“Don’t Be An Alco If You Can Help It – A Tribute To Buk” (A Prose Poem)

by Anton Martin Smith antonmartinsmithwrites@gmail.com

Perhaps no writer has told of the average joe’s plight in the nine-to-five drudge.

Than the great Bukowski.

Yes he was a sleaze – he admitted this himself.

This is why he agreed to write the newspaper column ‘Notes of a dirty old man’.

But let’s be honest at least half of urban-nine-to-five slave-women like sleazes – at least sometimes.

You see it’s about utilitarianism – They can use the sleaze & then throw them away.

They are conveinient, disposable.

They are fun during bar-night-ovulations or during rolling personal crises that is ‘modern city life’.

So while half of urban western women say they hate Buk – They are are at least intrigued by a wild animal type like Bukowski.

Because Buk was more a phenomenon of our dystopian reality just as much as he was a ‘dirty old man’.

I mean the cliché is that all women like a ‘bad boy’.

Clichés have to at least be half true – don’t they?

Of course they are.

And that’s why at least as many Western dystopian city livin’ women love Bukowski as hated him, & probably more.

Although he did say himself that he ‘let women push him around’, & that’s why they liked him so much.

But that was a schoolboy analysis, even he would know that – after all, he had a big brain.

But I think – on top of the ‘Western city dystopia effect’ – he was at least a hybrid of both a ‘pushover & a bad boy’.

Perhaps it was the hybrid nature that intrigued his many boozy women that he talked of in his novel ‘Women’.

But then again most of Buk’s women were fellow ‘bottom of the barrel types’.

They were alcoholics, party animals, literal prostitues etc.

Though later in life Buk said he ‘couldn’t be bothered with bars no more’ –

He ‘just wanted to sit in a quiet room with a beer and his thoughts’.

You see even an dive-bar-livin’-alco like Buk can’t party much past fifty.

There’s the famous video where he gets pissed at Linda (his wife) because she keeps partying big.

In the infamous video she is unrepentant & says “I’ll keep going out at night & I’ll see whoever I want”.

This makes Buk ‘see red’ – he threatens to ‘Get his Jewish lawyers to kick her out’.

She is again unrepentant to his discomfort & his view of ‘how it should be’.

He loses it, his anger boils over & as the are both at opposite ends of the couch,

He starts kicking her like a child would – it looks bad on camera but there’s no force behind the kicks.

He ruined his poise & argument there.

It was a good argument to not be an alcoholic if you can help it at all.

Because if you’re deeply damaged – and most of us are – alcohol takes all your problems and makes a stage show of them.

But if you are (an alco) and you can’t (stop), it also helps (like Buk was) to be an entertainer, artist or writer – and living in America

They kinda issue you a ‘free pass to misbehave’ over there.

This is why America has both the best art and literature and the worst behavour.

So Rest In Peace Buk – may you be soaking in a giant vat of Budweiser in the clouds.

You behaved bad AND made great art.

The embodiment of the USA.

For the record I was a binge drinker for fifteen years, but not an alcoholic.

These days I just sit in a quiet room, drink two beers a night & write.

Like Bukowski my wild party days are long gone.

All I have left are a few wild memories.

And sometimes I really miss my (watered down) version of the various Bukowski Boozy Babes.

As Bukowski’s life was a testament to:

Time really does turn deadly sharp edges into fuzzy warm curves.

The truth is they were both good and bad and you could not have one without the other.

This is why you should never ‘throw the baby out with the bathwater’.

Perhaps both the best saying and civic instruction to have ever lived.

So let us never throw Bukowski’s out of the pages of our literature.

“The Rosy Life Of The High IQ + Neuro-divergent” (A Prose Poem)

by Anton Martin Smith antonmartinsmithwrites@gmail.com

If you have high IQ and Neuro-diversity you tend to live in your own world.

A world of ever-swirling-ideas, stacks of sky-high books & mindsets of never wanting to be ‘pinned down’.

And of course, at least a few decades of voluntary poverty – that goes without saying.

But let me explain the ‘pinned down’ thing.

You see people like us – who are smart & also neuro-divergent (I reckon I have ADHD) –

We love ‘Ideas’ much more than the current version of ‘bland Earthian reality’ dished up.

So this explains our tendency to not want to commit to a single-probability-wave-collapsed, long term course of action –

It is too much connected to the ‘real world’.

We would rather talk about the myriad of pitfalls that the ‘real world’ has waiting to ensnare.

When we do this with a beer or tea or coffee we are in our version of ‘heaven’.

For example I don’t like the idea of being a Lawyer with two kids in private school with a high price wife on a hill.

And then we would have dinner parties where we all sit & rattle off narrow upper-middleclass epithets to each other.

“Oh I’ve decided to rebalance my portfolio”

“Oh really – that’s wise”

“Yes I decided that while drinking bitch juice at Portsea Polo last week”

“Oh what a great Idea Ms X, and I have got my reno going – we are adding an extra room & two new bathrooms”

“Oh isn’t that wonderful Ms Y – but will Burt still pee on the toilet seats?”

Cue the laughing like Hyena’s & all in front of poor Blushing Burt.

That kind of life I would see as a ‘living hell’.

The performative narrow-band blandness of it all is stomach churning.

Why would anyone want to live like that?

When I see people like this I think it’s all because they have killed off their inner child.

They have ‘human sacrificed’ themselves.

You can’t think of them as the playful child they once were – it is impossible to divine from their adult faces.

Someone that has a high IQ & is Neuro-diverse sees these things very easily.

We see the unhappiness & the unhappiness out there in the world.

