmith@gmail.com

I Am Happy To Announce I Have Been “Admitted To the Bar” –

This Made Me Very Happy,

I Worked Hard To Achieve This,

I Did Much Study Of ‘Persuasion’ To Get Where I Am –

Which Is The third Bar Stool From The Right,

With a Pint Of Guiness In Each Hand.

Last Week’s Antics Are Well Forgiven.

As All ‘Brushes With the Law’ Should So Be.

And Though It Is Now Midnight,

I Say These Words With Great Sincerity,

And Though My Words Are Now a Slur,

And My Gait Is Sinusoidal,

I Contend That the Barman Serves Far Too Slow,

How Dare He Not Give Me a ‘Big Bot’ To Go?’

Time Is Now Swiftly Advancing

I Am Now Sad To Admit,

That It Is 3 AM, & I Am Well Lit!

I Am Clutched Under The Bouncer’s Arm,

Nestled Just Bellow Of His Tit.

As My Face Squarely Hits The Door,

I shout a fine ca – caw

“But I only wanted just one more”

Now The Ringing Words My Ears ‘Cherry Pick’:

“Your Banned Joe –

& Don’t Come Back Next Week”

“Oh No Not Again”, I Peeped.

As a Member of the LLB,

Or ‘Liquid Losers & Bums’

I Have Sadly Once Again Been Disbarred.

But Just As the World ‘Hates a Drunk’

Equally Soon Does Capitalism Give In,

All Booze Baron’s Worship

The Crumpled But Almighty ‘Slur Shekel’.

So Now I Do Plan My Standard Standup Speech

“Yes Lads!, ‘Scooner or Later’ I Hope To Announce

To You My Fellow Leaning Sozzles of the LLB!

Well I’ll Be! – I’ve Been Re-Admitted To The Bar”

“Remembering The Old Working-Class Bar” (A Poem)

I was 22 years Old

And behind the Bar.

A working-class bar where the old coots give you shit.

The more they drink the more confidant they get.

The jokes were always bad.

The couple owners were old close to retirement,

and the tough as boots old lady had an eagle eye at all times.

My first week she told me to the dairy go next door for a “long weight”,

I fell for it like a total boob.

The old man was a classic old time slow grafter,

who occasionally when drunk propositioned and squeezed the female bar staff.

He did it to the lady that ended up lifting his cash from him.

I guess that’s why she allowed it.

There was the devil eyed nasty alcoholic teacher lady,

Who took a disliking to me,

I assume it was because at the time I looked far too much ”young anglo male’,

And she probably deep down wanted to be one too.

Or she was probably just a garden variety mad as hell teacher who hated herself.

There was my manager was 36 and partied every night,

I couldn’t keep up with him, I tried for a week.

There was the old Naval Hero who was the cook,

A sneaky old coot that tried to push me around.

if 3 people ordered a meal at the same time he panicked,

much like a MGM cartoon character about to be blown up.

The joint was laden with smoke from cigarette smokers,

That second hand smoke annoyed the hell outa me.

There were the gamblers at the pokie machines,

They sadly played pushing the button time after time,

desperately hoping for “free spins”.

If I only had a pint of beer for every time a Jackpot winner said:

“Thank god I can pay the electric bill now”,

I’d never pay for a beer again.

There was the dopey musclehead who had a too decent Japanese wife,

He was running around behind her back with some drunkard whore.

One day a tough guy came in and threatened us behind the bar,

the musclehead cowered despite his muscles,

He was still the weak bullied kid in his mind.

There was the punter with ginger beard double denim & cowboy hat a wannabe “outlaw”,

he gave me a lot of shit, then one day I gave him two barrels back,

Which drew hoops and claps from the gallery.

The Pub’s suburb was the same one my Paternal Grandad, (Father as a kid) & Great Grandfather had lived in,

some 35 years later.

The Grandfather was a Drunk – and here I was serving his type.

I didn’t think much of that but the older I got the spookier I thought of it.

When the Rugby was on it was packed out,

Any ‘hospo’ worker knows how hard a job it is when a bar’s packed out.

No one gives Hospo workers credit – how bizarre!

They allow people to blow off steam, take a tone of crap & feed people,

That’s an important job if you ask me.

One day the owners sold out & retired.

The option was given to stay on with the new owners,

no one wanted to do it, including me.

It must have been an alright time.

That reminds me, I had a fling with a customer the red head student teacher once,

She wasn’t a supermodel, but I was male & 23,

23 yr old males don’t say know to a “free meal”.

Why are Teachers so horny? Is it the stress of their jobs?

It was twenty years ago now, and I still remember those years well.

I went back to the Bar a few months ago,

A few changes but roughly the same.

I saw a few wooden seats that were the exact same seats.

I ordered a coke so as not to seem odd.

It would have been nice to see an old face – alas there was none.

I wondered how many of those lovable old coots had passed.

RIP to all those old coots of that Chatty Bar in New Brighton Christchurch, NZ.

I still remember ya’s.