Tag: Poetry

“Saved by Bukowski & The Girlbosses” (Prose)

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Older man with beer and cigarette talks to woman in business attire holding coffee

by Anton martin Smith antonmartinsmith@gmail.com or martinantonsmith@gmail.com

I don’t know why they all can’t see it.

My twisted angel Bukowski was correct in what he said a few years ago:

‘About something small they protest wildly, but about wasting their entire lives they don’t even batt an eyelid’.

Yes I agree with you – it is hard to believe – but yes he was definitely one of mine.

Contrary to your popular media – my angels are not all harp-playing-ephemeral-floating-singing-clichés.

When I send one down I go with the ‘when in Rome’ thesis of blending in.

I have many a ‘drunk truth teller’ like Charles Bukowski in my ranks.

For how could I get to the people that need me most of I didn’t?

But of course, I didn’t make the Earth for it to end like this, the way it is now.

I made trees, rivers, seas, jungles, and endless savannahs.

I gave a warm sun to heat, melt and grow things as where needed.

I filled them with tasty animals and fruits for them to eat without much effort.

I made things just hard enough to catch so that my children would get enough exercise.

I made things just dangerous enough so that they would not get bored.

I made plenty of unfenced land so that if somewhere was bad, there would be many better places to go to.

I made the land large and the people scarce so there would be no need to ever be forever-crowded.

In short – I made a sustainable paradise full of bounty and freedom for all.

But my adversary (of course) had other plans.

He wanted concrete instead of rocks.

He wanted false indoor light instead of the sunlight.

He wanted to stack people on top of each other in concrete encasings so they would fight.

He wanted to put a lock on the bountiful food and land.

He wanted men to be women and women to be men to kill marriage and sacrifice children.

He wanted work that felt like work but produced nothing but strange enslaving symbols.

So as we negotiated terms I said to him:

Ok I will agree to the game – we will see how they play – whoever’s ideas are the best will win.

You can have whoever you convince,

And I will follow the same rules and have who I convince.

I am sure people will prefer water from a waterfall that a bottle.

I am sure people will prefer sunlight to harsh glowing tubes.

I am sure men will not want to act like women and vice versa.

I am sure people will realise their strange symbols and wasted time will make them fools.

I am sure people will prefer freedom of movement to concrete laden bustling cages.

Sure you’ll ensnare a few, that goes without saying.

But a house of cards must always fall.

My adversary took the bargain.

He was happy to simply have a chance to destroy and steal a few souls.

He knew he could never beat me – after all I allowed him to exist at all.

He – as the negotiations closed said – ‘you never know, through some strange twist of fate I might somehow win’.

He has super-intelligence but little wisdom you see.

As if he could ever beat myself – it is quite laughable indeed.

So the deal was done – we would let a game play out and it has.

Now many millennia later – we are almost entirely done.

But it would be remiss of me to not share some worries.

I am a little worried about how things are going right now.

I never thought he’d succeed in making his cities so large.

He kept saying with shameless glee as he watched over the mega-cities.

“Grow my prettys grow – look at them live on top of each other – ain’t it grand?”

“The Economy is stealing their days so beautifully”

“They all believe in their Careers – especially my beloved army of Girl-bosses”

“I can’t believe I am taking their lives away so easily”

“The light behind their eyes is so beautifully dulled that I could cry”

“I cannot believe the men are like corrupted women and the women are like corrupted men”

“All I had to do was broadcast a web of lies, coral them into small spaces, then give them cash, drugs & sex”

“I’ll take this easy victory while I can”

So I have had to intervene – while still playing within the rules.

I will beat him at his own game.

I have made London, Paris, Melbourne & New York a special kind of hellhole.

I’ve decided to let his foot-soldiers – the ‘feminist girl-bosses’ have ‘free reign’ on all of those cities.

Vice of all types will bloom but not for no good reason.

Those cities will fall so quickly it will serve as a beacon of warning to all others.

A high-tech modern-day rerun of ‘Sodom and Gomorrah’, if you will.

So then the ‘Return of Eden’ can swiftly return.

And my enemy can admit his inevitable inglorious defeat.

And he will say “I lay aghast – I was beaten by my own foot-soldiers of glorious death”.

And I will say “I told you so – why did you question me at all?”.

And he replies:

“I’m an evil bastard – I couldn’t help it – Oh well at least I’ll always have London, Paris, Melbourne and New York”

To which I replied “But only because I let you you low-wisdom fool!”.

