Tag: Poems

“Musings On The Internet” (A Poem)

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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*

“Willard died in ’35” (A Poem)

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by Martin Anton Smith

The economy crashes when too many people blindly copy each other thinking they’ll make an easy buck.

The ruthless ones that control everything long term know this.

They’ve known it since the dawn of man & probably before that.

So they sit on the sidelines ready to pick over the carcasses.

It happened this way in 1929 1987 & 2008 & 2020.

I can just imagine some ancient fossilised vampire with his centuries old battlefeild skin all lined with the seeds of hundreds of years of faustian knowledge.

He’s both sitting & dwarfed by an oversize leather chair clubs & he’s pontificating to one of his fellow blood sucking kinsmen:

“Oh my Willard, isn’t it wonderful that the crash of ’29 is going to have its one-hundredth anniversary in a few years? I plan on making a killing like I did back then. Now where did I put my cup of virgin’s blood? It was here a second ago. There’s to many swooping seagulls around the graceful Buzzards round here Willard. Oh, there’s my cuppa blood – still warm too. But It’s always a bit sad to see the waitress’s wilt. But let’s hang on a few years till the real bloodbath in 2029 Willard…Willard?….WILLARD!??…oh silly me I forgot Willard died back in ’35 – partied too hard during the Depression, the silly schmuck!”

I don’t blame Willard for not being there – even a vampire has to have a few blood free days once in a while.

As Bertie the pontificating vampire had always said around the club during big paydays, “there is such a thing as too much of a good thing you know – that’s why we cut these big crashes in half these days – we were all to greedy in ’29”

Contrary to ’80s Wall St catch cry,

Greed is not good.

“The Terrible T’s” ( A Poem)

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by Martin Anton Smith

Truculant Trump Tariffs Test Transnational Trade….

Tension Transcends The Terra-Firma….

The Truth, Tattle Tales, & Treason Take The Traditional Talks To The Threatening Troposphere.,,

Trying Times – Till Tomorrow’s TV Takes To Trump Tower,

To Trample, Toot, Test, To Takeover.

Trumpian’s To Take Their Tech Through To The Thirsty Texan Temperatures?

That’s The Tale Of Trump’s Troublesome Though Tasty Tariffs.

Thanks To Today’s Tired Theatre –

“This Tuesday’s Thoughtful Trash Talk”

Note: Yesterdays Poem “lottery Lines” has been updated! Improved?!

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Newsflash!!!

I have finished the last poem I was working on yesterday – So if you read the nor very good version – then read the new ‘not very good but hopefully marginally better version’ now called “The Lottery Economy”.

LINK:

“The Lottery Economy” (A Poem)

Now that I’m here I may as well chat about it. We all know that when the lottery gets a big jackpot, people all line up at the lottery agents – well maybe that’s a thing of the past nowadays but I think that still happens.

For a long time now – when I see the lines I get a twinged in my heart – for it’s like it is an allegory of our modern economy driven lives – people suspending their disbelief in the reality of the tiny odds-on offer for a successful outcome. .. .so it’s just like “The economy” – i.e. jobs careers, moving to the city to improve your life, working your ass off & burning yourself out in the hope it will truly get you somewhere.

Yes it might work for some, but I think for many a decade now that is a losing strategy, person for person.

The odds don’t add up.

I hope the Poem “The Lottery Economy” sums that up properly when you read it.

in my opinion that Beast we call & bow down too, “The Economy” hasn’t worked for a long time, if ever.

We have mega cartel Corporates sucking the time & energy of Humans beings under the guise of “Good Jobs”.

I’m not against Jobs, I’m against Cartels masquerading as “Employers”.

With this becoming the norm, there is only ever going to be one winner in 100, tops.

Many small & medium players, is what works well for the most people.

I’m sure all the bad guys running the Cartel Scam called “The Modern Economy” know this inherently.

The outcome is their aim.

The mistake too many people make is thinking this isn’t the case.

The good news is we can still save things by supporting small & medium companies.

That’s why the beer I’m drinking now tastes good, is at a fair price, & is probably also good place to work.

“The Lottery Economy” (A Poem)

“The Lottery Economy” (A Poem)

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by Martin Anton Smith

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

Both on the balance of probabilities,

A swindle,

An exercise in wishful thinking,

An example of successful brainwashing,

Yes, all of the above.

The thing that stops me lining up with everyone else,

Is that I look at those people in the line.

Looking with naked eyes usually tells you everything you need.

There they stand & then shuffle forward,

As each “economy unit” is spat out,

Which allows the invisible ratchet turnstile to turn.

So I use my naked eyes.

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

Dishevilled tatty clothes – their faces lined.

lined

lined

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

As the ‘last chance’ candle slowly dwindles.

As news of the big jackpot spreads.

But I’m no snob jeering from the sidelines –

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

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

It’s an evil game.

So by describing the “lottery line”,

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

I don’t fall for it all.

I’m just better at maths than they are,

And I was born with “Naked Eyes”.

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

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

But writers at least have Truth as a key reason.

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

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

For that is our reality.

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

As unless you are God himself, so are you.

Every Human is bedraggled – no exceptions.

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


Yes – It’s the Economy stupid!

And It promises you a big Jackpot tomorrow,

Yet it wins your time & energy daily.

And we all know that saying about tomorrow.

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

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

Turn around to your fellow bedraggled & scream

“The Economy…….is Out Ta Get Me!!!”

