Tag: fiction

“The Lottery Economy” (A Poem)

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by Martin Anton Smith

The “lottery line”: is an allegory for life in the modern economy.

Both on the balance of probabilities,

A swindle,

An exercise in wishful thinking,

An example of successful brainwashing,

Yes, all of the above.

The thing that stops me lining up with everyone else,

Is that I look at those people in the line.

Looking with naked eyes usually tells you everything you need.

There they stand & then shuffle forward,

As each “economy unit” is spat out,

Which allows the invisible ratchet turnstile to turn.

So I use my naked eyes.

They are Slumped of shoulders, with a faraway look in their bloodshot, overworked, overstressed eyes.

Dishevilled tatty clothes – their faces lined.

lined

lined

The lines of the ‘economy units’ & on their faces multiply,

As the ‘last chance’ candle slowly dwindles.

As news of the big jackpot spreads.

But I’m no snob jeering from the sidelines –

I know they are more than “economy units” or more commonly ‘human resources’.

That’s just what they’ve been tricked into being seen as.

It’s an evil game.

So by describing the “lottery line”,

I’m merely recording the futility of our so called “ordered society”.

I don’t fall for it all.

I’m just better at maths than they are,

And I was born with “Naked Eyes”.

I have other more hidden things to totally waste my wishful thinking on – such as writing these words.

I’m sure those fools in the “lottery line”, fig. & lit. – look at “aspiring writers” in the same way.

But writers at least have Truth as a key reason.

But know that I’m merely describing – not criticising.

And let me assure you – I’ve fallen for it all too.

For that is our reality.

So yes, catch yourself when it seems you are looking down your nose at the bedraggled.

As unless you are God himself, so are you.

Every Human is bedraggled – no exceptions.

The truth is everyone in “the economy” is lining up for spoils from some invisible dream.


Yes – It’s the Economy stupid!

And It promises you a big Jackpot tomorrow,

Yet it wins your time & energy daily.

And we all know that saying about tomorrow.

Don’t you dare line up with that faraway look in your eye.

Unless when you get your ticket you snap out of it,

Turn around to your fellow bedraggled & scream

“The Economy…….is Out Ta Get Me!!!”

Then you must rip your ticket up & throw it into the air.

Then cooly walk out of there, without a care in the world.

Like you’re not forever trapped in grinding cogs that we may as well call

“The Lottery Economy”.



“Routines” (A Poem)

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by Martin Anton Smith

He dared to have an intellectual life.

And so, of course, they hated him.

For when they talked to him,

They realised that they themselves,

Had no depth.

He was usually good at acting dumb,

But now at his advancing age,

He had grown tired of having too.

“Let them feel as the fools they are”,

He said to himself.

But then he suddenly felt ashamed of himself.

For he realised he’d forgotten something.

He realised that he was just a wisest man,

Living in a place where even the wisest man,

Would be seen as a dullard.

All it would take for this to happen,

Was the passage of perhaps two hundred years at most.

He would, in essence, be a fool like all the others.

He went back to hiding his intellectual life.

And now he felt less conflicted about it,

Though I wouldn’t exactly say he was happy about it.

It was a daily thought ritual that once it was over,

He immediately forgot all about it.

Until the exact same set of circumstances arose tomorrow.

Where he would think, & conclude the exact same things again.

All in all,

His daily suffering offered him a lot of mental comfort.

After all, It was the only routine he could follow with ease.

“If You Don’t Know Where You’re Going” ( A Poem)

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by Martin Anton Smith

“Hi I need directions”

“Oh, well where are you going?”

Oh, I guess anywhere will do!

“Well then, any road will take you there”.

This is one on the great old movie lines,

So much so,

The late talented songster Mr G. Harrison wrote a song about it.

His variation of the line was

“If you don’t know where your going – any road will take you there”.

There’s a simple beauty to the idea & the sound of that line.

There’s a gentleness to it.

There is no judgement.