The evil one knowing the truth then painfully retreated and relented remorsefully.

“I admit defeat. Thank you for the collateral damage – it was a delight – & I’m really gonna miss the M.C.G the most”.

And then as he sloped away to his prepared eternal fiery dungeon he looked over his shoulder and said one more thing:

“That strategy of sending Bukowski first and the Girlbosses second – that really was a masterstroke”.

I just nodded quietly – after all I always knew things would play out this way – after all I did create the place didn’t I?.

And now we all live in paradise in New Eden, well a fair few of us do anyway.

The rest are at a fiery M.C.G. with their false idol still enjoying the bread & circuses – they still don’t know they’re in hell.

“An Ode To Intellectual Honesty” (A Poem)

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by Anton Martin Smith antonmartinsmith@gmail.com or martinantonsmith@gmail.com

NZ (among other nations) has an affliction much worse than The Black Plague.

It is a persistent ‘built in’ shyness.

A built in reclusiveness that is robust to attack.

As a ‘liker of ideas’ this my friends and enemies – this is no good.

I want to be able to share ideas freely.

Here in NZ everyone is too afraid of sharing intellectual ideas.

And if they do it is often corrupted by cultish like political tribalism.

This is why I saw a ‘open night poetry’ advertisement that had a warning:

(& to summarise it via paraphrase)

“We want it to be safe so no ‘hate speech’ is allowed”.

This is what I am talking about.

Even poetry – which is supposed to be the (last) bastion of any and everyone’s ‘Truth’ –

Is now casually conscripted into quasi-national-socialist-literary-Brownshirt-ism.

People who haven’t seen either a mirror or their own shadow do condemn so drop-hat-ingly.

I see it as a total fear of having your mind changed by someone different and original.

And until NZ allows its artists and writers to ‘do art’ and ‘write words’,

We will continue to wallow in backward socio-cultural-mediocrity-land,

Where you dare not question the censorship laced tired dull unoriginal tribal company line.

One day people will wake up to all this.

My optimistic guess is sometime in the year 3036.

Where it will be safe to go to an open poetry night,

And share your mind freely with a wild array of formerly unacceptable conjectures,

And neither be applauded roundly or chastised drably.

You will simply be listened to and then a fantastic member of the audience,

Will be interested to purely and intellectually talk of their ideas and yours over a giant pint.

Of course this still sporadically happens even now,

But only as rarely as a inordinately cheap classic at the second hand bookstore is found.

But we controversial conjectorial thinker types cannot be beaten easily.

Like the virus that survived the traumatic trip to outer space under on a phillips-head screw,

We will too will survive to cough out (spontaneous emit) our acerbic & strangely colored lines.

(Much to their chagrin).

This was my ode to that priceless currently invisible concept: ‘intellectual honesty’.

“The Poet-Vigilante Vs The Toolbox-Poet: Who will win?” (A Prose Poem)

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by Anton Martin Smith antonmartinsmith@gmail.com or martinantonsmith@gmail.com

‘Writers Block’
Is very handy.
For Example:
When you meet someone who doesn’t read?
Out Comes The Block.
You asked the said non-reader to close their eyes.
Then….
!Whack!
Rough justice employed.

Another example:
You are at a poetry reading.
You come across the “toolbox poet”.
They’ve had an easy life.
Their parents are (of course) still together, upper middle class types.
Their progeny is this ‘toolbox poet’.
It is they that is trifecta-masacre-ing you’re brain, eyes, and ears,
Has never known poverty or genuine struggle.
Is quite possibly what the Americans refer to as a ‘Trust-Fund Baby’.

Alas ‘Toolbox Poets’ – They have nothing to say,
Yet yield Hiroshima like damage on new poetic pastures, usually in urban locales.
They use ‘form’ like a mega-sledgehammer.
They use rhyme far too much and for no good reason.
Their empty platitudes flow like the cheap tract-nouveau-riche-wine,
Delivered to their and their parents friends pristine well swept doorsteps,
Like the badge of copy-cat-ism-style of dishonor it surely is.

The ‘Toolbox Poet’ not knowing what truth is – uses hearty dollops of ‘false mystery’.
‘False mystery’ is the poetic version of verbal sophistry –
Basically they use empty-misjoint-imagery spoken with faux gravitas,
To swindle audiences who have not yet purchased ‘intellectual imposter glasses’.

So where was I?