We see through the smoke & mirrors of this ‘reality tv’ world they’ve sneaked on us.

Of course we suffer – for we are usually poor – but perhaps a few might get wealthy off Art/Media/Music etc.

Those ones often can’t handle being back in the world of empty epithets, status, & bank balances – so they do themselves in.

So we are better off being alone on our rooms with books piled high & living off the food scraps the world throws up.

If we die under a ditch early in life – we can accept that.

For at least we saw the swindle and had a original few ideas.

We let the dull have their dinner parties, & we were happily uninvited.

It’s far more fun to make fun of them.

They can swig their overpriced bitch diesel & practice their sneers in their expensive cracked mirrors.

We will be writing of it all with full epistemological & philosophical accuracy for future generations to enjoy.

While they will be outed as the ‘intellectual sludge people’ of the ever-declining post-post-Roman era.

All in all I’d say us high IQ-Neuro-diverse have it pretty good.

The only draw back is we need to raid the back of the couch to buy milk,

And our rooms are book laden dusty debacle obstacle courses.

Other than that life’s Rosy for us.

The only weak point we have is when there is a sudden ‘crisis of confidence’:

Where we wake up in a cold sweat in the middle of the night with the thought:

“Are we just a rehahsed version of them but don’t know it?”.

It is a terrible conjecture indeed.

If it were true, I would act to bury it deep in my psyche forthwith – to protect a fragile ego.

If it were not true, I’d be willing to write a poem about it.

Dragon slayed my friends – Dragon slayed!

We are not at all like them – we are not like our natural enemies.

We have not yet became that which we fight against.

But this is not the end of our problems:

For what of the next conjecture:

Are we High IQ Neuro-divergent family still just ‘bunch of assholes’ none-the-less?

I call this the ‘Griswold’s theory’ and I hope the answer is not of the ‘one hand clapping in the woods’ type.

But let’s be honest with ourselves: we can easily slip into the territory without knowing it,

So perhaps all of us can be assholes some of the time,

Some of us can be assholes all of the time,

But all of us can’t be assholes all of the time.

This is called the Dylan-asshole-theory.

Of course I could continue, however this is a poem and not an essay.

And I think we can all agree, be us High Iq Neuro-divegent’s or Upper middle class pustules or somthing else:

Only an asshole would write am essay and call it a poem.

I reader pals, would never do that.

Though I am also sometimes a unscrupulous liar.

I regard this as an inalienable right my artistic license,

Which strangely is now made to expire every five years, & limits the number of passengers I can stage dive onto.

And now this essay, er…I mean poem must end.

For more than enough intellectual chaos has been metered out,

And ‘world befuddlement stocks’ have been greatly enriched.

My work is done here.

“The Journey Of The Master’s Apprentice – Part 4 – Take the Fork in The Road & You can’t not be a Soldier”:

by Martin Anton Smith martinantonsmith@gmail.com

….Back to the analogy of the Apprentice-to-Master journey from the abysmal beginning to the Masterful mountaintops: Remember you’ve now come a long way, relaxed to much & have seemingly tumbled back to your starting point.

It was a dramatic event. Before you knew what was really happening you have stopped falling & are no longer tumbling downhill. Now you are still at the bottom – where you began the journey long ago. You notice it ‘looks and feels like’ the psychological state many have called ‘rock bottom’. It feels that way.

But now you have dusted yourself off, checked you’re bruises and broken bones over you can now see you seem to indeed be back to the ‘randomized cultural abyss’ where you started your journey between ten and twenty five years ago. You at this stage of your development (Not yet a Master) trust your immediate surroundings far to much – or should I say the ‘meaning imbued’ into your surroundings.

This natural for most for remember – you are not a Master (of Life) yet, you are an probably an experienced Apprentice – perhaps you are even a mature Journeyman. A Journeyman to a Master is of course a seen as a more primitive state than the Apprentice who can become a Master (of Life).

For the Journeyman lacks the constitution (tools) to ever become a Master (But of course we need them still & a Master knows this intuitively. But let’s say for simplicity you are not so ‘bad lucked’ to be a forever Journeyman – let’s say you can become a Master (of Life).

Again let’s go back to where you found yourself at rest after falling back from your journey to the fabled path where you spotted the peaceful, Masterful mountaintops in the reachable distance. The truth is when you woke up from the tumbling down, you were now no longer the exact same Apprentice you were immediately before the fall. Your history precludes that possibility. It must do as the inputs are much different, so must the output. You are not the same person, you are not the same Apprentice. The Master looking from the future knows this. But a forever Apprentice or a forever Journeyman will not know this at all – for his mind is not at t ha level of being able to see through surface appearances.

But this situation is where Life throws up a ‘fork in the road moment’. It is by nature a psychological fork as much as a physical one. It’s of belief. It is akin to the ‘what you Think becomes you’re Actions and what becomes your Actions becomes your Reality thesis (that saying is True – but of course Life Coaches/Internet guru’s have twisted/murdered all these good old type fables). The (psychological) fork in the road goes like this: From that point after the fall, you can either ‘roll over & die’ (do nothing at all) or ‘load yourself back into the stock barrel to be fired back into battles-scape (of Life)’ and possibly towards being a future Master (of Life).

If again later in the journey you chose the wrong path in the road (i.e. you agree to stay an Apprentice or at best a Journeyman) you also choose a path of not being to ever become the Master. If you choose the ‘path of the Master’ you are on the ‘right fork of the road’, I.e. the path to possibly become a Master (of Life).