It says – it’s ok to not know what the hell you’re doing.

And artists take solace in that –

Because Artists & Writers are famously “woolly-minded”.

Of course, an accountant would hate that line.

It would make them feel, in their own way –

er…let me say….quixotically queasy.

They’d rather rephrase it as

“If you don’t know where you’re going –

well you should have taken that postgrad diploma then,

like I told you when you graduated”.

Some of us are risk adverse,

Some of us like the adventure,

Of not knowing what you’ll do;

Today

Tomorrow

Next Week

Next Year

Next Decade

Next Life.

Now excuse me, I must find that street called ‘any road’ –

Other wise I might not get there.

Alas this was my vaishingly small ode,

To that very much underrated thing,

That those drab-un-joking-careermen fear so much:

Uncertainty.

While us bad Artists, would be Writers, & not quite Quantum Physicists,

Just spread it on our toast each morning.

“PS…I Will Most Likely Dissapoint You” (A Poem)

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by Martin Anton Smith

I am an Arty type,

I’ve drawn, painted, played music, & written stuff.

I self-sabotage – but that’s just another (unpublished) story.

But weirdly for an Arty type,

I look after my health & fitness.

I also now work with my hands.

So I’m in pretty good shape.

I could almost pass for a personal trainer.

This is a problem.

For for others, i.e. normies – I confuse them.

They feel they are not getting what they are buying.

They want a fellow unthinking normie jock.

But in me they get an overthinker;

A non-fiction & literature type book reader;

A night owl-late-rising “slacker”;

A “conspiracy theorist”;

A guy who can’t ever keep his room clean long;

Someone who can’t be easily brainwashed;

Someone who can think properly;

Someone who knows that Slavery never ended –

Only expanded to include everyone,

The fact hidden via ubiquitous airwave mantras;

Someone who knows that Brainwashing is the real economic currency on Earth;

So given all the above – most soon grow to hate me.

They wanted their real bona fide Jock,

Their unthinking buff personal trainer,

Their ardent careerist who thinks they’ll soon ‘get there’,

If only they’d work more hours in the office.

Someone who’d agree with their goon-scripted banalities & frivolities.

Someone who’d agree with ‘The Programming’.

Well I’m sorry that I falsely advertised myself visually.

But to nick the soon-to-be-forgotten cliche line –

From the finally soon-to-be-forgotten Bob Dylan,

That ain’t me babe,

No No No,

That ain’t me babe,

That ain’t me your looking for.

(Note: The ‘that aint me babe’ cliche works only if you also sing the line)

I know I’m breaking the artistic rules by being Arty AND Fit,

But there’s a good reason for it.

I liked Science & Maths before I liked Art.

You see, being fit simply makes sense,

If you have to still live in the physical world.

We are far too obsessed with our petty in-groups,

Where to be admitted into supposed ‘rebellion’,

You have to wear the right uniform.

And so I ask of you:

Why would a person who can truly act & think freely,

Ever agree to such a monstrosity?

So I will continue to look like a jock,

Despite the mass disappointment it engenders.

If only I’d make better art.

But again,

That’s just another (unpublished) story.

“The Alcoholic You Always Wanted To Be” (A Poem)

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by Martin Anton Smith

He has a fat beer barrelled belly,

While your waist has only a few rings of crisp ‘n’ soda -flab.

He has a stench that attests to his 3 day & counting bender,

While you smell like a fresh daisy plucked from a mountain stream.

His voice is raspy & harsh from drunken whoops & hollers at the dive bar,

While your sclerotic office voice sounds like a hungry cat whining for its morning feeding.

The drunkard’s villa is an ode to haphazard-ry, with loosely connected pyramids of beer cans,

While your apartment looks like it’s been ‘staged’ by the real estate wonks.

I could go on & on, but let’s just cut to the summary:

In a weird kinda way you are jealous of this beer belly joe,

For he wears his woes out loud,

While you have concocted an elaborate cover story.

Come on!

Just plain admit it.

