“Musings On The Internet” (A Poem)

By Martin Anton Smith

he internet was a bad idea.

But the future will never know this.

The internet is too entrenched.

It has become our masters.

I miss the old-fashioned world.

You had books, beer, tv, house parties, pubs & sports & that was about it.

Simple.

We’ve gone down too far down the rabbit hole of complexity.

But there is no easy answers left on the table.

It’s not like everyone will suddenly take a baseball bat to their smartphones & computers one day.

Although I must admit,

“International destroy your computer with a baseball bat day” –

Has a good ring too it!

*sigh*

“Newsflash! We have found signs of life on Planet K2-18b!” (A skit or proto short story)

Narrator: So the word on the intergalactic gravity wave data network was telling all the advanced citizens of the galaxy that those ape-like beings of planet Earth thought they’d sniffed out life on another planet. This made all the galactic tongues wag, as you might expect. Just imagine what the far far more advanced than us beings – the aliens- would have been saying to each other….I imagine it might go something like this….

“Evening SnoinkSnoik”

”Evening BlatBlat”

“Oh no SnoinkSnoink did you here the news? Those bums over at the Perseus arm of the Milky Way finally found us – drat drat & double drat!

“Well Blato me ol’ boy, don’t worry too much – at least they won’t be able to get here for another thousand years – they ain’t too bright on the anti-gravity”.

“You’re right again Snoinko – we at k2-18b can all thank our lucky stars about that”.

“Don’t you mean we can thank our lucky “sinusoidally rotating twin Roy Kerr blacker than black, black holes” – after all, that’s what drives our anti-gravity”

“Ah yes Snoink, but that would be a real mouthful say – oh wait I forgot, we communicate telepathicaly don’t we?”

“How could you forget that Blats?”

“Dunno I think maybe we are already getting dumber ever since they sniffed us out”

“Oh well, perhaps we should shoot ‘em with our death ray”

“No Snoinkster, we are supposed to protect the undeveloped cave man like life forms – remember the galactic charter?”

“Oh yeah, ok then Blatso, from now on it will all like “ixnay on the eth-day ay-ray”

“Yes lamentably ol’ Snoinkarino, it really does seem like you are becoming more like the Earthlings every second – I didn’t understand a word you said, I mean thought!”

“Well Blatsos, you’re right again! I am probably over exposed to their silly psychic mind fields – I did have a brief visit there over New Jersey the other month, the sunny weather was as delicious as the odd human snack I beamed up to my vessel!”

“Silly Alien, I told you to stop zipping about the galaxy so much, and be careful what you eat those humans are very high in fat these days!”

“Well excuse me for wanting a holiday once in a while & some time to myself, & what’s wrong with some fatty human snacks every now & then as a treat”

“Look what we are becoming, we are becoming what we eat! We have to stop all this silliness! And now they know we are here it’s only get worse! let’s rip up that pesky galactic charter & fire up the death ray!”

“here here Blatbrain!”

“No – not here – over there, let us not blow ourselves up again Snoinkenstein”

“Over there, over there, spread the word, spread the word, over there! (singing theatrically)”

“Oh brother! Now you’re singing their dippy songs – we really need to end this scene fast!”

“I agree me ol’ mate Blato-saurus – but how?”

“Let’s just stop thinking”

“Oh so we’re going to be 100% Earthlings now are we?”

“Unfortunately Snoinkeltoes, yes – that is now looking like our destiny!”

“Well, Blatzles, let’s just fire up the death ray then!”

“Right you are Snoinkletino”

“No worries Blatsoballs”

“I’m glad we eventually saw giant black almond shaped eye to giant black almond shaped eye”

“Looks like we’re back to being ourselves then eh?”

“Yeah – that Earth mind Virus got us for a few mega trillion nanoseconds!”

“True – now I forget what we are doing with the death ray are we using it or do the Earthlings get to live”

“Let’s flip for it”

Ok if I land on my six feet they live, if I land on my giant squid like head they die by giant intergalactic laser beam!” (he does a summersault & lands perfectly on his six feet)

“Ta da – I landed on my feet”

“Ok the dummies live to sniff our farts another day then”

“Let’s shut up our telepathy now that that’s all sorted Snoinkelbergster ”

“Oh Blatabus, You always think that! p.s. just call me plain old SnoinkSnoink next time would you”

“But that’ll be no fun Snoinkel-berg-ster-saurus-arino-meister”

“Oh dear…oh dear…oh dear oh dear oh dear….it’s worse than I thought…you’ve got a terrible terrible dose of Humanitis….I’ve changed my mind about it all now Blattles – Fire up the Death Ray!”

“Ok fair enough SnoinkSnoink, after all, It’s only fair & right charter or no charter it must be done!….but …er..there’s just one more problem…”

“What’s that Blatblat?”

“I can’t remember where I put it last”

End

Alert! My Latest Short Story – “Trafficlight Dystopia” is provisionally finished.

Hello faithful readers! I am your leader! That last sentence was a joke! Read the whole thing at the link below. I was very happy to complete this work, as it is my first short story for a while (a year? eighteen months? nine months? I am not sure as time morphs ridiculously these days!).

This short story feels like it is actually half a short story & half a novella. . . they don’t have a word for that, as I think that still falls under the rubric of a ‘short story’. . .I don’t even know how many words it is, but my instinct says perhaps 7000 words, or at least 6000….maybe 8000 who knows!

Ok I just word counted – it is 8500 words! This after a couple of edits will prob trim down (if I want it to stay a short story) or gain words (If I turn it into a novella). I will worry about this later – the smartest thing is to do both versions, I guess.

As I have just finished this new work, I feel that it might be the best thing I’ve written….but of course every writer, be they good, hack, or crap does say this – but it does feel like it is a more meaningful one. Perhaps it is because this story, I would say, is also semi-autobiographical. That’s all I’m saying on the matter!

Anyway I hope someone out there enjoys it.

Outside the short story, I am just back from a half writers weekend/half family visit to Dunedin. It was good, and I had a party night at the Dunedin Social Club with the very quality host ‘English Joe’ (The Punk Band lookalike) Bartender. Those cheap beers went down the throat like a fluffy reverse endoscope (ok bad analogy).

I also caught up with family, which was nice. You have to forgive your parents in this world; this is what I have learnt. There might be exceptions, but they don’t apply in my case. Sons & Fathers have too much beef against each other….that should change.

I also visited the great little bookshop called “hard to find books” on Dowling Street. It’s a gem & I only bought 5 books this time – I limited myself.

I am now back in my small Central Otago town. I’ve got back to my bathroom renovation project – it’s an odyssey in itself! It’s getting cold. I need to make more cash in day jobs. Same old story unfortunately! The three cats (one is mine, the other two just turn up each day) are glad I am back, they have been demanding food. The little bastards! It’s good to be back in this good writing environment (there’s not much to do you other than write you see).

So you are all updated….I hope you read my short story & I hope it’s not too hard going. I plan to write a few more short stories, as I have a few ideas brewing from my Dunedin trip.

See you soon, happy reading & take care.

p.s. there were no paid promotions here by the way. I haven’t hit the bigtime yet for that!

Martin Anton Smith 16 April 2025 10:01 PM (nice & exact)

“The Lottery Economy” (A Poem)

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)

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)

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)

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)

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)

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)

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.