Welcome to The Baby Wants Its Bottle Philosophy & Poetry Inc. Podcast, a creative project by Martin Anton Smith, a NZ based creative. In this episodeI read a New Poemwhich emanated from the desire to watch Peter Jackson’s new Beatles Documentary where he released an elongated film on the making of the Beatles “Let It Be” album – called “Get Back”. It is a great doco, and I highly recommend it, especially if you create music as I am also trying to do.
In the documentary footage it often shows big Mal Evans who was a helper and friend of the Beatles. Mal was the one who belted the hammer on the anvil on “Maxwells Silver Hammer” a song they practice on the “Let It Be” sessions but was released on the Abbey Road Lp. The footage of Mal on The Anvil is there on Get Back.
He seemed interesting so I looked up his story and I transcribed the highlights and added some artistic flair and asked a few open questions. I find it interesting to look into the making of albums, as there is usually a rich tapestry of stories and occurrences to interest the mind. Mal’s story was sad and I thought that he got a rough deal on the face of it.
I think Mal Evans was simply “too nice” for such a tough environment and it in that high pressure insane world that surrounded the Beatles, I wonder if niceness helped him much. As the old Christian adage goes, being kind without also being wise is folly – but then who is wise AND young? Is it possible to be wise without life experience? . Is this simply not why the young need great leaders?
I being only 43 of course only stated listening to the Beatles around 1995 when they released the anthology album and documentaries; but I got into the Beatles mostly in my Uni years and shortly after. My interest had waned since being over 30 but the Peter Jackson documentary has piqued my interest again and thus helped create this poem. I thought it would be more interesting to write about Mal, and his Beatles time and then his tragic early death vs say John’s – which of course we already all know.
The question of what would Mal’s life have been like if he’d never met the Beatles is an interesting one – would he still be here and would he be happy? Also, how many of us are in Mal’s situation – i.e. seemingly in paradise or in the Lap of luxury and success but hurtling towards disaster? These are interesting questions that are hard if not impossible to answer and I think this is because in life we are usually wading blindfolded through in the fog of some undeclared war. Only when the war is over, the blindfold lifts and we can look back on the battle scene and our accompanying battle scars. Perhaps we are like Mal in many ways, and not less so with this bizarre socio cultural – pandemic flux we have been injected into.
But why is it we never learn from history? Is it because the ones that do know History’s pitfalls and cavernous abysses are to cowardly of ineffectual to stop it? Is it also because the intellectually blind populace simply swallow the hogwash offered up by the latest shady populist politician or technocrat? To me the answer is a resounding YES!
And so, I will now read the Poem.
“Big Mal Evans – The Beatles Runaround “
Poem by Martin . A . Smith
Big Mal Was Big 6 ft 6 And Wide As A House.
He Met The Beatles in ’62 & Bounced At the Cavern.
He Became A Roadie – Settin’ Up the Amps and Mics.
But His Real Job Was A Fab Four’s Personal Runaround.
Lennon Said: “Mal Socks”, And It Was Done.
Ringo Said: “Mal Undies”, And They Appeared.
George Said “Earl Grey Tea Mal”, And So Be It.
Paul Said: “Beetroot Sandwich Mal”, And That It Be.
The Big Lad Had a Big Smile And Thick Glasses,
Only Triumphed By His Big Heart and Rounded Edges.
A Wife And Kid At Home And Only Paid 38 Pounds A Week!
While The Beatles Had Mansions, Steak Dinners And Soiree’s to Greece
“I’m Just Too Nice To Ask for A Raise, An Extra Nickle”, He Wrote.
His Dairy Scrawling’s, Would One Day Make Someone Rich.
He Even Helped Paul Write A Line Or Two – So They Say At Least.
And Paul Promised Mal A Royalty? Or Did He? Or Did He Not?
Was Big Mal Too Nice Or Were The Fab 4 to Mean?
A Bit Of Column A, A Bit Of Column B?
In ’70, When Beatles Broke, Mal Became Broke In Another Way
Come ’75 He Was Financially and Emotionally Spent.
The Post-Beatle Industry, Was Far Too Tough For Big Kind Mal.
And While He Slumbered Around Trying To Forget,
His Sufferin’ Wife Lil Finally Left Through the Kitchen Window.
Down And Out, And Clutching The Last Straw,
He Scuppered to California And Rented A Dingey Room.
But It Was All Too Much For Big Friendly Mal,
And He Did What He Knew & He Hit The Bottle To Cope.