He’s the Alcoholic you always wanted to be,

But you were afraid,

For fear of what people might think.

One day you’ll have the courage to raise a glass to beer belied Joe,

Crumple the empty can in your hand,

it & throw it backwards over your head,

Till you hear it recoil & fall after hitting the overfilled bin & its aluminium foothills,

Then reach for another beer.

But you’re not ready yet.

You might never be ready to reach such illustrious, truth infused heights,

Of that generalised, fictionalised, traditionalised & ‘cantankerised’ patriot,

Who isn’t necessarily a man,

Whom I’ve simply called ‘Beer Belied Joe’.

And so because you’re not ready yet,

You reach meekly into your bathroom cupboard,

And quietly pop an anti-depressant.

But if & only if,

A day comes where you can throw the empty stress pill wrapper over your head,

And not care a jot where it lands,

Then we can talk.

And lastly – to the poetry critics in the future,

Yes I may simply have been talking to myself,

A conversation across decades,

Between my younger & older self.

For can a poet ever really exclude himself from his words?

“Born Into Insanity” (A Poem)

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by Martin Anton Smith

Death by one’s own hand is a terrible thing,

And everyone says so,

And everyone agrees.

But the real question is this:

Given the The World is as it is,

We should be asking,

“why don’t more people do it?”.

After all, when you really look at it,

‘The World’ is designed to create misery.

We’re living in a contrived artificial reality,

That was artificial long before computers were around.

For all the most important stuff – energy, food, housing,

We have Cartels owned & run by Psyco’s who create artificial shortages,

To jack up the price,

This all keeps The Hamsters redlining themselves on the wheel.

If they stop running the wheel will kill them in a second.

The wheel will throw them under the nearest bridge,

And it does all the time.

We can be sure of one thing:

The World is by design a bad place for most.

So much so that even those ‘doing well’ are miserable.

The Truth is we should all still be living as hunter gathers,

Or at worst in small self-sufficient villages.

This was the real design of the Earth,

And is what every other creature abides by.

It’s just the humans that let themselves be hoodwinked,

All those millennia ago.

We were just born into it, & so never thought it was truly fucked up.

We were all born into insanity,

And we will die in it.

And most will never realise.

Always question things –

For unquestioned ‘normality’ is anything but.

But for now.

We are still the butt of own own jokes.

For those of us ‘in the know’,

Let us not be all like

“Oh dear, how sad, never mind”.

Addendum:

Sadly I still predict the Chattering Classes will continue to only Chatter.



“They Didn’t Travel All That Way For That” (A Poem)

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by Martin Anton Smith

They all have jet boats.

They all have Jet Skis

And Dogs,

Sometimes two of them,

Often aggressive & all off-leash.

They all have a Mrs or a Mr literally within reach,

Who is their metaphorical Siamese twin.

They all can’t bear the insanity brought on by sitting alone with their own minds.

They reproduce so easily & make exact mini copies of themselves.

They are banal & their copies are banal.

They don’t read books at all.

They avoid anything involving a call to a higher self.

In fact, they actively rally against it.

They are the reason the authorities keep schtum about the truth of alien life.

While there are many more billions of them than us,

With that kind of man,

Mankind is definitely not ready yet.

And neither are ‘The Off-Worlders’.

They didn’t travel all that way for that.

“A Miner’s Bath” (A Poem)

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By Martin Anton Smith

So today I was doing a manly manly thing.

I was working with on a bathroom renovation.

And in these situations you must make the most of it.

When you pull off a sheet of Gib aka Dry Wall – you roar like an angry lion.

When you pull off a noggin – you roar.

When you pull out a tack – you roar.

When you sweep up some construction dust – you roar.

These are the pathetic things us men now have to do.

It makes us for a split second think that we haven’t lost our masculinity entirely.

And so when the days work was done – I figured I’d keep the theme going.

I decided I’d go have a ‘miners bath’ – that is to jump into n the river with a bar of soap.

