By Anton Martin Smith antonsmithwrites@gmail.com
“Two Times Out of Many That I annoyed the Female Kind” (A Laugh)
Tag: life
“My so-called PTSD Life?” (A Poem)
By Anton martin Smith antonsmithwrites@gmail.com
Do I have PTSD?
Is the question I ask of myself daily.
And If you’re reading this – I bet you do too.
Did I reach a point at 35 when the until-now-buried, seeds-of stress-all bloomed?
Before that mid-thirties limit, my youth could smother it all,
Like some cyborg-ed cold-hearted futuristic bounty hunter.
But then at that critical year in life’s age,
I must had been once again pushed another infinitesimal millimetre,
But this time, time & space had run out.
Now I was found myself finally pushed right up to & teetering over the precipice,
Of that cliff that was designed for me, & people just like me, long, long ago.
Teetering, thereby when the next trauma hit – (likely disguised a pretty human female),
It would send me careering downwards to ‘bottom-cliffs-ville’ with no parachute, & no recourse.
Then when you hit the ground, youth has suddenly gone forever, & the world has changed.
When you look up from the splat-point, you now may as well be seventy.
All the good things that came to you so easily have now evaporated.
But as the years post impact rolled along this “PTSD” has given you wisdom.
And you realise it’s cut that ‘fake-hard-but-easy’ old world away from you,
As a butcher cuts off a line of fat from a steak, & then whacks it, you’ve been made much better .
Ahhh ‘PTSD’ & AGE – heavens secret gift for your aged soul.
And in truth you probably don’t even have “PTSD” – merely some cheaply made imitation.
But each night you’ll raise a glass to the comfort of it all just the same.
Just like the two billion of others just like you,
Who are also convinced they are uniquely sad.
And we all unwittingly raise a glass nightly & in unison to each other,
As we sit in from of our computer screens,
Forever mourning the sudden death of our own past lives.
“Life Is A Catch-22 Problem” (A Prose Poem)
by Anton Martin Smith antonmartinsmithwrites@gmail.com
The problem with being an intellectual, be it faux or otherwise,
Is that you can’t but help be trapped into negative thinking.
This is because ‘intellectuals’ want to understand ‘The World’,
Or should I say Need to understand The World –
And,
If you haven’t already noticed,
The world always but always, has a lot more problems than solutions.
This is why all in all, having ‘brains’ is far more of a curse than a blessing.
Yes – ‘The Garden of Eden’ orientation is correct:
Ignorance is (for all us distant dystopians) unfortunately – bliss.
Yes – ignorance of the unnecessary is natures ‘go to strategy’.
So – should we should ‘act dumb coz that’s natures leaning?’ – I hear you ask?
Well, that’s a tricky one – as ‘Nature’ is also often a beast in itself –
It will happily sacrifice the few for the good of the many –
With no tears shed.
Our indulgence in the unnecessary is why, by 2025, the only ‘true thing’ happening here on Earth is:
THE FABLED ‘CATCH 22’ Scenario – summed up with this dictum –
“You’re damned if you do & you’re damned if you don’t”
Now I could tell you the real solution to this – & forgive the vulgarity – this very “poopy sandwich” –
But then again, my latest money scamming psychiatrist has diagnosed me as ‘anally retentive’* –
And the prior souless shrink before that one also diagnosed me as ‘a narcissist’ –
And the one before that as a ‘compulsive liar’.
So I will respect their judgement –
So I’m not going to contradict those fine-living parasitic assholes, & tell you the answer to the aforementioned,
‘Life is a Catch 22 problem’.
But I will tell you what my suddenly retiring fourth-last-dodgy-money-grubbing-psychiatrist told me in my & his & my last session:
“You’re on your own buddy”**
With this casual undiagnosticly inclined in-passing phrase, he was inadvertently the only shrink ever who had ever told the truth, in the history of psychiatry.
And now my friends this prose must end unsatisfactorily –
But luckily, as always the only one who suffers is the reader/listener –
I the writer will scoot by the seat of my pants as always, & end up reaching for a well chilled beer from the fridge.
& Amen to that!
*This topic of anal retentiveness makes my mind wander – I wonder if it’s acceptable for a plumber to speculate on a customer’s bowel motions?
**This line should be said in a weird American accent.
P.s. I apologise for this bastardry, so badly disguised as a poem. All those cranks I’ve been seeing must be rubbing off on me. But I guess I should take that as a compliment.