The Apple Corp Boss Called And Sensed He Needed Help.
But Alas No! Mal Said He ‘Wouldn’t Come Out Tonight’.
But Tomorrow 1PM For Lunch?, ” Yes I’ll Be There!” Said Mal.
And He Kept Drinkin’ & Drinkin’ & Taking What God Only Knows.
Drunk, Down And Doped He Played Inside With His BB Gun.
Cops Were Called And Thence They Did Come.
But the Airgun And Bourbon He didn’t Put Down.
“Just Let Me Be, It’s My…My…Mine!” He Did Scream.
And Together, The Cops Shot a Volley of Blamity Blam’s.
Of The 6 That Were Fired , So 4 did land.
Big Mal Now Harpooned, Did Slowly Sink Downwards.
Bottles Rattled And Floorboards Flew.
The Air Gun Clacked On The Ground Harmlessly,
Having Finally Left His Iron Clad Grip.
Medics Arrived And Then Counted Him Out Of The Game, aged Only 41.
But I Ask – Was His Death Really By His Own Misadventure?
Or Was It The Cops fault?
Or Do The Beatles Have Some Skin In The Game?
The Funeral Came And Went, But The Beatles Didn’t Go.
Just A Couple of Big Pips from The Apple Corps Did So.
He Was Cremated And Then His Ashes Posted.
Those Royal Mail Dopes Lost The Parcel, And So Beatle John Did Quip:
“Didn’t They Check The ‘Dead Letters Office’?”
But Now That The Death Was Done, What Doth The Judgement Be?
Your Honor, It’s Clearly 909th Degree Homicide & Now I Will Close My Case.
This Is The Ballad Of Big Mal Evans.
Just A Gentle Guy With a Giant Roar.
The Fluffy Monster The Beatles Needed.
A Constant Presence On Their Studio Floor.
Loved More Than They Dare Let On,
Far Far Too Big to Ignore, But Eventually He Was.
Was Big Mal Evans Maybe The “Unluckiest Lucky Man Alive”?
So “Unlucky” That He Was Actually Now Dead?
Drunk With A Pop-Gun & Shot Dead By The Cops.
And God Help Him, He Was Then Lost In The Post!
Yes, Mal Was Scrooged By The Fab Four and Apple,
But Don’t Blame His Demise On George Paul Ringo Or John,
All They Did Was Answer The Knock On “The Cavern’s” Door.
But I wonder – Would Mal Still Be Alive If They Had Doubled His Wage?
And Paid Him A Lousy 76 Pounds A Week?
Alas, As Ringo Supposedly Said: “Tomorrow Never Knows”.
And We Silly ‘Beatles Fans’ Will Never Know.
And In Closing, May I Ask a Final Question,
And Can I Pose A Final Thought?
Is Money The Root Of All Evil?
Or Is It The Lack Of It, That Is Evil?
Mal Evan’s Life, Or Should I say Life and Death,
Is Surely A Living Allegory, Of That Old Conundrum.
Thank you for listening to the Baby wants Its Bottle Philosophy & Poetry Podcast, A creative project by Martin Anton Smith, a NZ based creative. This podcast is available on Spotify or wherever you get your podcasts from.
Welcome to The Baby Wants Its Bottle Philosophy & Poetry Inc. Podcast, a creative project by Martin Anton Smith, a NZ based creative. In this episodeI read a New Poem which is also really a speech. It is quite self-explanatory in its main thrust, so I will only add this: I want to underline that not all Baby Boomers are bad, and we must not always on a personal and professional level strive not to tar everyone with the same brush and instead treat everyone on their individual merits. In saying that, I think it is totally fair to pointout that a large group within a generation has failed to pay it forward, and this is what this Poem/Speech speaks too.
Sometimes a little shame is a good thing, for if more Boomers felt some shame for outbidding each other at these soulless auctions on a now ‘normalised’ speculative property market, then certainly mainstream society would not be so dysfunctional and breaking apart at the seams.
Though I will add the media is equally to blame in covering up this crime against humanity – for that is what it actually is.
Oh, and I almost forgot – to my fellow non-boomers, I think it very wise to think twice about engaging anarchy as a solution to a clueless elite in power. As the world after the anarchist-based Revolution can be worse than what you were originally fighting against – Russia 1917-1991 shows us this fact. But of course, to not do anything and not associate to decide to do something, is equally bad.