So I walked my 300 meters to the mighty blue river.

I jumped in with all my clothes on – even a old timer wide brim hat.

The soap was in the pocket, out it came & I washed my hair and then a quick once over the rest.

It was just what the old gold miners did in ‘thems old days’.

Back when masculinity wasn’t a dirty word – it was a requirement of all men.

I was almost in the same bathwater from the miners of 1860 to 1890.

The water was quite warm & then my big bar of soap fell out & sank on the bottom.

I bet this was also an old miners tradition – to lose your soap in the river.

My nostalgia was ruined when a guy came along talked to me & then made a cell phone call while he was knee deep.

I will definitely be taking more ‘miners baths’ in the future.

it affords a simple pleasure in a time without much simplicity or genuine pleasure.


These things stave off the spectre of domestic insanity at least until the next day.

I could have “roared” when I was in the water, but then that would have been sophomore-ish at best.

I simply got out & said to the guy “don’t drop your phone”.

Ahh miners bath is a thing a beauty.

I walked back home with the gait & energy of a seargeant major from a real army.

Yes readers, my Masculinity was internally roaring along like a Baritone Beast, a Harley Davidson.

But then perhaps I should shut up – else everyone will be having ‘miners baths’.

And forever ruin my slim to none chances of grabbing some pure solitude.

But then Ned Kelly was right – “such is life”.

We’re not here to ‘win’.

A true masculine man will know this innately.

And now that word, like the modern man himself – has lost all meaning.

Thank God I’m here to write about it all!

Tomorrow I could search for the bar of soap at the bottom of the river.

But why would I?

It’s either lost forever, far too soft or will have entirely disintegrated into its watery surroundings.

Just like Men have.




“Aliens & Us: Are we Their Pets, Livestock, or Is Earth Just A Joint For The Cosmically Depressed ” (An Article of Whimsy)

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By Martin Anton Smith

A truly intelligent & cultured person or being for that matter, who has long conquered themselves, doesn’t invite a Stone Age barbarian to live with him or live amongst them freely. To do so would invite serious harm and would refute the premise that they have attained high wisdom & self control as individuals, a group or society or even perhaps as an extra-terrestrial species.

Well – it’s the same thing with the Aliens & Us thing. And yes it is a ‘thing’ unless you’ve been living under a nice upper middle class rock in a highly manicured garden a far too leafy green suburb. And anyway perhaps one day even the snobs on the hills of the world will have to look reality squarely in its big sloping almond shaped eyes. One day.

But back to what I said earlier – about smart things or beings not ever hanging with Neanderthals.

Well it’s time to admit that that’s not strictly true – said man or woman or being might do as such for probably only a couple of main reasons: They have become totally abjectly bored and want to risk being beaten up, killed or raped, or maybe just have their living rooms destroyed or to witness a beast do other generically beast-like things, such as snort, growl relieve themselves etc.

Yes, Perhaps we could be a dumping ground for bored and/or depressed Aliens. Maybe Earth could be some kind of “last hurrah” for some extra terrestrials on their way out either spiritually or physically. Maybe Earth is a “Death Pod”.

The other reason is we are their ‘livestock’ and they are feeding off us somehow , perhaps it’s an indirect such as carbon dioxide capture or bad psychic energy harvesting or maybe a direct culling of a few beasts here & there, with an occasional ‘mass cull’. Maybe ww2 or the Spanish Flu was one of these ‘mass culls’. You never know.

Another third more simple idea is that we are their pets – they harvest mostly just good feelings from us, & they agree to feed us, keep us safe from ourselves and from outside threats. Maybe that’s why there’s been no asteroid big enough to wipe us out for 65 Million years – they look out for those things & change there trajectory so they miss. Or maybe they vaporise them with a giant mega-lazer gun.

