Tag: life

“Deadly De-Facto’s” (A Poem)

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by Anton MartinSmith antonmartinsmithwrites@gmail.com

They are not ‘chilling’ at all..

They are avoiding life itself.

By avoiding all chances of pain,

They also killed the oasis’ of creativity,

That the world delivers only haphazardly.

They murdered their ‘pals of camaraderie’ –

Most of who existed but were never summoned.

For how does a life become a-life-worthwhile?

Interestingly their pain simply compounded anyway.

At least the smarter ones involved at least knew to drink –

For if a fool’s errand doth live – then let it raise a glass to itself.

This article 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.

“No! – Mans Best Friend is a Not a Dr…” (A Prose Poem)

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by Anton Martin Smith antonmartinsmithwrites@gmail.com

Are You Seriously Unwell or Just Mega Jaded?

This is a serious question.

I am sure that in reality there is no difference.

After all surely the symptoms “Mega Jaded” qualify:

Brain Fog to the extreme;

Total lack of energy;

Zero Motivation;

Feelings of Depression;.

You may as well be diagnosed with Chronic-Fatigue-Syndrome, aka CFS

Or Multiple Sclerosis, aka MS.

Or the dreaded ‘God-Knows-What-Syndrome’, aka GKWS.

The problem is if you are just “Mega jaded”,

Which is really just a form of “Burnout” –

To which the sufferer’s complaints no one listens, let alone hands out ‘free passes’ for.

It’s not ‘fair’ but then again only the biggest fools expect life to be ‘fair’.

The Mega Jaded/Burnt out are told to “snap out of it loser”,

Usually & most frequently by the people who look the saddest when they smile.

While if you have CFS or MS you welcomed as a ‘cash cow’ by the ‘Medico Scammers’ –

Who are a variety of the ‘ look saddest when they smile fraternity’ –

Who are always hungry for Taxpayer Lobster Dinners – aka TLD’s.

So, if you are “Mega Jaded” you may as well get your free ‘Dr Lobster Diagnosis’ – aka D.L.D.

Let the ‘Cash Cow’ out of the milking sheds!

& when the ship finally goes down – it won’t matter anyway –

For The Lobsters will survive & the Doctors will die.

I’d call that an all-round societal win-win for all,

Including the Drs themselves,

Most of who are tired of ScamDoctoringTM anyway,

But the Medico-Mafia-System has their balls or ovaries in a formaldehyde-filled-jar.

A Cynical summation? – yes – but at least 51% entirely ‘scamftifically’ true,

& Poetically speaking – at least 100% true – which btw isn’t saying much.

And now it’s time to fly – but let me leave you with a final ‘surmisory’ penultimate witticism.

As the anti-Bob Dylan once never crooned -“Oh the times they are a un-changin’ “

& Ladies & Gents! To put the final boot – that may-in-time-one-day reach ‘adage status’:

No!!! – Mans Best Friend is a Not a Dr – Yet His Nose Is Just As Wet.

This article 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.

“Frivolities At The Asian Eatery” ( A Poem/Prose).

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by Anton Martin Smith antonmartinsmithwrites@gmail.com

It’s time for some Pork Donburi with Miso Soup –

I think to myself as I cross the road.

The little Japanese eatery is now open late,

It’s a slice of urban chique in my sleepy-rural-small-town-hollow.

I wander in for value dinner, having spurned my regular Chinese haunt –

But only for tonight, just for a change.

For loyalty must be spliced with the spice of occasional dissent –

Less the proprietor becomes lazy toward you,

Less they take you for granted.

They must be regularly reminded you can still freely eat elsewhere.

Yes – in life there are always ‘games being played’,

& with age you realise games exist for good reason.

So, I order the Pork Donburi – nice ‘n’ spicey – with the miso soup, it goes down a treat.

On the way out I buy some cheap leftover counter sushi – the proprietor gives me some free chicken too.

I noticed that when serving the Korean man sang his words.

Now here-is-some-pork-donburi-for-yooou, now here is yooour change

I knew he was Korean, for I had asked him if he was Japanese, & he had corrected me.

I can’t remember how, but I ended up telling him that I was writing a novella.

I told him that ‘we writers’* often inject a real-life character we see out & about into our writing.

After I told him this, he said in child-like fashion (in a good sence) that he wanted to be put into my novel.

I told him that’s it’s mostly finished & the characters are set – but there was still a slim chance.

I warned that he’d to be interesting enough to be chosen to travel onto the pages of future fiction.

He said that he also sung Karaoke, aiming to gain my literary affections.

I said that that doesn’t cut it for a Novel, Novella or a Short Story – but he might make a poem.

“Poems are easy enough to make” I tell him.

He’s a good friendly guy, & his food is tasty & at good prices.

He probably works too hard yet everyday he still wears a genuine smile.

Which can’t be easy over the long term especially so with silence-loving-small-town-folk.

It’s only fair that I spend at last fifteen minutes whipping him up a free poem –

After all he’d given me some free spicey chicken, hadn’t he?

It’s a fair trade – spicey-but-still-tasty-leftover-sushi for some personalised-slice-of-life-poetry.

Plus, he’ll get a bonus smile next week when I read him his poem in person.

And if he surprisingly asks me:

“Praytell – why did this poem cross the road?”

I’ll know he’s not really the-singing-Korean-chef-with-a-Japanese-eatery-behind-the-counter-of-a-small town at all –

…perhaps something far far more sinister or perhaps even beautiful**

All-in-all I would summarise all this as the following spinning-newspaper-tabloid-headline:

“Deadbeat Poet Says Frivolities At The Asian Eateries Are Less Than Frivolous”.