Also, to collectively clarify the end of the poem – to collectively agree that we must ‘not worry at all’ should not be confused with weak inaction. It is actually to do the opposite, that is to guardedly keep our high mental reserves and spirits in order to play and then win this game of attrition. I will read the piece now.
“Boomers Lake”
Poem/Speech by M.A. Smith
These days are full of tough toil.
The hours of work are unreliable.
There is either so many or so little,
All designed to keep you down.
The pay is near criminal,
The conditions interminable,
The prices of food are rising like a tide
The rent continues to inflate,
While the wages deflate.
God help you if you happen to have kids!
This The curse of being working class.
This the curse of the “un – asset-ed”
While we booze ourselves to forget,
We watch the toffs with the assets,
As they drink their fine wine,
In their gated establishments.
We know they deride us as a lazy rabble
For that is their cultural badge.
“Look at those rabble, so lazy that’s why they are poor” they cry.
But you Sir, oh man and wife with fine linen
Who doth malign us so,
You created our poverty and our rabble-ness,
By speculating and curtailing our land and houses.
You loaded the dice in your favour,
After the dice were cleaned and given to you free
By your parents and grandparents,
Who died for your current and future well-being and freedom.
You Traitorous few have danced on their graves and used the young as the dance floor.
So, we the great unwashed have little chance to raise capital,
God help us if we want to marry and have children.
Thus, we are forever chasing our tails.
We have been “property boomed” right out of social relevance.
By you sir, and your all-too-skinny wife who acts as your satellite, have gathered together a band of thieves’ rogues and liars.
You took the welfare state after WW2
And you destroyed the bounty from the 1980’s onwards.
When you grew from selfish immoral hippy to selfish immoral property flipper.
This was of course a seamless transition in your permanent spiritual vegetative state of moral wasteland induced psychosis.
You can’t of course look this ailment up in the DSM-V – as this recurrent Baby Boomer mental illness has been 100% redacted, whitewashed, blacklisted.
You can however find a list of its traits: lecherousness, narcissism, false idolatry, pig headedness,
When they report with chirpy voices on the 6 O’clock the latest Property Suicides Index figures.
You Mean Boomer Sir, and your too thin too wrinkly mean wife on the hill,
Were handed a gold mine by your parents,
But you were supposed to share it,
Instead, you hoarded it.
You gated it.
you segregated it.
You made it faux scarce to pump up the price.
You turned the world into a nouveau riche, new money-grubbing wasteland.
But here’s the thing – you think you can hide in your social bubbles, your gated leafy suburbs, your dinner party’s & expensive restaurants.
You think you can avoid the dirty festering nest you have made for the majority of society.
But you will be surprised!
When the horrid rabble you created
Rise up from the gutters and the wrong side of the tracks
To take over your house and seize your assets.
And lock you and your wife in your basement – less you repent your sins.
For in the near future the great unwashed has already risen up
And repossessed all your stolen trappings of “success”.
What’s that? You worked bloody hard to get where you are?
Well Sir, your great unwashed underlings work bloody hard to get nowhere!
But even if some miracle occurs and your assets are not redistributed, and you are not strung up in the square,
Do you really think that it is possible to reverse the gift entrusted to you – that of your physical existence on earth?
Did you think you could take that gift and turn it into a hornet’s nest, and suffer no spiritual repercussions?
This is a lie,
This is an egregious lie!
You pay right now in real-time, with the unfriendly scowl that is ensconced forever on your droopy jowled face,
You pay with the dastardly dreaded darkness that fills your heart,
You pay with forever future fearful punishment for those good deeds you undone.
You pay with you lost spiritual awareness.
And you will surely pay after you leave this mortal coil.
But “there is no afterlife, there is no God” I hear you say!
Sir Boomer, that is the wrong bet you have made for so long.
You Sir and Madam boomer have made a bad bet, that the “Great Creator” of this simulated reality
did not write some lines of code to ensure punishment of the very very mean ones.
But of course, he would do that, after all wouldn’t you?
Do you not also protect your investments here on earth?
Just as you have punished the good on Earth, so too will you be punished.
Would you Boomer Sir write a world where the avatars who ruin your creation, are rewarded?
This is a fallacy – for whether someone is mean or good they have always one thing in common:
They love their creations they protect their goods and punish those who trespass these.
Beware! The Great Creator is no different, he hates to see the Boomer Investor classes hurt his people.
So Dear Mean Boomer – your giant earthly dinner party, with an exclusive door list, with your purple robes and fine wine,
Will be crushed into an eternal prison cell.
But as your deceptions rise, so will your eternal imprisonment!