Ep 1. Crashlines Incorporated – The story of Yassap I. Y’tae (A Serialised Story)
by Anton Martin Smith antonsmithwrites@gmail.com
Hi my name is Cal, short for Calvin. Last name Coolix. Yes my parents gave me a cartoon name – Cal Coolix but it’s been good to me – no one forgets my name. In business & in life that’s a plus. But I’m not here to tell you about me. There’s someone far more interesting than me that’s shown up on my radar.
Yassap I. Y’tae….is a very underrated international businessman…at least I think that’s what he is right now. Not exactly a mystery of a man, not an enigma – but certainly perhaps best described as a riddle-that’s-only-half-written. You have not heard of him yet – no one has.
Mark my works he will change the world. He is not on the internet! He is biding his time, choosing his words carefully, doing his due diligence, crossing his t’s & doting his I’s. Like a cornered Tiger, he is waiting to pounce. Well that’s what I’d tell you if I had to make a pitch about Yassap I. Y’tae right now. You must always sound confidant – even if you have zero intel.
There is slight static on the line. He informs me he will be launching soon. I pressed him what “soon” meant – he chose not to elaborate only saying in his true mysterious fashion: “If I gave you a specific date when the best date possible to launch has not yet materialized, I will only let both of us down – but I will contact you soon, that is my promise”. I said “ok but can I ask…” before I could finish I heard the engaged sound. I felt foolish, as I should have left it at “ok”. It was not my first or last “schoolboy error” & I hung up the phone.
I was overdue for a Cappachino, perhaps that’s the reason I felt a little off my game on that call. “stop beating yourself up Cal, you just need coffee – that’s all it was”. I began my journey to the lobby cafe – short walk through my small rented workspace, I would enter the lift, & go down three floors.
In the lift was Anne, she was also renting some space just like me – but for her own project. We exchanged pleasantries, but no more than that. For these were cold hearted hard business times, & both Anne & I knew it. All anyone cared about right now was business survival.
With so many ventures going to the wall these eighteen months since the crash, just surviving was almost like being a billionaire nowadays. Although my hunch was that Yassap I. Y’tae probably wasn’t in the same boat as me & Anne or anyone like us. I didn’t know anything about him other than his energy was all different. In my half century on this Earth, I’d learnt that what that old 20th Century physicist Nikolai Tesla said was right – energy, namely vibrational energy is everything.
The doors opened with a weird low pitch ‘ting’. As I heard my boots step on the hard polished concrete ground floor, all I could think of was getting caffeinated & figuring out who the hell was Yassap I. Y’tae??……..
(End of Episode 1. . . .the next will be coming soon!)
“Toast Your Inner Void” (Prose)
by anton martin smith by antonmartinsmithwrites@gmail.com
I have an inner void.
It’s there.
But that’s not the interesting thing.
The interesting thing is this question:
Is the void normal, or is it a pathology.
I used to think it was depression –
But then when older & wiser, I realised this wasn’t so.
Was it the void that all ‘children of divorce’ carry their whole lives?
Perhaps the void is the child of the ‘child of divorces torment’ itself.
Perhaps the void is some generalised genetic trauma.
Of being a bedraggled ‘colonial sendoff’ out of England in the 19th century to New Zealand.
Perhaps it’s a lack of love, now so ubiquitous & long lived –
That I’ve forgotten every mammal – including myself needs it.
Perhaps the void helps me,
Perhaps it’s there to make me think.
Perhaps if I forced myself to not think about the void,
I wouldn’t be writing about it now.
The truth is that the void becomes your colleague –
Because it’s always there, it’s predictable – there’s a maligned but real comfort.
You don’t know what it would even be like to be without the void.
They say the everyman lives a life of quiet desperation.
Yet I’m sure my ‘the void‘ is more special than that.
My void writes poems, while their voids write better CV’s –
It can’t be the same thing as everyone elses void.
Please lord let my void be unique, one of a kind, a gem, a unicorn.
Make my misery mine, I do not want to share.
Some times all a man or woman has is their misery –
Or the delusion that’s it’s becasue of their personalised little grief story.
Maybe to be human you have a built in the void as per factory settings.
To deny our void-truth we try to reprogram ourselves with fancy life-setting.
But no matter how we try, the ‘return to factory setings’ button is always pushed.
Perhaps it is child-like folly to think I, or anyone, can beat the void.
For no one can deny their destiny & be better off for it.