Of course it’s worth mentioning that Yogi Berra (the famed American baseball coach) also said wisely “if you see a fork in the road ahead – take it”. So in truth you can take the right fork (towards being a Master) the left fork (An Apprentice or Journeyman) or (as Yogi Berra warned of, & p.s. to the non-American’s – Yogi Berra is his real name & he is not the ‘Jellystone Park’ Cartoon Bear that steals pic-a-nic baskets) you can sit the grass next to the fork in the road or back at where you fell back too (falsely) avoiding the stress of making a decision.

But let’s assume your smart enough to “take the fork in the road” as Berra said. What is the difference between the two situations he talks of – ‘the barreling towards the forks in the road of life or the ‘roll over & die’ situation where you avoid life entirely?

The one that ‘loads themselves into a the barrel again’ and then also chooses the Masters path at the key ‘fork in the road’ has proven they are future Master material’ – for they intuitively know not to trust their kneejerk feelings after waking up from the fall backwards to what looks very much like that old randomized abyss of the beginning of life’s adult journey (perhaps) ten to twenty five years ago.

The future Master chooses not to take the ‘beaten down, in-the-moment, go-to advice’ – that is of choosing the options that stop

You from becoming a ‘Master’. The future Master has (psychologically) a healthy ‘dissociation’ between themselves and their minds ‘chatter’ (bad superficial advice).

I hate to admit it, but life seems to be indeed akin to a War (and I would contend is at least as much ‘attritional’ as vs a series of ‘shock & awe’ battles). Sun Tzu (The Art of War) had many fine points on the matter in fact. In wandering the wrong forked path after a blow to the mind and spirits, anyone can easily forget life’s ‘War-like-ness’ – & I think even a future Master (of Life) can even still fall prey to ‘aimless wandering’ – but perhaps I am being to optimistic, but that’s also not a bad strategy in itself, so long as it’s based on (Enlightenment like) philosophical reasoning vs blind reasoning. I’d like to think that twenty years in a psychological rest area is not also a metaphorical black hole of mediocrity (as eighty years as an Apprentice would certainly be).

The War of life is about embracing the rough & tumble, showing your battle-scars with pride. Then you are reminding yourself that you are at (some various kind of) War – with at least large attritional aspects. While a soldier in the ‘War of Life’ (hopefully to be a Master) you then must agree (as a soldier does by definition) to ward off the often ‘beaten down part of your mind. After all – a soldier worth their salt doesn’t like a ‘chatterer in the ranks’, especially while under enemy fire (to act like this would be seen as Treasonous or at least Court-Martial-able).

Isn’t it sad we don’t always hear of ‘Life’s battle cries’ hidden amongst the rest areas of the mountain’s foothills, and in the ‘randomized abysses’ we all came from, and in particular after a ‘heavy fall’. But then again if everyone was a ‘Master’, then it would also be true that no one would be – for ‘without shade their is no light’. Whatever the Truth is, Shakespeare was onto something, for life as it is and has been lived here prima facie on Earth, is surely some kind of weird alchemy of both tragedy, comedy and history – and we all need to create genuine meaning out of it all, much to the chagrin of the future-present-past slings & arrows that abound.

THE END

This writing is owned by Martin Smith Creations Ltd (NZ). For Commercial use contact Martin A.Smith at martinantonsmith@gmail.com. For non-profit Educational use, please share freely.

The Journey Of The Master’s Apprentice : Personalized Abysses & The Start of the Journey – Part 3 The Pain of Resting Too Long” (A Serialized Essay)

by Martin Anton Smith martinantonsmith@gmail.com

The Journey Of The Master’s Apprentice : Personalized Abysses & The Start of the Journey – Part 3 The Pain of Resting Too Long” (A Serialized Essay)

……continued from https://antonmartinsmith.com/2026/02/26/the-journey-of-the-masters-apprentice-part-2-personalized-abysses-the-start-of-the-journey/

A ‘eventually Bad’ thing can take the same look. When ‘beating your own path’ to find meaning – It’s annoying that it is not always obvious that your doing either the right or wrong thing. I was listening a a 50 year old writer who wrote for 29 years with no success, & then finally at age 50 it ‘suddenly all fell together’. He said that during that 29 years every ‘normal person’ thought he was an idiot for wasting his time. He won because he knew he was good & had a thing called ‘faith’. I think the Apprentice – to Master process is like this. A budding ‘Master’ of (something original) will probably usually be known as a failure to most around them.

For people on this journey (hopefully if of meaning, originality, Mastership) – perhaps after a decade or two of adulthood (if you are lucky or not forever willfully blind) you see that the trail has changed & looks less ‘abyss-ie’.

A quick surveillance as you look around shows that you have now arrived at a new location – the foothills of a hazed but surely very real, and at the least ‘partly beautiful’ towering distant mountain peak.

As you realized the improved conditions, you recognize you have ‘come a long way now’. But then you being an Apprentice (of Life) instead of a Master, you chose to celebrate and you tell yourself to take rest.

That’s what feels right. But there were risks in that decision. On this ‘celebrated rest’ you relaxed too much thinking you were enjoying yourself – that which is happening is of course the ‘Masters test’. For you don’t know it, but you’ve done something wrong by resting (too long) & psychologically celebrating too much.

The future Master-self (if you become one) who is looking on from the future, knows this is where you let your guard down (against Life’s tripwires).

The (future self) Master is watching you (as him/herself in the past) as a greenhorn Apprentice (of Life) making schoolboy/schoolgirl errors.

The future-self-Master see what the present ‘more foolish you’ has done – in choosing to ‘rest too long’ Apprentice-you has allowed a random unvetted element to sit beside you while you were resting.