But when you are put there, you will deny where you are,
You will pretend “everything is ok, fine, fine and dandy”.
You say this lie despite the flesh that hangs from your now gruesome, horror movie zombie body.
Yes! It is the flames that flicker and sear your rotting flesh that you ignore.
Yes! It is the maggots that infest your eyes that you will deny.
So, the Deceptive Boomers Investor Classes did enjoy their last few Earthly minutes.
They did attend the final dinner parties with fellow outrageously selfish snobs.
But little did they know that when Reginald asked
“What are you driving these days”
They were all being driven to the fiery gates, to the catacombs of oblivion where they would reside for infinity.
Those Boomers were on a road trip to the one place they will never have power to gate, to exclude to sequester to distort.
To The Pit, The Bad side of Hades, The Lake of Fire.
But I lament, will we ever on earth see the headline:
“Wealthy Baby Boomer Elite Classes Now Repent Earthly Sins As they & Thier Wives Burn In The Lake Of Fire” ?
I say to thee this: No We Will Not See That Headline!
For the Boomer Property Flippers and Social Destroyers, aka the “Angel’s of Death”, would never ever embarrass themselves like that.
They would never ever show any signs of weakness, even in Hell!.
Even as their undead corpses are entombed inflamed for eternity.
I even hear they have set up a “Hellfire Investors Club” which is currently only awaiting the regulator’s signature.
His name of course is Barry Lewis Zebub, or B. L. Zebub.
Of course, the Boomers in Hell have a love hate relationship with this entity,
As he holds up all their new projects with so much unnecessary red tape.
“Hell wouldn’t be so bad if it weren’t for Zebub”, the Boomers cry.
“We would get this place shipshape and more miserable if it weren’t for bloody Zebub’s bureaucracy” they despair.
See even in Hell the boomers wanted to run things their own way.
For they always cried out to Zebub to renovate and extend their deeply buried catacombs.
B.L. Zebub was always on to their tricks of course and wisely ignored them.
In fact when a Boomer requested to “Double the Square Footage of his Catacomb”, Zebub halved it and doubled the temperature.
And now in closing,
We as full Party members of Poverty-Stricken Non-Boomer Gutter Wrens (PSNBGW) must rise above and against the Ultra Mean Boomer classes but not of course against the countless good Boomers.
We must not let the Boomer Classes steal our earthly and animal spirits any more,
We must know that our time in paradise will come,
and so, with graceful patience in the face of acute Boomer-Itis,
We must follow this short life affirming dictum from Britain’s Windsor Davies,
That member of the “Silent Generation” said this:
“Oh Dear,
How Sad,
Never mind. ”
For our Revolution will be not to retort with understandable anarchy, but ensure we do not worry at all anymore.
For those that destroy the trees of society will always one day suffocate for their foolishness.
All that is needed of us is this:
To simply watch from afar and mutter amongst ourselves the words “I told you so Boomer”.
Thank you for listening to the Baby wants Its Bottle Philosophy & Poetry Podcast, A creative project by Martin Anton Smith, a NZ based creative. This podcast is available on Spotify or wherever you get your podcasts from.
Welcome to The Baby Wants It’s Bottle Poetry Inc. Podcast, a creative project by Martin Anton Smith, a NZ based creative. In this episodeI read two of my latest poems “Somewheres Nowhere” & “Sugar low Cat”. I wrote these two poems very quickly and off the cuff in about 30 mins a piece. This is mostly how I write for short poems. I guess the ideas come from my unconscious mind which resides somewhere I can’t yet begin to describe. While writing these poems, I was at home, and in a contemplative mood. This mood was a little different from usual, as my brain had been juiced. Juiced no not on drugs you fool! My Brain was juiced from following the incredibly interesting events coming out of the middle east – namely the fall of Afghanistan to the Taliban. I don’t want to talk about this here, as the poems I have written are not about that story at all. I would also rather be partially uplifting in tone for this awesome episode. I will say just one thing. On the themes Afghanistan now forces us to acknowledge, I can only pray that good people somehow some day are rewarded and that those creating pain have their powers diminished by a higher loving forces.
Now let me talk about the poems. For “Somewheres Nowhere”, I started writing this with not any ideas and all – I had a blank page and I just wrote the first line. The rest flowed. When I wrote that first line (Which was originally ‘ On The Road to Nowhere’) I couldn’t help but think of the great Talking Heads song from long ago in the 80’s. I guess my poem has some similarities to that song – it’s really about meaning in life, and the poem is about someone leaving what they see as an unrewarding joint for brighter lights and greener pastures. Of course the change the character seeks could represent a change of psychological state rather than just their physical location.