Let us all raise a glass to the mysterious the void – be she a pervasively permanent beast,
Or he a spectre-like figment of our depleted imaginations.
I mean really – given we know nothing at all – what else is there to do?
To the void,
Our hang-around friend, our arch-enemy,
Our source of inspiration & exasperation,
We know you’re not going anywhere soon,
We all think you’ve been given far too bad of a rap lately,
So sit down & have a quiet drink with us won’t you?
I’ll make a table for the four of us –
Me, myself, I & you – the void.
if its anything like the last time,
It’ll be a real knees-up.
Oh..and one more thing…..
My dear the void, if you do decide to come – whatever you do….
….don’t tell anyone.
“Caviar At The Work Table” (Prose/A Poem)
by Martin Anton Smith martinantonsmith@gmail.com
The World Waiter will serve you shit sandwiches.
Then tell you it’s caviar.
When you scream:
“Can’t you see that’s shit between bread???”
The World Waiter will say:
“How dare you insult our glorious chef – he cooks for you..you...Workers….
He bends over backwards for you…you.. ungratefuls……
Now eat your effing caviar you…you…WORKER YOU!”
And then if you say:
“And what will you do if I refuse to eat this shit sandwich World Waiter sir?”
They will say:
“We will make sure you cannot work yourself to death…er I mean are employed in our work camps….er I mean Work tables…
..We will conspire amongst ourselves to ban you from slavery..er Work.. & you will die in a ditch!…
You’ll get no shit sandwhiches…I mean you’ll get no delicious caviar… you..you…Worker swine! – you’ll starve fool!!!”.
You think for a minute – soaking it all in.
You know those workers who refused to toe the line.
Those ones under the bridges.
Those starving ones.
Those ones wearing threadbare rags.
Those ones all The Workers like you are afraid to one day become.
Those ones who couldn’t play anymore or were kicked off the sick game on offer .
Those ones who saw the shit sandwhiches as shit sandwhiches.
You make a decision & bite down hard on the shit sandwhich, its contents oozing down you chin.
You look up merrily & say to the impatient & now fuming World Waiter:
“My word this caviar is delightful!.. This is the best shit sandwhich.. er I mean caviar, I’ve ever tasted…so juicy! Give my regards to the glorious & bent over chef”.
The World Waiter now placated half smiles & slowly dissapears to the next Worker Table.
You think to yourself.
“I swear this shit sandwhich is starting to taste like caviar”.
You suddenly feel ashamed, for you think you know what’s happening.
Your cowardly thoughts somehow soothe your confortably re-battered soul.
The thought goes on:
“Oh well, at least I’ll be retiring from this Work Table in fifteen years.
It’s not that long – I’ve been here twice that time anyway!…
…and then I’ll be able to have all this shit tasting caviar without even having to sit at a Work Table”.
As you feel less fearful that you’ll end up like “The Others”, you hear the The World Waiter from accross the room.
“How dare you insult our glorious chef – he cooks for you..you..Workers….”.
As you finish your last bite, you feel a twinge on cameraderie wash over you.
“Ah..so this is what it feels like to be truly alive, among colleagues, well fed, with a roof over my head…and sitting at this highly polished Worker Table….Long life the glorious World Waiter & The bent-over Chef!….I am so lucky! Lucky-Lucky-Lucky!”
But then you find yourself in the midst of a sudden involuntary “GULP”.
You know somethings up – but for the life of you,
You can’t quite figure out what it is.
“She, The Red Shed, & Me” (Spoken Word/A Poem)
by Martin Anton Smith martinantonsmith@gmail.com
I had been ignoring things.
As my non-fitted sheet was falling off the bed far too easily,
& as it had been doing so for six months –
It was time to go to the Red Shed to get a ‘fitted sheet’.
But I was hungry , so I stopped to get a pie & a coffee for lunch first.
Outside the shop a beautiful young-ish woman walked by.
Of course I noticed her.
Fifteen years ago, I would have been actively plotting to meet her perhaps.
When I was younger, slimmer & could still be temporarily confused for a ‘success’.
On dating matters I was more courageous back then –
I had the raw instinct that hormones allow, & smartphones hadn’t had enough time-on-earth to ruin yet.
Now I’m a jaded 47-year-old, although I probably hide it well –
Due to physical work, having all my hair, & not being too fat or wrinkly.
But like all those who have been around the block – I am of course battle-scarred.