Yes let me backtrack to ‘Writer’s Block’ (the non-metaphoric physically real kind).
‘Writers block’ comes in handy with run-ins with the ‘Toolbox Poet’ set.
And as my prescriptive advice,
Simply throw said block from the very ‘back of the back’ of said room,
Ideally throw from behind a billowy curtain or from an appropriate alcove.
Aim for the trajectory to have a nicely curved parabola, but not too curved –
less it miss its mark – i.e. the Toolbox Poets ‘schnoz’.
Too flat a trajectory – and you risk hitting the audience.
Watch this glorious ‘Writers Block’ fly with feeling-imbued-slow-ity through the air,
Until it completely nulify’s the ‘toolbox poet’ in mid-bad-stanza,
Mid-bad-imagery-rhyme & mid-flowery-false-platitude.
And Congrats! You hit with a bullseye’d ‘schnoz splashdown’
(NB: in the event that you missed? – Abort mission & stay behind said curtain or alcove & whistle quietly).

And for when the audience turns around post successful ‘Toolbox Poet’ assassination & wonders what has happened?
Well you just stand there sans curtain, whistle quietly & hold your hands behind your back,
Contemplating your next ‘writers block attack’.
Yes my friends of good and great writing –
Contrary to popular sentiment –
As I have outlined in detail above,
‘Writer’s Block’ comes in very handy.
In this the stolen-valor-filled-faux-literary-world.
Yes the valiant soldier wielding the ‘Writer’s Block’ is a poet-not-just-a-poet,
But is also a well battle scarred poverty knowing poet-vigilante,
Who’s parents duly hated each others guts and then in five to ten got truthfully divorced.
And in so doing accidently created a glorious poet-vigilante,
Willing to swiftly and parabolically destroy the high-crimes-of-poetic-dastardry –
Wherever the ‘Toolbox Poet’ plies this evil solipsistic trade,
Or doth present their oversized probably-open-mic’d-big-target-wearing-schnoz.

Hazaar to the Poet-Vigilante & his mighty non-aerodynamic ‘Writer’s Block’.
Hopefully he is not deluded,
Hopefully he is not living in a fantasy world of his own choice,
Hopefully he is not merely ‘projecting’ some twisted internal trauma based misery.
Hopefully he has met his ‘Jungian shadow’ and now gets on not just like a ‘house on fire’,
But as the houses warm embers the day after the house was on fire.
Oh yes – I know what you’re thinking.
It would be a shame if this ‘poet vigilante’ I speak of was in fact ‘dead wrong’ –
For all this would be a waste of time and a total ‘all encompassing lie’.
It would be an exercise in acute effrontery (which is definitely not cute).
But surely not – surely he is not then a ‘Poet Terrorist’.
Surely not dear highly-intelligent-literary-loving and truth loving avid reader!
After all – we’ve all seen the multitudes of ‘Toolbox Poets’ that abound –
The ones that litter the urban poet-scapes like maimed-and-hobbling-town-square-pigeons?
I ask of you dear discerning reader of near angelic virtue – have we not seen them everywhere?
Of course we have….Of course we have…..Of course we have.
I’d stake my very reputation on it.
And let me give you the tip –
That’s worth more than a few cases of ‘Smith’s Luxurious Highly-Blunted Flying Writer’s Blocks’.

“Open Letter: Hey poet – Don’t steal Buk’s stellar 30 year Work Record”

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by Anton Martin Smith antonmartinsmithwrites.com or Martinantonsmith@gmail.com

I called out a fellow Buk fan & I was ‘blocked’.

This fellow Antipodean Poet also loves Buk.

Like me he mentions him all the time.

Sidebar:You can love Bukowski AND not like some of his bad drunken behavior.

That’s cool.

I applaud him for recognizing Buk’s literary genius.

BUT he ruins it all by doing this:

He tells his audience that he’s essentially ‘just like Buk’.

BUT

He has a patchy at best work record.

More holes in his CV than swiss cheese.

His dole check to work week ratio cannot have more than two-fifths MAX.

YET

He implies to his audience that he’s been working “thirty years straight in shit jobs just like Buk”.

Look, my Antipodean-warmer-climes-fellow-GenX-Pal,

Poetry is supposed to be about Truth.

Poets are supposed to be Truthful above all else.

None of this ‘Stolen Work Record Valor’ OK?

Oh did I mention?

In between the holes he was a ‘Marketing Man’.

Marketing Men love to lie to get results.

So what I would say to you oh ‘Fake Antipodean Buk’ is this:

If your were a true Poet,

Bernaysian Chicanery wouldn’t rule your tongue.

The Truth would.