This protagonist also talks of someone else or maybe just their alter ego. This is that who is staying behind with what they know best, imperfect as it may seem. I think this is a slice of reality, when you leave somewhere you are also going somewhere else, but there is always going to be a ghost of that place residing deep inside. Try as you might, you cannot forget the past entirely. I think everyone eventually learns this fact. You must one day reconcile the past as the alternative – that is to bury your past – is a growing hornets nest of psychological pain.
I guess the ‘somewhere’ in this poem is not just anywhere, but is a place that has defined the protagonist in some way, at some stage of their life – maybe a hometown for example. Their is a conflict between the ego that is staying and the ego that is going. The ego leaving arrogantly assumes they are growing wings and that the ego that is staying will be far worse off. Of course this poem is deciding one sided – and the ego staying is left hung out to dry by the adventurous jet setter off to conquer the world.In this poem their voice of those left behind is not yet heard.As I write that last line, I thought of the Afghani citizens and trapped foreigners desperate situation and I wonder if this was the unconscious motivation for this poem. We must ask ourselves why it is that the most vulnerable people on this planet never have a voice, while the privileged voices have an entrenched system of amplification.
This poem also reminds me by the age old story of the young adult leaving home as per the post industrial western age “right of passage”. I guess it could also be described as “modern day exodus”. This (in the secular orientated industrial west) is always assumed to be a good thing (to flee rather than stay) however our current times (financial decay/pandemics/civil unrest) now seem to be actively pouring water on this right of passage or Big OE.
Of course this poem is written to be generalized, and thus can refer to anyone leaving something/someone they know or what they see as a ‘new start’. I think these days we are having circumstances force us to rebalance our expectations in regards to materialism and carefree attitudes. These are the myths that have been pushed so heavily in the Western world since the 1960’s.
The other poem – Sugar Low Cat” is a more intentionally positive poem and written as a bit of a laugh. It’s really just a diary of what my cat was doing around the yard yesterday. He’s an expert bird hunter, and our house has many plants and trees which give him great cover to engage in guerrilla warfare tactics vs those little flying dinosaurs. For the record the cat is called Squeeky, he is 3 years old and of the Tortoiseshell variety. I do not have children, and as I age I guess I treat my pet as a pseudo child (how sad). Cats are far easier to deal with than spouses and real children, though I know that having a cat instead of a child will only make the western civilization fall that much harder and sooner.
In closing I will also say that the use of the term “Sugar Low” is inspired by my mother who used over use this term in my childhood – “I was Sugar Low” she would often say to explain something away (It is very amusing looking back on it as an adult). I should also mention if you go to the transcript link in the description, you can see my cartoon sketch I drew specifically for this poem. Well that’s enough of the intro’s lets get into the reading the two poems I’ll start with “Somewhere’s Nowhere” and end with “Sugar low Cat”.
“Somewhere’s Nowhere” Poem by Martin Anton Smith Aug 2021
Nowheresville
On The Road to Nowhere
Where Nothing Ever happens
And Nothing Ever Will
You Try To Leave
You Try To Hide
But You Belong Nowhere
And That’s Where You’ll Reside
And When You Die
You Wont Be Free
You’re Stuck In Nowhere
And That’s Where You’ll Be
Don’t Wait On Me
For I Cannot Come
Somewhere’s Calling
So Fiddle Dee Dee
Don’t Get Me Wrong
For Of You I’m Fond
It’s Just Nowhere’s Somewhere
Where I Cant Belong
So Brace Yourself
And Hunker Down
Nowhere’s Not Fun
And You’re times Not Done
I’ll Let You Know
When Your Times Near
When Nowhere Transforms
To Something You Can Bare
Adios Farewell
Sayonara My Friend
My Heart Is With You
Till Your Bitter End.
End of Poem
“Sugar low Cat” Poem by Martin Anton Smith Aug 2021
Because my cat was sugar low,
he leaped for birds flying low.
He remains sugar low,
& the birds are flying high.
Now he comes to me,
because he is still hun-gry.
Yes, I’m his fallback solution,
so he’s fed without commotion.
The birds did chirp and sigh,
& radioed a fly-by.
Thankyou for listening to the Baby wants It’s Bottle Podcast, A creative project by Martin Anton Smith, a NZ based creative. This podcast is available on Spotify or wherever you get your podcasts from.