So she flittered past & I finished my pie & coffee.
I went to the Red Shed for a fitted sheet.
I’m looking through the packs, deciding on what pattern looks ok.
Then, there she is – the beautiful pie & coffee girl, doing the same thing as me.
I say ‘girl’ because I’d say she’s under thirty-two.
It was then a few emotions took over.
I felt scared.
Like I had to run away.
It was then I realised,
Just how much a big deal even the thought of dating is,
Let alone a relationship,
For a battle-scarred 47-year-old.
With those pangs of emotions hitting hard, I realised acutely & viscerally,
I was still nursing very old wounds from more than a decade ago.
I snatched the fitted sheet pack & disappeared off.
As I was walking to the checkout, I thought:
This is a very sad state of affairs –
I hadn’t until then realised quite how twice shy I really was.
Sometimes reality hits you square right between in the eyes,
And tells you your exact emotional status on the spot.
As I walked to my car, I felt partly ashamed, somewhat enlightened, and tinged with anger.
For I knew that to contibue to indulge those emotions would not bode well for my future heart.
For surely there must be some nasty ephemeral force that wants many of us to stay lonely for life.
It wants us to hunker down in fear & embrace it as a prime motivator, & worship as a guru.
It wants us to fall in love with it in true Stockholm Syndrome fashion.
At least I’ve been around the block enough to know that giving in to such evil is a waste.
Intellectually I know that – don’t we all?
I wonder if I’ll run into that beautiful woman again?
After all – I did forget to buy a pillow….
Perhaps she did too?
Oh there’s one thing I forgot to say.
Between high tailing it away from the fitted sheet rack to the cash register,
I looked at some bogan black jeans on a rack – for nowadays they are not just for bogans.
She walked past & we made eye contact.
I played it cool, & that prior emotion at the fitted sheet rack had dissipated nicely.
And now that I have long left the store & sit here writing in my messy studio,
I am thinking this:
Will I have the balls to say hello If I see her again?
Or will I succumb to being like all the others –
Like every jaded long term single forty plus-er? –
And so say not a peep & desperately avoid eye contact?
That is to allow myself to be typically Mid-Mid-21 Century Socially & Romantically Risk Adverse?
I’d like to think I can next time show some testicular fortitude at the, shall we say red shed pillow aisle.
One thing I do know is this: It can feel nice but It’s never wise to follow the crowd.
Fifteen years ago, I would have felt more confidant this situation.
But then again – I was also a total fool fifteen years ago.
This dear audience, was my ode to being single at 40 plus.
And so, of it all – I dare not talk of solutions.
I’m mostly just happy to just know what’s going on –
For I didn’t have a clue back then, fifteen years ago, when I was thirty-two.
As a battle hardened (or perhaps battle defeated) youngish-old-coot,
I know that to be true.
I guess I better go back to the Red Shed to buy that pillow I forgot about.
After all, I’ll need it anyway.
“Corporatitus” ( A Poem)
by Martin Anton Smith martinantonsmith@gmail.com
The longer you have divorced yourself from the banal “Corporate World” the more you recognise it as a disease.
If you are good you can literally see it emanating off those who still suffer from…
Let’s call it “Corporatitus”.
Although we shouldn’t hate these people.
We should feel sorry for them as they are merely victims of the ubiquitous focused brainwashing.
We should quietly, compassionately, & creatively help to bring them to the light.
So that one day in the hopefully-near-distant-future,
They will realise they have become poorly paid supporting actors,
In a very bad movie,
That they didn’t write.
Then they at least have a chance,
To slip out the back studio door & once again feel real-life sunlight on their face.
“Jerry & Sam Successfully Negotiate Their Way Home ” (A Skit or Short Story)
by Martin Anton Smith martinantonsmith@gmail.com
Two drunkard old timers are wobbling back towards home from the pub together & see something that makes one of them become startled.
“What’s that?” Said Jerry to his mate Sam & pointed at a black scorch mark on the ground.
“Oh Jerry my man!, That was our old mate George – it’s such a pity – ‘e couldn’t contain his excitement & ‘e just self-combusted”
“Oh yeah Sammy!, I remember ’em, ‘e walked with a limp used to live for the beers before ‘e got married – what was ‘e so excited about Sam??”
“Well Jerry, ‘is wife had finally relented – after a decade of locking ’em inside, she finally relented & said ‘e could go down to the pub for a few beers with ‘is old mates – so by the time ‘e was ten meters from the pub, ‘e was so revved up ‘e self-combusted! All that’s left of ’em is that black scorch mark in front of us!”