While you patted yourself on the back about ‘how Far you’ve come’, some strange force came to distract you, perhaps it was a person pf a ‘collective of people’ that appeared in human form (common), but perhaps not (perhaps the destructive force was simply an obsession with electric guitars or a psychological addiction to cynicism etc.).

Because you as the Apprentice (of Life) only within the ‘adult game’ for perhaps ten to twenty five years, you have so much to learn yet to become literally ‘Masterful’.

In taking to rest & the distraction that was ‘served up’ while you were relaxing in the ‘rest area’, you lost sight of the main goal. You lost sight of the hazed covered mountaintops & the less beaten path that leads towards its peak.

So, of course in these conditions you are as the famed Roman border-guard-soldier who has over successive generations became en weakened to be casual about taking off his uncomfortable helmet while on guard/lookout duty. He is like most the other Roman guards of The Decline – he thinks to himself ‘it’s been quiet on the ‘hun invasion front’ I can relax a little”. He trusts the bad chatter in his mind, instead of being like Marcus Aurelius the stoic Roman Emperor who would dismiss the minds weak defeatist chatter with ease. That kind of creeping malaise they say is what really made the Roman Empire fall.

Thinking like that can make disaster easily strike just like an asp might strike someone ambling dreamily through the long grass on the savannah. The disaster bites, you are snapped out of you’re seemingly-always-getting-a-little-better-journey. Suddenly you’re rolling back downhill fast, tumbling, sweating, having no rest, losing parts of yourself piece by piece. That’s what they call in the vernacular a ‘rude awakening’.

Back to the Apprentice to Master journey from the abysmal beginning to the Masterful……

“Nuthouse Candidate” (Comedic Prose)

By Anton Martin Smith Antonmartinsmithwrites@gmail.com

When I walk around town and see the people, I like to play a simple game – I ask myself: “If it was still 1950 – who would be locked up in a nuthouse? From there on is is a fairly simple taxonomy & observation exercise:

Lady at second hand book sale slams books down on the counter like they are sledgehammers –nuthouse candidate.

Lady who when talking to young German tourists can’t get over how far from home they are – nuthouse candidate.

Alcoholic old staff lady who frantically called the cops on a handsome middle aged male customer for making over-the-top jokes with the young female staff – nuthouse candidate.

Homely middle aged lady & checkout chick saying at high ‘customer audible’ volumes to similar staff lady next to her that she “hasn’t had sex in so long that it’s almost grown over” – nuthouse candidate.

You might notice a pattern emerging from this: a lot of middle-aged females. Well this is an understandable but technically false assumption: I would have written down the ‘nuthouse candidates’ who were ‘male’, however as they are all business owners of stores that I regularly frequent (Bookstores, Takeaway Joints, Bars, Pool houses, Cafes), and I am worried they will swiftly ban me on account of if write of them, and they duly recognize themselves in the text.

This is why I will not ever mention a guy like “Joeblo” the vertically challenged snot-nosed barmen who breeds Guinea Pigs and whose nickname is “Richard Gere don’t do that”.

Moreover they also get a free pass from being ‘nuthouse candidates’ as they are economically too important, are often very stupendously witty, & I on too many occasions often agree totally with them.

The moral of the story? Don’t let a flawed research methodology get in the way of having really fun a day out around town.

And always remember to love the crazies because of the ‘it takes one to know one ‘thesis’, and also the other so-true thesis of “there’s nothing worse than being boring”.

And as a postscript – whatever you do, don’t ever listen to the thesis of “If you don’t have anything nice to say don’t say anything at all”, after all your grandmother was a statistically probably a bitch, and following that thesis would rule out the entire arts & literature game entirely – clearly this is bad-bad-bad.

“An Embarrassing Mishap at the MIDCLAPS” (Prose).

By Anton Martin Smith antonmartinsmithwrites@gmail.com

The Envelope was delivered to the smartly dressed compere.

It was a ritzy affair, all paid for via legally stolen cash (of course).

The compare had a blank face even more blank than a blank page,

That was about to be filled with soulless blank copy-cat words,

From one of the many blank-headed nominees.

You know the ones – the ones that put the B in Banal, just as much as they put the ANAL in bANAL.

The compere’s smile was at least as fake as a Politician’s or a Real Estate Agents, or a Dentists for that matter.

He opened the letter slowly & with the accompanied ‘tinny’ drum roll sound playing from a 5 watt speaker.

And then his cold flappy bloodless gums started to flap, with sound coming out.

“And the winner this year …Of the Stock-Standard Middle-Class Poetry Awards, aka the “MIDCLAPS”… is…as it has been every year since inception…It Goes to….

Yes me Zombies! – ‘The Anti-Poetry Non-Truth Factory Poetry Division Collective’ strikes again!

And yes, I’m afraid to say they have one it for the 100th straight year!

Ain’t ‘Rigo-nomics’ grand folks!

They’ve won with the exact same poem, but they’ve slightly rehashed it!

Ooooh! This is so…so…anti-surprising, isn’t it?!

Let me read it to you, as I know you’re all dying to hear it.

Wintery Forest Leaves

As the wintery leaves fell through the dense windswept forest,

The agile birds swooped between the trees,

Like a thread going through a needle,

Their spirited cries echoed though the valley gorges,

And reminded us of our long ago forgotten home,

Which had the strange but stylish hyphenated name of: I-coonta-fookin-recalla”

WAIT A MINUTE DEAR AUDIENCE!

SOMEONE HAS ILLEGALLY INTERFERRED WITH THE WINNERS ENTRY!