Welcome to The Baby wants It’s Bottle Poetry Inc. Podcast, a creative project by Martin Anton Smith a NZ based creative. In this episodeI get back to basics and read a poem I wrote today. It is essentially a sequel to another poem “Adventures at Doctors Point in Summer”. It’s simply a distillation of the thoughts I had on one of my many scenic and therapeutic bike rides through the countryside. Now lets get straight to the poem!
The “narrows” on the way to “Doctors Point” bike track Alexandra NZ
Adventures at Doctors Point in Winter Poem by Martin Anton Smith July 31 2021.
It’s Saturday, and as always the body is slow to get into gear.
The crawling feeling of low vibrational energy is a continuing story.
This of course becomes worse with winter dampness and low light.
The feeling can be reversed via physical activity or waiting it out till afternoon.
Today I chose the former, and so on my bike to ‘Doctors Point’ I did go.
The Bike is good but aging and is now only running on two gears instead of one-score and eight.
The Bike is an allegory for embodied life, and especially mine in the morning.
So down to the ancient-but-still-as-it-was riverway with it’s ancient craggy clefts and giant rock outcrops.
In a narrow pass I stop to allow another biker through as we both cannot pass at once.
“they don’t call it “the Narrows” for nothin’ ” I say, these days I sound more and more like an old timer.
The next two oncoming bikers career towards me with danger, despite being on a wide path with room to share.
And I think of a possibly wise but imperfect saying:
“Two people crossing in opposite directions on a path made for one, will do so easily, if they are self aware.
Two people crossing in opposite directions on a path made for many, will collide if they are not”.
In this case, less options – that is a narrow path – kicked two people into mutual self awareness and so well-being,
While more options clouded perceptions in the minds, and so led to potential danger.
I think we have been told more options are always better than less, this is an obfuscation.
And those doing the obfuscating I’m sure have been making a lot of money.
The beginning of the ride is to be aware of my weakness, my body machine has not yet overcome its low vibrations.
Half way through the body has recognised it has been asked to perform, and now the cosmic pharmacy is delivering.
I begin to feel how normal happy people feel like all the time – which I know isn’t actually true at all.
With western societal decline, deep down I know by now most people suffer from low vibrational energy.
How could we not all feel this way?
After all, we have all been swindled by city cubicles, screens, salaries, lunchbreaks and advertisements so as to deplete our vitality.
In the modern Western system, It is normal to feel abnormal, as the neo-feudal system needs compliant zombies.
I am at the apogee of the trail – I stop for the usual few minutes to try to channel & contact the supreme being.
The baron rocky canyon on the other side of the riverside shows its history by the words written in its many wrinkles.
It also functions as an echo chamber, and so of course I oblige “I am here, speak to me” I say.
I wait for a reply, it comes in cascading and regressive volumes, my now lowering voice is rendered by the rocks.
I half think that one day, a different voice will reply with something like “I knew you’d come looking for me one day”.
The outer shell veneer of my helmet breaks off, so I think of the world as a place of false veneers vs. hidden truths.
On the way back and the body machine has now fully prescribed it’s chemicals and hormones – I fly up the inclines.
And then a few minutes in, the answer to the echo experiment comes in – a pebble came from the sky and hits me.
I think it would be a wise system for the grand creator not to use the language of the lower entities but to instead use symbols.
Symbols allow communication-at-a-distance to those who are ready to accept that truth is always stranger than fiction.
There are two kinds of people in this world – people who ask ‘what’s beyond the cave’s shadows’ and those that don’t.
Did I really catch a glimpse of the higher plane of existence that exists outside the ‘cave’s shadows’ today?
I think I did, and aint that great that this happened on my bike at Doctors Point in Winter 2021.
I can already hear the placking of the keyboards from the heavily fluoxetined corporate materialist surface dwellers.
I rest easy because the Big Cheese would never hand the keys to unlock the mysteries of reality to such fools.
But then again could I be wrong?
Was it just a ‘bike ride’ or was it an epistemological infused natural chemical high on wheels?
For that, I will leave to the reader to decide, as I do not wish to court controversy.
I’d much rather sit on the fence, yell at the sky and wait for the echo reply
“Of course silly! you were right all along!”
End of Poem
Thankyou for listening to the Baby Wants It’s Bottle Poetry Inc. Podcast, A creative project by Martin Anton Smith, a NZ based creative. This podcast is available on Spotify or wherever you get your podcasts from.
Anton Martin Smith Writer 