Deep down I think you know this,

And are wondering about the sword of Damocles.

Or should I saw ‘The sword of Buk’?

Huh?

Riddle me that oh you Poetic antipodean hybrid of Bernays & Goebels.

But I am a reasonable man,

I am willing to throw you this crumb:

Perhaps I’ve got it wrong,

For there has always been scammy poets.

Who don’t give a rats about the Truth.

So perhaps you are a ‘poet’.

With a ‘small p’.

I implore you to capitalize your P forthwith – by admitting you were lazy with real world jobs.

And that’s why you hardly worked at all.

After all that is no sin to admit – in fact that’s honorable.

A ‘Big P Poet’ would definitely do this.

They might even wear it as a ‘badge of honor”.

But you lie about it, and suggest you grind-worked every day from age twenty to fifty –

‘Just like Buk did’.

That’s called intellectual dishonesty my friend.

And no Cap P Poet ever does this treasonous act.

And I’m sure BUK would agree.

He would say this:

“Be the hero in and of your own story YES – but don’t dare write about someone else pal”.

“Heartbreak I Miss You” (A Prose Poem)

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by Anton Martin Smith antonmartinsmithwrites@gmail.com

I have never wrote of heartbreak in any of my poems.

There will be a day when that comes – in fact now is as good as any.

I am probably a coward for not doing so earlier.

Their are many heartbreaks in life – but these are the three big ones:

Heartbreak of the Romantic kind – for the one you were ‘supposed to be with’ but it ‘seemingly cannot ever be’.

This type will not fade as the years and decades pass.

Next is Heartbreak of the Non-Romantic kind – perhaps the most common is the ‘disappearing/invisible parent’ of the seven to seventeen-year-old.

It might be a divorce thing, or they may be there but not present, or deeply betrayed the child.

This kind of Heartbreak I also believe does not really fade.

Next – the third type, another Non-Romantic Heartbreak is (as Jung famously mentioned) is that of the ‘unlived life’

Or more specifically it is:

‘The dispair of the Adult who realizes that their life is now proven (without a doubt via the ‘condemnation of the years’ effect) to be an an unlived, unfulfilled, un-potentiated one.

Jung mentioned that when a parent suffers from this, they take it out on the child –

‘It is the child that suffers most for the unlived life of the parent’.

But of course, this adult sufferer will also take it out on themselves in their inner minds – a personalized hellish torment.

The interesting thing is someone can suffer for not just three of these Prime Heartbreaks – but four if they had the additional wrath of an ‘unlived parent’ experience as a child.

And now I wonder if that ‘sufferer of four concurrent Prime heartbreaks’ is me.

And I wonder if that is also true for the other side of the Romantic Heartbreak – her.

Perhaps we had six Prime Heartbreaks between us both, and when we split together we created seventh & eighth.

And I wonder if that is why we resonated in a cosmic energetic unity for that short ‘lit-fuse year’ we were together.

All Theory aside, how does one keep ones aging chin up under these circumstances?

And of course I know their is no answer to this question –

There is only a half-answer:

Only the traditional only-half-working-one,

To remain stoic in the face of you forever falling down the ‘black chasm abyss’ for eternity.

i.e. The same one they used in WW1 – when you saw your best hometown mates head blown off by howitzer fire from one foot away.

And I think if one were to suffer all four Prime Heartbreaks, that would certainly qualify you for the analogy.

Yes Stoicism can’t actually truly save you if you suffer from three or four Prime ‘life-concurrent’ Heartbreaks.

Unfortunately – as the saying goes – ‘you’re on your own’.

And in closing I will separate out just one of my Prime Heartbreak’s,

The one who signifies seemingly forever romantic lost love.

She is surely the most important one of the different types – it feels that way.

She is after all why I wrote this poem right now, after so many years in mourning.

This is the one where my brain settles on only three bare words:

I. Miss. Her.

Or another song title way to put it would be:

“Heartbreak I Miss You”

‘The Brain’ must know that that’s all that really matters.

The-Professor-in-my-minds-eye says:

‘Heartbreak 101: Torment can make for good art and writing’ – by the way this is a compulsory paper’

“Disneyfication” (A Poem)

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by Anton martin Smith antonmartinsmithwrites@gmail.com

And to the lights-on-but-no-one’s-home-folk that recoil in horror about a poem about BO?

Or a poem about the life being drained away from the eyes of the the human cubicle dweller?

Can’t you see that you rose-tinted-glasses view of the world isn’t helping anyone, let alone yourself?