“Aw..that’s a terrible…terrible way to go Sammy – ‘e didn’t even get to the pub, didn’t get to say hi to us, ‘e didn’t even get ta wet ‘is whistle at all!”
“Well Jeer – that’s how many of the blokes are going these days matey, things have changed! They’ve even got a new name for it – I saw it on ol’ Georgie’s death certificate – it read “death caused by overexcitement brought on by toxic marital henpeckery”.
“What are we gonna do about it all Sam?”
“Well Jeer, you get the Janola & I’ll get the scrubbing brush.”
“You idiot Sam! That’s all that’s left of ‘em, we gotta show our respects to ‘em, not scrub him away.”
“Right you are Jeer – what was I thinkin’!? Let’s just stand ‘ere next to ‘im & ‘ave a can of beer & ‘ave a minutes silence.”
“You mean a minutes silence AND a gulping of the beers, Sammy.”
“It’d be disrespectful to Georgie if we didn’t! In fact Jeer – we ought to empty a can of beer on ‘is black scorch too as a sign o’ respect!”
“’ey let’s not go overboard Sammy – have you seen the price of a pint lately! Let’s just spill a few mouthfuls for ‘em from each of our beer cans, & after all it’s ‘is own fault for marrying that jailer henpecky Mrs of ‘is”
“Your right Jeer! To ‘eck with ’em – let’s just nod at ’em whenever we walk over the scorch while comon’ & goin’ from the pub!”
“Not even that Sammy, fetch the Janola lad – looking at that scorch is now is just making me think of that yellow belied boob – let’s erase our so called chum Georgie or should I say “Georgie the scorchie!”.
“Yeah great idea! ‘e always kinda annoyed me anyway…..but Jeer… there is another way to look at it all”
“What’s that Sammy?…& this better be good”
“Well Jeer – that scorch mark will be bloody ‘ard to get off, even with Janola & a stiff bristled brush, it’ll take us ‘alf an ‘our at least – maybe an ‘hole ‘our!”
“………………………er…….Great bloke that George was….great bloke….Sammy…Let’s go buy a can o’ beer each from the ol’ off liscense, ya’know…that Supermarket down there…& one for our pal Georgie, we’ll be back ‘ere in no time to honour ’em & ‘is scorchmark!”
“Jeer, you’re a gentleman & a scholar man! – I agree Great guy that Georgie….we owe it to ‘im & ‘is scorch mark to spill him a few glugs – ‘eck maybe even spill a couple of cans on the ol’ scorchmark”.
“Settle on Sam, we didn’t like ’em that much – ‘e’s worth exactly one can of spilt beer, bought from the off liscense…that supermaket…once a week – tops.”
“Right on Jeer, we’ll let’s walk to the Supermarket, it’s only two blocks away”
“…..Two blocks!…Is it that far??? …..er…Boy that George was a total bastard – no wonder ‘is mrs didn’t ever let ‘em out – am I right or am I right Sam?”
“Totally agree Jeer – let’s go back to the pub & forget we ever met that scallywag…‘Georgie the scorchie’ indeed!
“I bloody agree Sammy! We can raise a glass to ‘is Mrs too! Lively lass she was! Full of joy she was! Never ‘urt a fly that one! ‘ow far away are we from the pub now?”.
“About two and a half blocks Jeer”.
“The off-liscense Supermarket’s ‘alf a block closer Sammy…come to think of it….George wasn’t really that bad all in all, & his Mrs was indeed a bloody ‘enpecker!”
“She was a total jailer warden Jeer! Doing that to that Saint of a man! Lockin’ ’em in like that for year after year! Let’s get some beers for ‘em & us, & we’ll be back tipping it in remembrance over ‘Georgie the scorchie’ in no time!”
“Yep Sammy, I reckon ‘alf a can will do ‘em well enough!”
“Right you are Jeer, as I’ve always said your a gentleman & a scholar”
“Shaddap & get your wallet ready Sammy!”
“….ah….yeah…no problem Jeer…ah are we sure ‘e wasn’t a bastard Jeer?, I mean I haven’t paid the overdue rent this week yet! I’m bloody skint!”
“My shout then Sammy – after all a mate’s a mate!”
“Boy that George was a great man! Jeer Let’s honour Georgie & his scorchie! I mustn’t have been feelin’ so well just then, you know I never doubted old George the Scorch for a second!”