So to recap: it’s either Assisted Suicide/On a Bender/Last hurrah for them, OR we are either their livestock OR more fortuitously, their cute fuzzy little Pets. Ok most of us have faced for radio – but perhaps they’ll think that’s cute. You might hear them say of the ugliest of us:

”Look at my cute George Soros, look at his wrinkles….oh and little Hillary Clinton has just started tapping her foot & is asking for her biscuits…..oh wait shit…look over there, my Whoopi Goldberg just did a Woopsie on my fine Arcturian rug!”


Oh and you might think that I’ve made a big error by implying that they may have have invited us into their living rooms – well let me explain. If they were here long before us, long before we split from the chimps, & it was they that biologically engineered us to be us – then isn’t that that effectively what has happened? Philosophy haven’t we been invited into their homes?

You could call it the “They were here first & we owe it all them thesis”. They might just be popping out of their multi-millennia-old sea base in the Pacific or the Atlantic or from under the ice in Antarctica. This is of course a very popular UFO theory amongst us tin foil hat wearers around the world.

Now let’s return to the other theories – The we are their Livestock theory & We are their Pets theory.

So if we are their livestock or pets then we will no doubt be able to live as we have been, or should I say “as they have allowed us to live”.

I guess this stupid planet would like that just fine, because (if you’ve noticed) most people are happy to be rough diamonds at best and walking disasters at worst. Under the “Pet theory” the Aliens would occasionally pet us or they scoop up our negative vibes as snacks. But they will always feed us & keep us safe-a classic win-win for all of us involved!

But the most interesting theory of the three is that they are bored slash depressed beyond belief & as a last gasp reprieve from the darkness, are up for some high risk & adventure. This theory would naturally mean they “walk amongst us” already …and as their boredom is relieved by excitement the higher then are their expectations and willingness are for ever more amplified risk-tasking behaviour.

At that point they will want to work with us live with us live with us, be weird friends with us, party with us, Hell they may want to marry us or even fool around with us. Intergalactic shagging – the stuff James T. Kirk was obsessed by. Who knows, on this matter maybe Roddenberry’s words may breath themselves into fire. The sixties were definitely open minded.

Maybe they’ll go on benders with us. Hell maybe they will be like “Alien Bukowski’s” & we will be their “Alien Bukowski Floozies” – well go on benders with them in dive bars & then retreat with them to our flop-houses to get rest till we do the same thing tomorrow.

That behaviour would of course lead to many alien suicides. Under my theory this is what many of them must secretly want – they have lost their will to live, and have reached their limits of their sanity. So if so, why not throw yourself into the Gorilla cage called Earth – it might perk you up a bit.

We would like that self serving option Vs to be pets or livestock, which of course we may already be.

Humans after all if anything, selfish. And the Alien suicide slash on a bender theory , we don’t need to look at ourselves in the mirror. Our natural state of being.

Just a theory, mind.

Outside that prime theory, I guess the next best one is to be ‘Pets’. Being a pet of an alien is much better than the ‘livestock’ option. Then they’ll love us more than their own.

But could we handle that? I’m not sure we could. It’s gonna mess with our minds too much. After all we only like those that agree with our worldview, no matter how twisted & unhealthy that is.

That’s how caveman-like we humans still are. Even our ‘Ivory Tower Professors’ that pretend they are intellectually holier than thou & ultra sophisticated – they act like cavemen too whenever someone points out a hole in one of their theories – the toys come out of the cot & the club comes down via the cloak of their sharp sabre toothed silver tongues.

No matter what happens, a real life Alien Arrival or not, there is no escaping ourselves – under both scenarios we are still stuck with having to put up with each other, caveman to caveman, inmate to inmate.

If we are lucky they will be just boozy depressed Aliens on a one way farewell mission that will lessen their cosmic depression. In which case this means they will have already been here for a long time & people like me have long got roaring drunk with them at shitty bars, under the misconception that they are just fellow human lonely depressed drunkards. When in fact they are Extra-Terrestrial lonely depressed drunkards. Seriously – wouldn’t that be cool?