The San Padro Poet was right when he talked about the ills of ‘Disneyfication’

There’s dirt, grunge, & bad smells & much worse in this world,

So let it be described in all it’s uncomfortable rancid true colors.

Though let’s be frank – the leafy greens types in aisle 7 will never catch on.

But perhaps a few will walk by the ‘gutter poetry aisle’ one day,

And look squarely at one of our poems,

Lift up their rose tinted glasses and read the first line or two,

And after the third line upon raising a single eyebrow up high,

Instead of the their usual loudly dismissive herumpf followed by clomping getaway feet –

There is just a barely audible ‘pfft’ followed by gentle mouse steps to the vacuum-packed salmon section.

Mickey Mouse will slowly start erasing himself from his big stupid ears to his oversize shoes,

Leaving only a dancing hand in a white glove & a pencil behind (in true cartoon style).

“An Embarrassing Mishap at the MIDCLAPS” (Prose).

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By Anton Martin Smith antonmartinsmithwrites@gmail.com

The Envelope was delivered to the smartly dressed compere.

It was a ritzy affair, all paid for via legally stolen cash (of course).

The compare had a blank face even more blank than a blank page,

That was about to be filled with soulless blank copy-cat words,

From one of the many blank-headed nominees.

You know the ones – the ones that put the B in Banal, just as much as they put the ANAL in bANAL.

The compere’s smile was at least as fake as a Politician’s or a Real Estate Agents, or a Dentists for that matter.

He opened the letter slowly & with the accompanied ‘tinny’ drum roll sound playing from a 5 watt speaker.

And then his cold flappy bloodless gums started to flap, with sound coming out.

“And the winner this year …Of the Stock-Standard Middle-Class Poetry Awards, aka the “MIDCLAPS”… is…as it has been every year since inception…It Goes to….

Yes me Zombies! – ‘The Anti-Poetry Non-Truth Factory Poetry Division Collective’ strikes again!

And yes, I’m afraid to say they have one it for the 100th straight year!

Ain’t ‘Rigo-nomics’ grand folks!

They’ve won with the exact same poem, but they’ve slightly rehashed it!

Ooooh! This is so…so…anti-surprising, isn’t it?!

Let me read it to you, as I know you’re all dying to hear it.

Wintery Forest Leaves

As the wintery leaves fell through the dense windswept forest,

The agile birds swooped between the trees,

Like a thread going through a needle,

Their spirited cries echoed though the valley gorges,

And reminded us of our long ago forgotten home,

Which had the strange but stylish hyphenated name of: I-coonta-fookin-recalla”

WAIT A MINUTE DEAR AUDIENCE!

SOMEONE HAS ILLEGALLY INTERFERRED WITH THE WINNERS ENTRY!

THEY’VE FALSELY ADDED AN EXTRA THE LAST LINE OF THIS POEM!

They’ve made it interesting and/or witty and/or unique and/or truthful!

They went BIM BIM BIM

When it was BLAND BLAND BLAND we wanted!

THIS IS ILLEGAL POETRY MY FRIENDS AND WILL NOT BE TOLLERATED!

The MIDCLAPS Awards are on hold indefinitely pending an investigation into this travesty!.

For who knows dear audience & sponsors? –

Perhaps there is a coup going on inside ‘The Anti-Poetry Non-Truth Factory Poetry Division’?

If we don’t nip this in the bud ASAP where will we be hmmm?

Meaningful, Witty Unique & Truthful poetry will abound about the world!

‘The Masses’ will surely un-enslave themselves!

‘The Evil One’ won’t like it!

Yes, Yes Yes, calm down now, take your seats…quell your murmurs…I know we cannot have that folks.

Yes Yes Yes – to the Doctor Sir standing up, I can understand that – Yes ‘we cannot upset Satan’, I agree that ‘it’s against our oath’.

Yes Yes Yes to the madam Lawyer standing up, I agree ‘it’s against our mandate’ – to ‘keep all that’s good in the dark’.

Yes Yes Yes to the Real Estate agent standing up with the for-sale sign on forehead, I agree it’s against clause 6-66 of our constitution ‘Good people cannot be allowed to have good things’.

Don’t worry folks leave it with me and the good folks at the Anti-Poetry-League-Limited aka APOLE

You good folks can rest easy now as you know as much as I do:

SATAN himself – our CEO – would never let anyone take a bite into APOLE and get away with it.

Please enjoy the snack buffet on your way out.