“You’re a strange bloke Sammy, always changing ya mind like that – buy the way when can ya pay me back for the cans of beer I’m about to shout us all?”
“Might be a couple weeks Jeer – I mean I ‘aven’t paid the electric yet either!”
“That George was a bastard! Screw him, screw ‘is blimey scorch too! I’m off home Sammy!”
“I’ll follow your lead Jeer, I know you’re always right! Always ‘ave been! I’ve forgotten about George already & his stinkin’ scorchmark!…PS Jeer matey, when we get to your place you’ll have some beers for me won’t ya?, I mean that fridge of yours is always full – you can spare a ‘alf a dozen or two for your ol’ mate Sammy can’t ya?”
“….Look Sammy, I won’t have you talkin’ badly of ol’ Georgie, not now, not ever! Now I know you’re not feelin’ so well, so you prob ‘ave been imagining things, ‘earing things all funny like – now let’s get those cheap beers from the off liscense Supermarket for me you & our blessed Georgie the Scorchie – God bless ’em! & nuts to that damn ‘enpecker mrs of his too!”
“Never doubted you for a minute Jeer! I’m feeling much better all of a sudden! As I always say – gentleman & a scholar you – ‘e was a great bloke that Georgie, bloody pity ’bout ‘is henpeckery wife. God, I feel like a beer though….I mean we outa get a few extra in in Georgie’s honour, I mean three beers between me you & George the Scorch is bloody nothin’”.
“Look Sammy, I keep tellin’ ya – George was just an OK guy, not good not bad – just ok – three beers is what me, you & ‘e needs…..look at a stretch maybe ‘e’s good enough for me to have three, you to have two & him to have one…ok!?”
“That’s a deal Jeer!…I mean, yeah….you’re right ‘e was just kinda ok wasn’t he, not good, not bad – just ok– same for ‘is Mrs too. Ah that cheap off liscense supermarket beer is just what an ok man like Georgie needs right now! It would really ‘it the…er..I mean…. it would ‘it ‘is spot, ‘is scorchmark, if ya know what I mean Jeer!”
“Thanks Sammy mate…I got ya fella….lets go. By the way, ’bout time I properly introduced you to ‘ol Georgie’s widow soon – I mean after all -she’s an ok kinda lady, I mean – what’s the worst thing ‘at could ‘appen t’ya???”
End
“My Comic Book Days” (A Poem)
Sometimes I wonder….
Am I what’s left after making the decision many years ago to not to do myself in?.
For there a few stints of bed-riddled-ness when I was younger.
It would have been easy to seriously contemplate ending it all.
But for some weird reason I always had at least a kernel of hope,
To stave off the dark reaper, the destroyer most grim –
Pick a name.
Perhap’s I mostly keep myself alive for the hobbies.
The 60s-90s Rock music, The writing, The coffee-houses.
Yes that all seems so glib,
But it’s amazing how those things can keep you going,
Even when carrying such a wounded soul,
Even while being left holding a quiver full of broken Cupid’s arrows.
Even after this process repeats with the next long-haired spell-caster.
For I probably wouldn’t try a short haired one – call me old fashioned.
But then again, who am I kidding? –
The Port O’ Love has long been closed indefinitely –
This wasn’t so much a choice per se,
More of something external that chose to wash over me –
These the oh so quiet waters of self-preservation.
Or is my entire life just an ode to undiagnosed ADHD?
ADHD that was masquerading as Depression?
I’m sure all the Docs know this & that’s the swindle –
I am convinced there will be a shady medical profiteer’s book called:
“There’s nothing more profitable than misdiagnoses”.
But here I am at middle age – 46 almost 47.
Still Alive & fighting each day to not become what I used be:
“Self-destructo”
That guy unfortunately squashed a lot of my chances to be young & happy.
Though he did provide plenty of empty drunken highs along the way,
So, I guess I shouldn’t complain too much.
I guess a wise man would simply be grateful for it all & soldier on,
& be happy for the bonus wisdom squeezed out along the way.
And I guess this is our fate anyway:
To live in a world that doesn’t really work,
With the real well-designed one,
Forever just slightly out of reach.
To the more troubled life, the thought is soothing.
And so as the sun goes down, now the comic ends.
And as always….
Once again by the end of the day, the city is safe.
……….but for how long?
Anton Martin Smith Writer 