*Yes, it sounds like I had my head up my own ass – I agree with you oh reader.

** when read in public this must be said with a theatrical nod, indicating an ulterior motive may be involved.

“Circa 1984-87, The Ballad Of NZ” ( A Prose Poem/Spoken Word)

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by Anton Martin Smith antonmartinsmithwrites@gmail.com

The Politicians were too young,

Or too stupid,

Or too lacking in real life experience,

Or too Professorial,

Or too academic,

Or too Lawyerly,

Or in truth – they were all of the above.

High on bad Neoliberal theory.

The so called “Washington Consensus”.

The Corporate Raider Lobby got to them,

In true ‘Wolf in sheep’s clothing’ fashion.

They were sold a story of “growing up & becoming worldly”.

For the Anglo-American Wolf did cry:

“NZ’s is just a silly backwater – don’t you want to be suave, like us?”.

“You must sell all those great ‘bad’ assets at a fire-sale to us”

“You must work more for less, so we can charge more for less”

“You must be a part of our single-blind experiment & guess who the blind one is dummy!”

“Now be good little slaves now stupid-o’s & do exactly as we say!”

“You have reached your destiny – as our fully propagandised automoton living breathing data points”

“And don’t worry if your society becomes a living hellscape – we promise to buy you a coke”

“Oh, wait did I say that out loud? Please forget I said that O Backward-o NZ 1980’s Politicians”

The Dopey Politicians took it all in hook, line, & ‘stinker’.

The Corporate Raiders took over,

Took over the minds of our oh so feeble Politicians.

And while we “The People” sank further into the mire,

They all said to us:

“Oh look at that beautiful mire you’re stuck in – I reckon some daisies are about to sprout”

“Oh, look you’re sinking further, don’t worry breath through this plastic drink straw”

“Oh no! You’re not breathing – oh well at least you can’t ever lodge a protest vote”

This is the ballad of the giant swindle that shoulda-neva-‘appened.

Yes! This was the shit-show called “NZ Circa 1984-1987”.

Yes! – We now have no bananas!

Well – none at affordable prices anyway.

Which is pretty strange – given we’ve been in a Banana Republic,

For 41 consecutive mire-filled years.

Oh well! I guess this is our lot in life.

For we went from hard-truth-seeking-knowing-soldier-farmer-labourer-types,

To weak willed bender-over-ers & take-it-up-the-butt-ers,

In only Thirty-Nine short years.

Yup we the people folded to those Anglo-American-Politico-Demons to easily.

Alas we were so open minded, that we not only let our brains fall out,

But we let them roll under the ocean & all the way across the Tasman,

Stopping only when they landed in Keating et al’s far-lap.

This was Circa 1984-1987, The Ballad of NZ.

And PS – we never got the Coke.

Musings about our Kiwi (& Aussies) lives. (A Blog post/update)

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Today I was wondering about Kiwis (Sorry you Aussies are relegated to the P.S. section) – I was wondering why we are so reclusive. I came up with this line of thinking:

Why do we NZ’ers not know that our ultra-reclusiveness is something we are deeply hamstrung by? Does this mean we’re stupid as well? Or is it arrogance? Perhaps it is simply a form of entrenched genetic PTSD stemming from our ‘Let’s escape our shitty UK lives’ ancestry. yes – that’s gotta be it!

So this kind of makes me feel better – we are probably all suffering from a heavily entrenched & now genetic level PTSD. It’s not because we are stupid, or arrogant at all. And besides, we are natural ‘Mr Fixits’ – you can’t be stupid & know how to fix everything – so case closed.

So while I feel happy about this – this is still a worry. Becasue while ultra-reclusiveness may help us ‘tinker away happily fixing things in sheds’, it is bad for our mental health to be so insular. This is under the thesis ‘ a problem shared is a problem halved’ thesis. We don’t share our problems – especially males – so our mental problems are relatively doubled compared to the (perhaps only mythical & not actually real) ‘happy problem sharing society’.

Yes we try to get better on this – but I’m not sure we can force ourselves to be better. I think that will only help us perhaps ten to twenty percent. To change 50% we have to somehow change who we are. I don’t know much – but I’m sure that won’t come from talk alone. So the answer must be this:

We need to find a new project to totally enliven us – but what the hell would that be?

I will end here – becasue I don’t have the answer to this problem. Hopefully (to use an overused term) it ‘sparks debate’ & some genius will save us all from our ‘hideaway & tinker syndrome’. But the worry of that course of action we often look for a saviour in all the wrong places. Just look at 20th Century History. in the hope of getting better, we better no get worse.

Good luck to us & all others like us (Eastern Europe?)!

P.s. the Aussies surely have the same ‘Genetic level PTSD’ problem – but they are ultra competitive lot, & can pick on each other rabidly – if that’s a ‘solution’ to their entrenched cultural PTSD then could the solution be worse than the disease? Or am I just dreamin’?.

P.P.S The Aussies are certainly making more money than us – but are they happier? I’m not sure that the truly are. After all – remember your grandparents dictum of it’s not what you earn, it’s what you save….& prices on their side of the ditch are roughly on a par with us (& everywhere else in the western world).

P.P.P.S At least we kiwi’s when stressed can always blindly walk into our back yards that are also giant beautiful nature parks. we defnitely have this over our Aussie cousins as an ‘anti-PTSD pill’.

Cheers Anton Martin Smith

email me at antonmartinsmithwrites@gmail.com

“My so-called PTSD Life?” (A Poem)

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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)

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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)

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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)

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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.