THEY’VE FALSELY ADDED AN EXTRA THE LAST LINE OF THIS POEM!

They’ve made it interesting and/or witty and/or unique and/or truthful!

They went BIM BIM BIM

When it was BLAND BLAND BLAND we wanted!

THIS IS ILLEGAL POETRY MY FRIENDS AND WILL NOT BE TOLLERATED!

The MIDCLAPS Awards are on hold indefinitely pending an investigation into this travesty!.

For who knows dear audience & sponsors? –

Perhaps there is a coup going on inside ‘The Anti-Poetry Non-Truth Factory Poetry Division’?

If we don’t nip this in the bud ASAP where will we be hmmm?

Meaningful, Witty Unique & Truthful poetry will abound about the world!

‘The Masses’ will surely un-enslave themselves!

‘The Evil One’ won’t like it!

Yes, Yes Yes, calm down now, take your seats…quell your murmurs…I know we cannot have that folks.

Yes Yes Yes – to the Doctor Sir standing up, I can understand that – Yes ‘we cannot upset Satan’, I agree that ‘it’s against our oath’.

Yes Yes Yes to the madam Lawyer standing up, I agree ‘it’s against our mandate’ – to ‘keep all that’s good in the dark’.

Yes Yes Yes to the Real Estate agent standing up with the for-sale sign on forehead, I agree it’s against clause 6-66 of our constitution ‘Good people cannot be allowed to have good things’.

Don’t worry folks leave it with me and the good folks at the Anti-Poetry-League-Limited aka APOLE

You good folks can rest easy now as you know as much as I do:

SATAN himself – our CEO – would never let anyone take a bite into APOLE and get away with it.

Please enjoy the snack buffet on your way out.

“The Disease that Was Killed with a Slogan” (Prose)

I walk back from the place & see my neighbour.

They are Gen Z – about 23.

We’ve Been Neighbours since he was born.

I am a young Gen X – I’m 47.

I haven’t ever really said much to the young fella,

Probably because neighbors these days avoid each other in general.

But he knows I’m his neighbor & vice versa (of course).

Anyway, so I’m walking home.

He sees me from about thirty meters away he’s walking towards me.

And so he doesn’t have to interact with another human being,

He sells a dummy & pretends he’s going to the other direction.

But I’m on to him – he’s bad at executing.

As I walk pass him, not five meters later, he veers back to his original plan and direction.

Proof he’s gone out of his way to avoid me, because it obvious that a passing nod is all too much for him.

If this is the future of our species WE have no hope.

They try to avoid all stress – even the smallest tiniest piece of it.

Thinking more deeply about it, this is surely the behaviour of an endangered animal that is inevitably soon due for extinction.

Let me illustrate the point with a wildlife analogy.

If it was a nature doco about the small endangered ‘Furry Zwapzwap’ of Gonkswania,

The narrator would say:

Sadly the small furry Zwapzwap has become so reclusive over the last century, that it has given up entirely on the stress of communication at all, & is now mute. It is now unable to make it’s former muffled warbling sound. This also means it has tragically lost it’s mating call. It no longer reproduces at all, except by accident when one furry Zwapzwap falls over onto another member of the opposite sex. The Gonwanian Zwapzwap is so now shy it only ventures out when it has to eat, and only eats the minimum so to the reduce stress of being outside to long outside its safe warm underground burrow. Sadly, with all this lack of vitality, Furry Zwapzwap numbers have fallen dramatically to the point of-no-return where even a ‘massive accidental copulation event’ will not stop their total extinction by the year 2075.

The world needs to realise that the under 35 crowd- aka the species future hopes – are the f*cking weak afraid-of-livng furry Zwapzwaps that are breeding themselves and ‘future us out’ of existence.

And p.s. I don’t really care about us aging Gen X’s – we’ve done ‘the tour of duty’ – we’re allowed to start slowly fading away. It’s the Future that matters. No one should start fading away at age sixteen, twenty three, thirty one.

I think we need a new ‘Manhatten Project’ to stop all this ‘scaredie cat’ nonsense.

I’m not saying this is the best strategy option – but perhaps the following scheme easiest way to save future extinction:

Cheap Rent,

Cheap Alcohol,

Lots of late night shitty meat-market bars re-open,

A shitty but guaranteed job for every and any dopey schmuck loser.

I call this theory by a very interesting name:

“Roll back the Wowsering, Roll on the Partying”.

And I reckon you’d win an election with it as a slogan.

If I come up with a less based, more refined way to save us all – I’ll let you know.

But I have a sneaking suspicion there is none.

Hopefully by the time I am 125, I trust someone long ago with more energy than me will have read this prose as a young man or woman, & then championed my idea in the real world of high Politics.

And then perhaps all going well, I will be reading a History book of the Twenty First Century just ended that has a chapter called:

Roll back the Wowsering, Roll on the Partying: The Disease that Was Killed with a Slogan.

But if not we’ll certainly go the way of the Romans, which is sad but probably fitting – given that we are technically the last remnant of The Roman Empire anyway.

If this latter case is the case, I’ll be the last Human on earth age 125, casually reading a dirt-salvaged History book with the chapter:

No One Rolled back the Wowsering, No One Was Partying: And Isn’t It a Pity That We’re All Now Extinct

“Some last musings in the last moments of 2025” (A Blog post)

First some housekeeping – I have just greatly updated my last post – the link is here https://antonmartinsmith.com/2025/12/30/the-ex-high-school-nerds-coalition-prose/.