I only hope that on one glorious day while both humans & aliens are slamming down cheap pints, they will be able to take off their “human costumes” & we won’t lose our shit. Then something like the alien bar scene in Star Wars can play out – losers from all over the universe living in a grimy, weird & twisted paradise!

When that amazing day happens, I’ll be there on a bar stool telling over the top Earth based ‘life war stories’ no doubt to an argumentative & bored, but also very hilarious Pleiadian drunk (or Alpha Centurian or a Trappist for that matter).

They’ll no doubt always have their elephant trunk like mouths sunk deep in a glass of specially brewed for aliens – ‘Galactic Guinness’. Maybe most of them too will have have had shit jobs & batshit crazy wives or girlfriends, husbands & boyfriends, neighbours, landlords, bosses & workmates to full them up with great hard luck bar stories too.

Yes the biggest surprise of all might be that they are a lot more like us than we think possible. But then we shouldn’t be too surprised about that – after all a slave or a slave boss from antiquity would, after they got over the shock of it all, probably be right
at home. I mean apart from technology, nothings really changed has it? Maybe that’s the same with them. Maybe Aliens are just as happy throwing their shit at each other just like us.

Maybe paradoxically ‘throwing shit at each other’ is just an important factor for intelligent life as is opposable thumbs or carbon or a big brain. Maybe we all need conflict, drama & some batshit crazy just to keep us on this side of sanity? After all, the comfortable rich folk at the country clubs are some of the most unhappiest assholes out there of all.

I rest my case dear reader.

THE END




You Vs. It – Pt 2 (A poem) + Bonus commentary by the Author.

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The small uncapitalised ‘you’ has foolishly agreed to play IT’s game.

The more you the brainwashed version of you try to play the game well,

The more you will go crazy.

It’s just a matter of degree & when.

Monstrous IT, has planned it all this way.

Bad IT, has sold you this deception.

Evil IT wants you (hoodwinked you) to go totally mad.

Nefarious IT wants you to believe in unicorns –

Corporate careers, Giant mortgages, & Siamese twin like relationships.

Terrible IT is the spider & little you is the web woven fly.

IT’s web is wide & worldly & their are far too many files on the little lemming-ised version of you.

Shitty IT aims to lock you in arrays of shipwrecks & dungeons – with many a barnacle permanently attached to your ass.

Soulless IT supplies dungeon to dungeon to dungeon : Home, Office, Hotel Room.

Perverse IT will tell you there’s a giant nebulous spirit called a ‘national economy’ so that it can tank it periodically – to keep little you happy chewing grass.

A-hole IT does not want you to plant your own veges, be peaceful, read wise books, have no addictions, be happy with your own company or to live cheaply in the woods.

Wanky Wanky IT hates the Truth & Truth tellers.

As good wise anti-witch Doctors advice,

Ween yourself of IT.

See yourself off IT

In short – Capitalise yourself asshole!


Bonus Material:


Note the author: This poem used heavy artistic license when implying that you could just not be a part of the swindle we get sucked into in this world as adults. Of course the reality is that like perfect jailers – they’ve designed the system so you can’t truly leave it other than via death or living under a bridge. So of course my correct advice is If you are stuck in the normal jail cell like reality , the best option will probably be to smile through the bullshit & look to make a few wise choices to little by little improve your life – after all most people amplify the shit sandwich they’ve been served – they marry a mean drunk or slag…they stay working for the really bad company instead of they just plain bad one. …they gamble…drink too much….become Marxist’s etc etc I.e. there’s no need to amplify the bad deal you’ve already been dealt.

To use my terminology from the poem (I used the term “IT” to mean “The System”):


“If you can’t leave IT, at least don’t take IT too seriously – “confidently smile through the IT”

P.P.S This poem is probably a years end that doesn’t cut it, perhaps it is just ‘late end of year stock content’, but I hope it has a few gems among the half polished turds. Yes it’s ‘low brow’ but alt least it’s also comes with some ‘high brow’ sprinkles.