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

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

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

“The Lottery Economy”.



“Act Stupid – Trust Me I’m a Philosopher” (A Poem)

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by Martin Anton Smith

There’s a moment when someone’s decides.


That they don’t like you.


It was the very moment that they realised,

That you were capable of independent thought.

They took it as an affront,

That you weren’t Brainwashed,

In exactly they same way as they were.

For they were carrying a brace of banalities,

And you made them all silently crash to the ground.

For that they instantly banished you from their lives.

And they complained that you were strange,

Firstly only five minutes later,

To their co-dependant “life-partners”,

And soon to their lifelong mates at the Brainwashed Club.

This is why they tell you to pretend your dumb.

But surely there’s a problem with this tactic.

For if you overdo it,

One day you will find yourself not needing to pretend anymore.

No one, mentions this risk.

Not even the supposedly great Philosophers.

Who came up with the idea in the first place,

Or at the least popularised it.

Is this an oversight?

Or was it a just a trick to beat their competition?

Moreover,

How trustworthy is a Philosopher?

That’s definitely worth thinking about.

But do you dare to do it out loud?



“Normal Ain’t Good” (A Poem)

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by Martin Anton Smith

Normal Ain’t Good

Lose your commitment to being “normal”.


Contrary to popular belief,


You’re allowed to be you.

You need no permission slip,

It’s inalienable.

The Ghouls can only temporarily supress you.

Even if they beat you down your whole life.

At the worst – the trapped bird in your heart will sing after you die.

But try not to go that way.

Fend them off early as possible.

Coz what’s Worse than being “Normal?”

I can’t imagine anything worse.

Those guys don’t even know they’re in Prison!

Don’t sell you & your soul out,

To that normie in-group that ain’t cool –

Despite their false backwards land high-school statuses,

They’re just a bunch of literal Ghouls.

And though some do – most never ever change.

They will remain boring straightjacketed normie assholes for eternity.

That saying ‘everyone deserves the face they’ve got at 50″

Is 100% true.

And their faces will show it sooner than that.

Don’t be one of them.

So Let that Bird in your chest sing,

And tell Normie Ghouls to go fuck themselves.

Normal ain’t good.

Normal ain’t cool.

Normal ain’t nothing.

It was probably just blind chance that being a mean asshole somehow became ‘normal’.

So let that bird in your chest sing.

(Regards to Given Bukowski’s Poem ‘Bluebird’).

“Routines” (A Poem)

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by Martin Anton Smith

He dared to have an intellectual life.

And so, of course, they hated him.

For when they talked to him,

They realised that they themselves,

Had no depth.

He was usually good at acting dumb,

But now at his advancing age,

He had grown tired of having too.

“Let them feel as the fools they are”,

He said to himself.

But then he suddenly felt ashamed of himself.

For he realised he’d forgotten something.

He realised that he was just a wisest man,

Living in a place where even the wisest man,

Would be seen as a dullard.

All it would take for this to happen,

Was the passage of perhaps two hundred years at most.

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

He went back to hiding his intellectual life.

And now he felt less conflicted about it,

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

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

He immediately forgot all about it.

Until the exact same set of circumstances arose tomorrow.

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

All in all,

His daily suffering offered him a lot of mental comfort.

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

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

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by Martin Anton Smith

“Hi I need directions”

“Oh, well where are you going?”

Oh, I guess anywhere will do!

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

This is one on the great old movie lines,

So much so,

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

His variation of the line was

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

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

There’s a gentleness to it.

There is no judgement.

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

And artists take solace in that –

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

Of course, an accountant would hate that line.

It would make them feel, in their own way –

er…let me say….quixotically queasy.

They’d rather rephrase it as

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

well you should have taken that postgrad diploma then,

like I told you when you graduated”.

Some of us are risk adverse,

Some of us like the adventure,

Of not knowing what you’ll do;

Today

Tomorrow

Next Week

Next Year

Next Decade

Next Life.

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

Other wise I might not get there.

Alas this was my vaishingly small ode,

To that very much underrated thing,

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

Uncertainty.

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

Just spread it on our toast each morning.

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

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by Martin Anton Smith

I am an Arty type,

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

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

But weirdly for an Arty type,

I look after my health & fitness.

I also now work with my hands.

So I’m in pretty good shape.

I could almost pass for a personal trainer.

This is a problem.

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

They feel they are not getting what they are buying.

They want a fellow unthinking normie jock.

But in me they get an overthinker;

A non-fiction & literature type book reader;

A night owl-late-rising “slacker”;

A “conspiracy theorist”;

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

Someone who can’t be easily brainwashed;

Someone who can think properly;

Someone who knows that Slavery never ended –

Only expanded to include everyone,

The fact hidden via ubiquitous airwave mantras;

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

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

They wanted their real bona fide Jock,

Their unthinking buff personal trainer,

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

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

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

Someone who’d agree with ‘The Programming’.

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

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

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

That ain’t me babe,

No No No,

That ain’t me babe,

That ain’t me your looking for.

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

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

But there’s a good reason for it.

I liked Science & Maths before I liked Art.

You see, being fit simply makes sense,

If you have to still live in the physical world.

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

Where to be admitted into supposed ‘rebellion’,

You have to wear the right uniform.

And so I ask of you:

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

Ever agree to such a monstrosity?

So I will continue to look like a jock,

Despite the mass disappointment it engenders.

If only I’d make better art.

But again,

That’s just another (unpublished) story.