“The Ballad Of Low Self Esteem” (A Poem)

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by Anton Martin Smith antonmartinsmithwrites@gmail.com

Their was once a land far far away,

Full of people with gnarled, wrinkly faces – even the young.

A land of ‘downward trending’ smiles & lost tempers.

It was a sad place – for it never learnt how to do anything.

This was because the peoplesfolk had abjectly low self-esteem.

You couldn’t tell them anything, for they took it the wrong way – as a sleight.

Slowly they became more backward than they were the year before, & the year before that.

Some wag once said a very funny comment when pressed on the problem of the matter:

“Why would we change – for if we continue to be move backwards,

Eventually the worst that will happen is we will return to our starting point”.

Another one said:

“Sure we have low self esteem, nothing works, crimes up & our economies in the dustbin BUT”

And I said “But what” then they said

“But…But…imagine if we had too high self esteem – that would be worse as a society”.

I said “why is that”, to which they replied

“Well then we’ll get in over our heads won’t we” they said.

Then I said “what about the saying better to try & fail than never try at all”?

Flustered they then looked at their phone nervousy & said:

“No Sir it is better to not try at all & in the future tell of your wimpery to another wimp”

“Why’s that” I ask with a raised eyebrow.

“Have you ever heard the phrase ‘Misery love company’ “?

“Yes I have” I said.

“Well I’d be too lonely if I was a go getter – I’ll stay miserable with lots of friends thanks”.

The weird thing is that after they said this, it was the most confidant I’d ever seen them look.

As they walked away with a swagger, I made a mental note to make sure I leave this town tomorrow.

They are all far to comfortable with their entrenched culture of low self-esteem.

After all – it is almost certainly just another undiscovered form of insanity.

Even if it is indeed as comfortable as they made out.

And I wonder if I’ll actually ever leave.

Perhaps I am one of them, & simply deluding myself to the contrary.

Sadly, this is not the first time I have wondered about this, & it won’t be the last.

This was ‘the ballad of low-self esteem’.

Out now, never-ending, & everywhere you look.

“Cafe Produced Warblings” (A Poem)

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by Anton Martin Smith antonmartinsmithwrites@gmail.com

I had just finished listing to the old ‘Poet Laurette’ and was on my way out.

A spare coffee was needed for the usual night’s work – that is, writing.

For sipping a coffee while trying to be original certainly helps matters.

< Digression: >

Isn’t a pity that we if being truthful now have to say “excuse me for my keyboard clacking awaits”,

Versus yesteryear’s romantic “Excuse me Sir/Madam my quill & parchment & fine hardwood desk awaits”.

Yes it is a pity, but I remind myself that it’s the writing that matters vs the input method.

< Digression Ends >

“What do you do” said the coffee girl.

“I do some Carpentry & Handyman-ing, but that’s only half my life…

….the other half is sitting in front of a computer at night – ya’know – writing”.

I wasn’t sure if she respected the arts, but I was tired of hiding today,

And with the new owners – the cafe was now becoming more of an arts hangout to.

“Oh”, she says.

it was hard to decipher if this was a “good oh” or a “bad oh” or a neutral “oh”.

As I left the cafe she says “have fun in front of your computer!”

It sounded a little like a “jab” but we types are touchy on such matters, aren’t we?

As I was literally half out the door I reposted (in good humour of course).

“You never know – I might write a poem about you“

The 70-something Poet Laurette who was sitting quietly at a table laughed as he overheard.

“I hope not” she said.

“That’s why they say ‘the pen is mightier than the sword'” I doubly retorted.

Again, the Poet Laurette chortled.

And as I walked home on that perfect sunny day, I thought to myself:

Ah these trips to the cafe are getting better & better.

They are even beginning to foment material.

Why is it always true that the life-sliced-words have a certain ring?

Because they’re the freshly filtered words emerging from the ground.

That’s why.

Long live the cafe-produced-warblings –

For much like ourselves, we would all miss them had they not been there.

“ScamDoctoringTM” (Prose/Poem)

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by Anton Martin Smith antonmartinwrites@gmail.com

Doctors give you 15 mins of their time after you wait half an hour in a small virus-filled room.

When seeing them they try their best to halve the visit to 7.5 mins for double-profit reasons.

Then they charge you $50 on the way out & $100 to the Generalised Insom-na-cised Taxpayer (G.I.T.).

Then they’ll look you in the eye & tell you ‘they’re in it’ in because they care about the community –

& all as the workmen rush to install the rolla-doors & ticket-machines.

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