It’s a witty piece about the nerd/jock high school thing – from the aging nerds perspective. It’s as irreverent as possible…but I hope it strikes a chord to a few readers – it should do as I can only guess most people here as writers or readers were probably ‘nerds’ in high school (as I was).

Anyway go read it – I’m sure it’ll make you laugh, or cry – or maybe you’ll hate it…perhaps you will feel indifferent. Those are the only four options are they not?

In my writing it’s easy to have a bunch of neurosis. Of course I am currently a ‘nobody’ – so I don’t want to sound ‘preachy’ when I don’t have the write to, er I mean the right to. But my point is that I am thinking you need to not let the worries about what (disembodied not actually real) people might think (or be annoyed at) when you write.

In my mind there’s a too conservative middle class boring person who is tsk tsking – or a overly white liberal pretending to be offended. But I tend to ignore these neurosis & just write what I’m trying to tell. But the whiney ‘don’t do that’ super-ego parental cartoon character on the shoulder definitely makes themselves heard – they are just there outside your choice. I guess assuming you are not a psycopath you just need to learn to ignore that annoying shoulder tsk tsk’ing guy.

Maybe if I ever properly publish something I’ll get to know if those white liberal complainers will have a go at my stuff – maybe that’s when I know I’m not totally terrible.

Anyway on the writing in 2025 it’s been a good year on my WordPress site – now I have 75% more of ‘not very much’ traffic – so I should pop the cork of some fancy French wine (that I don’t have). Beer is my thing. Beer is a wonderful thing, especially now that I drink properly & no longer need ten in a row (ah I am so so mature these days, drinking like the Europeans!).

Anyway it’s now five mins to midnight, & being in NZ we get the New Year first – so It’s a good time to hit ‘publish’ for the last time in 2025.

Whoever reads this, now or in the distant dystopian future (I guess it could be a utopian future but I doubt it!) thankyou so much for the effort in listening to my ordinary tales of madness (nod to San Pedro’s finest ‘dirty old man’ – the late great Bukowski)!

See you in a few days (give or take) & happy reading (& possibly) writing!

Anton Matin Smith

“If The Results Are Good” (A prose Poem)

by Anton Martin Smith antonmartinsmithwrites@gmail.com

A Gas-station coffee run it is.

“I’d like a flat white please”, I request.

“Do you wan’t sugar?”, she queries.

“No honey”, I say cheerily.

“If you keep talking like that you’ll get it served in your face!”

She is serious.

Her face is contorted, pained.

She’s in her 50s she has grey dreadlocked hair, a face lined by a share of hard times.

Up until that moment our customer to customer service relations had been friendly enough, perfunctory.

Aiming to quickly diffuse the moment I apologize.

“Oh sorry I didn’t mean anything by that, I didn’t mean to offend…I must be getting old”.

It seemingly half works – after all scolding hot coffee has not hit my face, has it not?

“Would you like a marshmallow?” She says in a as-per-standard-question way.

“No thanks” I say, wondering why she is offering marshmallows for a flat white.

She finishes & hands the coffee over.

I matter-of-factly pay, & leave to my awaiting vehicle which with my ‘ troublesome coffee’ in hand.

As I drive away wearing sunglasses, I glance in to see the counter area.

I’m ascertaining the body language after the unsavory event.

The other staff member that had witnessed it all is looking at me black faced – I take that as a minor win.

The one who served me is obscured.

As I post-mortum the situation – my internal narrative is of two strands:

One is self serving:

“Geez some people can’t control their emotions at all, why no sense of humor – especially in that role”

The other is of a negative bent:

“Oh no you’ve put your foot in it again – why did you say that you fool – ‘no honey’…Geez!“.

As I drive away to my home, I take a sip of the “troublesome coffee”.

I now know why she offered a marshmallow after I ordered.

The sweet taste is sickening.

It is very much a hot chocolate, & not a flat white.

So she has either intentionally or unintentionally punished me on the spot.

I do half a u-turn & then I think better of it & abandon the u-turn.

I’m again driving home.

I’m feeling a little mentally deflated about it all – not that it’s a big deal or anything.

When I enter my driveway I park & disembark & I suddenly perk up a notch.

“Ah…This is good writing material!” I have suddenly realized.

“Thank god I took up writing!” I say to myself with relief.

Writing really has added so many silver linings to the blackest of social thunderclouds that abound.

Of course the worry about this phenomena is that you will create drama in order to write about it.

I wonder – Am I already do this without knowing it?

the problem is of course. as they say – an old chestnut – but is it good or bad?

Well, I cannot categorically answer that – as the answer embodies a conflict of interest.

But as an imperfect, rough & contaminated answer I will say this:

If the results are good…

“London 2038: The PM, The London, & The P.A.” Part 4 (A Serialised Story – Work In Prog)

By Anton Martin Smith antonmartinsmithwrites@gmail.com

Pertwee & Twotimer had just finished there fifth earl grey tea at the opening of the CHOGM heads of state banquet. Pertwee was doing his job as usual – massaging Twotimers fragile ego. Twotimer never did well at these official engagements. The problem is that while his well faked false persona of equal parts ‘bluster’ ‘charm’ and ‘blokeyness’ had worked brilliantly on the largely uneducated masses – it was a real hit & miss affair at these illustrious official diplomatic engagements. Yes there were some very very stupid people at these events, but at most they accounted for perhaps only twenty percent of the total number of people in any particular room.

There was also the problem of Twotimers natural snobbery. You see you might logically conclude that Twotimer would simply find the other twenty percent of the crowd at these CHOGM type events, and get on like a house on fire with the other fools. This sadly did not happen with Twotimer. You see Twotimmer really was stuck quite immobile in his snobbery. In fact one bright Fleet St wag by the name of Pete Hotchins had noticed this better than most of his colleagues. Pete Hotchins was one of the many that Twotimer had referred to as “The Damned Maggoty Pressers Inc”. Hotchins had recently drawn Twotimers ire by pointing out his bufoonery by the following verbatim description that he wrote in his weekly political round-up column. Hotchins was a well battle-scarred senior at the at least still half well respected centrist publication called The Daily Belter. This was the by now infamous Hotchins’ fly on the wall commentary on Twotimer when he was at the previous edition of the CHOGM meeting:

………..while I was looking over at all the various dignitaries I could overhear the following conversation between the Canadian Foreign Minister Frank Hands and our Twotimer – I noticed that the Canadian Minister was every now & then holding his nose, as if the Prime minister had forgotten to use deodorant. I wanted to see if this was indeed the case. I slowly sided over, & I can confirm our PM was at least a little ‘wiffy’ & perhaps even a little bit worse that that. But I overlooked this fact & listened in a little, as although the PM’s personal hygene was less than to be desired – it still only half accounted for the bemused look of disgust on the Canadian diplomats face. As I listened in over the course of perhaps five minutes I heard the PM describe his wifes bottom, using his hands often in a cupped fashion as way to illustrate her curvy-ness. He then went on to discuss his old Etonian days and how he had indeed had a great time on the stage in pantomime, and had once even been simultaneously been both ‘dressed gloriously in blackface’ and in drag as he played the part of a troubled crossdressing minstrel. The third topic before I scuttled away out of this lamentable evesdropping was Twotimer’s reflection on how hot it had been, & how ‘lusty the heat had made him’ – he then pointed literally with his index finger at the various nubile young female snack & wine waiters that were wafting about the dignitories, offering the standard CHOGHM canapes, oysters kilpatrick, Camenbere, NZ sauvignon blanc, French Merlot among other equally tasty things. Needless to say in that five minutes of stealthy evesdropping, I think I could understand the pained expression of the Canadian Foreign Minister Frank Hand’s face. When I thought it over, I had relised it was a form of snobbery that allowed our PM to behave like this – for he seemed to behave this way far more with diplomats from poor non-private school backgrounds, as was indeed the case with Frank Hands, who was in his homeland publicly well known for having experienced and risen above both conditions admirably.

Twotimer had never forgiven Pete Hotchins for this outing of what he would say himself was simply his his ‘boyish and disarming charm allowing him to able to break the ice like no other British politician ever had’. It had been a full year since the article was published, but it was again, a subject he would raise at least once or twice a week with Perteee. In fact at the current CHOGM Twotimer had been talkign to the very dull & fish eyed special non CHOGM invitee – this was the very blank faced German Trade Minister Ursula Von Neighschneigh. When he was trying to pretend he was listening to this strange robotic lady, he then started to think of Hotchins. When Twotimer thought of Hotchins & his ‘takedown article’ of him from last year – this usually meant a panic attack was coming. It came like clockwork. Whereby now he then rushed away from the German minister using his favourite feeble but believable excuse of ‘needing to go to the little boys room’. As he moved away from the German bore, he made strategic eye contact with Pertwee. He rushed to a side room with his always reliable savior & man who was always there Pertwee sliding in not far behind, in Twotimers ‘slipstream’ but also in his usual perfected inconspicuous manner. Here now in one of the many empty adjacent rooms, Twotimer leaned against the wall gasping for air with acute anxiety. He now begun unloading on Pertwee.

‘Pertwee, I’m thinking of that bastard Hotchins again – I’m having another little panic attack….quick give me some of those….’ Pertwee was already on it and had proffered up Twotimer a small paper bag of gummy bear sweets. Pertwee emptied the bag over Twotimers mouth in a similar way as an Australian bushranger might throw a whole chicken safely into a massive crocodiles snapping mouth. Twotimer finished the twenty odd gummies in one gulp. ‘Oh god..yes…Pertwee…you are my Charlemagne….you’ve headed off the monsters for me yet again….oh I feel so much better now…ah I can talk again…ah where was I…oh yes Hotchins! He could now talk, though with the spectre of Hotchins fresh in his mind his face was quite a red bloom. As he talked to his trusted Pertwee, he was still only half breathing properly.

‘Ah Pertwee can you believe that Hotchins – how could he say that bilge about me – imaging me a snob?’

‘Well Sir, he doesn’t know you like I do sir – I mean he doesn’t know your difficult upbringing in the intimate way I do’

‘Exactly Pertwee – you know me, you know I am not in any real way a snob -as if I would be a real snob! i just know the people that make a difference in this world are us special ones that have been hand-picked by some cosmic force to lead….be it me, Ceasar, Churchill, Charlemagne or Collingwood!’

‘Quite sir – by the way did you do that on purpose’?

‘What the devil do you mean Pertwee’?

‘Ceasar, Churchill, Charlemagne or Collingwood – they all start with C Sir’

‘Well spotted Pertwee – YES I was just testing you….har har har…again Pertwee you never fail to notice my little linguistic puzzles…my I don’t know how I would survive without you Pertwee’. Twotimer slapped Pertwee’s back. Without fail when Twotimer was just over a panic attack and then followed it by said something congratulatory like this towards Pertwee, he always slapped Pertwee’s back. Always just once, and always far too hard, so much so that Pertwee always lurched forward, having to steady himself by putting a foot forward past the other, to stop him toppling over. Of course Pertwee took it graciously as always without saying anything to alert Twotimer of his being made to be quite uncomfortable.

‘Oh no Sir – it is you who helps me far more than the reverse….and yes I agree with you Hotchins is a ghastly man who told a boldface lie about you in his column last year in The Daily Bugle – I mean the factoids were correct, but his implication that you were a true snob was atrociously unfair in the extreme’. Why did Pertwee say that Hotchins’ factoids were correct? Sometimes Pertwee would risk a little to try to help Twotimer try to live in the real world – just a little. When Pertwee used this method, Twotimer would raise his back up a little – but then agree with Pertwee, at least by a tiny amount.

‘Pertwee! What do you mean his factoids were correct! He’s a scoundrel! All he says are lies,,,,lies lies damnation dangled dreary drudged dilled lies!’

‘Well Sir let me remind you – he said he overheard you talking of you wife’s very round bottom – you tell me this every other day, & you do indeed make the hand motions. In fact the time he wrote about that, the last CHOGM, you had only just not ten minutes before talking to the Canadian Minister done the same thing with me’

‘Oh yes Pertwee, you are right she has a very very round bottom’ Twotimer again used his hands. ‘But Pertwee yes that factoid was true – but the other stuff was all crapity crap crap!’

‘Sir but you did play that part at one of the many pantomimes you did at Eton – that one certainly required you to wear drag and wear blackface – again I’ve heard your story about how you had to do all of that and how at the finale you had to do ‘the splits’ & you broke wind and Rector then gave you a months detention and a month of cleaning up dirty socks and underwear under your fellow boarding schoolers beds. That’s one of your favourite stories Sir. A million times you’ve told me that story – so Hotchins got that factoid right as well.

‘Oh yes….oh that was glorious fun Pertwee, I so much loved those Etonian pantomimes…ahh now that you remind me I remember that embarrassing fart moment as if was yesterday – yes the Rector hated me for that – but my chums thought I was like an Etonian Icarus!’ Twotimer slapped his leg emphatically, & beamed a wide smile. ‘But Pertwee that other thing he said…that factoid….that was wrong – wasn’t it? Twotimer’s hangdog eyes pleaded with Pertwee to at least allow him a little boldface lie, to save a little face. Pertwee wisely decided to throw him this last crumb – even though the last factoid that Hotchins has said in his article was indeed totally true. This was the one about how Twotimer had pointed and talked of the passing nubile waitresses so inappropriately & so lustily to the Canadian.

‘Oh you might be right about that Sir – it’s all a bit fuzzy now – a lot has happened since that last CHOGM conference after all – the main point is that yes, Hotchins of that ridiculous half-tabloid ‘The Belter’ is quite wrong about you being a snob – & he does not know at all how bad your childhood was like I do Sir’.

‘Yes EXACTLY Pertwee EXCACTLY! I hardly saw my diplomat father at all! Of course that’s why I am like I am & stupid people like HOTCHINS ET AL confuse me for something I am totally not! You are right Pertwee that Hotchins is terrible, he’s a bilge rat, a pap filled paparazzi in disguise as an esteemed journalist! He’s basically a traitor to his profession Pertwee’

‘Quite Sir, quite – as if you are a snob – ridiculous’

‘Stupid’

‘It’s insanity Sir’

‘Pertwee I won’t argue!…but…’ Twotimer didn’t need to finish his sentence. Pertwee had already expertly read his mind .

‘Yes, Sir of course – I have another bag of gummi bears’ Pertwee could read Twotimer like a book – he knew the look in Twotimers eye that meant he wanted a fifth earl grey tea, he say the slightly different curl of his mouth that meant he wanted gummi bears. Again Pertwee emptied the bag over Twotimers crocodile snapping jaws. Twotimer wolfed thm down with glee and sighed as he stopped leaning against the wall & then knelt on his haunches. Pertwee copied his movements & then whispered ‘Sir we better now get back to the engagement – don’t worry it’s almost over, & you can just eat the food & wine from now on, I’ll tell them that trick of ours where you’ve suddenly lost your voice’.

‘Pertwee – where would I be without you’

‘Well you wouldn’t be at the ‘toppermost of the poppermost’ as you are now, Sir’. Pertwee said blowing some well timed figurative smoke up Twotimer’s large posterior.

“Pertwee…..once again you are my perennial knowingly calm ying to my ever raging yang…and I’m not talking about next months trip to China either’

‘Don’t be silly Sir – I owe everything to you, I’m lucky to be here – now lets practice your ‘I can’t talk gesture’. Pertwee was so good at lying to boost Twotimers lack of confidence it was scary, you would never know it by how straight he could say the words looking flush into Twotimers eyes without blinking, flinching, not even an eye-twitch. As they walked back into the CHOGM formal engagement room Twotimer pointed at his throat with one finger, waved his other hand wildly & shook his head like a trout with a lure in it’s mouth.

‘Excellent Sir as always, your voice has now entirely gone – no need to talk to that dreaded Australian now after all’. Twotimer gave a knowing wink as they strutted into the CHOGM room, within a meter the Australian diplomat had clocked them & was strutting over at pace. Our men Twotimer & Pertwee gave each other a weary nod as they both signaled to a wine waiter & a canape waiter to come over quickly.

End of Part four….Part five to follow soon

This writing piece is owned by Martin Smith Creations ltd (NZ). If you are a person or a small non-profit please read or reproduce freely. Commercial Users or NGO’s: If you want to purchase for reprint of this work for a commercial project to reach a wider audience – then contact me via martinantonsmith@gmail.com to gain written legal permission.