Tag: relationships

“She, The Red Shed, & Me” (Spoken Word/A Poem)

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by Martin Anton Smith martinantonsmith@gmail.com

I had been ignoring things.

As my non-fitted sheet was falling off the bed far too easily,

& as it had been doing so for six months –

It was time to go to the Red Shed to get a ‘fitted sheet’.

But I was hungry , so I stopped to get a pie & a coffee for lunch first.

Outside the shop a beautiful young-ish woman walked by.

Of course I noticed her.

Fifteen years ago, I would have been actively plotting to meet her perhaps.

When I was younger, slimmer & could still be temporarily confused for a ‘success’.

On dating matters I was more courageous back then –

I had the raw instinct that hormones allow, & smartphones hadn’t had enough time-on-earth to ruin yet.

Now I’m a jaded 47-year-old, although I probably hide it well –

Due to physical work, having all my hair, & not being too fat or wrinkly.

But like all those who have been around the block – I am of course battle-scarred.

So she flittered past & I finished my pie & coffee.

I went to the Red Shed for a fitted sheet.

I’m looking through the packs, deciding on what pattern looks ok.

Then, there she is – the beautiful pie & coffee girl, doing the same thing as me.

I say ‘girl’ because I’d say she’s under thirty-two.

It was then a few emotions took over.

I felt scared.

Like I had to run away.

It was then I realised,

Just how much a big deal even the thought of dating is,

Let alone a relationship,

For a battle-scarred 47-year-old.

With those pangs of emotions hitting hard, I realised acutely & viscerally,

I was still nursing very old wounds from more than a decade ago.

I snatched the fitted sheet pack & disappeared off.

As I was walking to the checkout, I thought:

This is a very sad state of affairs –

I hadn’t until then realised quite how twice shy I really was.

Sometimes reality hits you square right between in the eyes,

And tells you your exact emotional status on the spot.

As I walked to my car, I felt partly ashamed, somewhat enlightened, and tinged with anger.

For I knew that to contibue to indulge those emotions would not bode well for my future heart.

For surely there must be some nasty ephemeral force that wants many of us to stay lonely for life.

It wants us to hunker down in fear & embrace it as a prime motivator, & worship as a guru.

It wants us to fall in love with it in true Stockholm Syndrome fashion.

At least I’ve been around the block enough to know that giving in to such evil is a waste.

Intellectually I know that – don’t we all?

I wonder if I’ll run into that beautiful woman again?

After all – I did forget to buy a pillow….

Perhaps she did too?

Oh there’s one thing I forgot to say.

Between high tailing it away from the fitted sheet rack to the cash register,

I looked at some bogan black jeans on a rack – for nowadays they are not just for bogans.

She walked past & we made eye contact.

I played it cool, & that prior emotion at the fitted sheet rack had dissipated nicely.

And now that I have long left the store & sit here writing in my messy studio,

I am thinking this:

Will I have the balls to say hello If I see her again?

Or will I succumb to being like all the others –

Like every jaded long term single forty plus-er? –

And so say not a peep & desperately avoid eye contact?

That is to allow myself to be typically Mid-Mid-21 Century Socially & Romantically Risk Adverse?

I’d like to think I can next time show some testicular fortitude at the, shall we say red shed pillow aisle.

One thing I do know is this: It can feel nice but It’s never wise to follow the crowd.

Fifteen years ago, I would have felt more confidant this situation.

But then again – I was also a total fool fifteen years ago.

This dear audience, was my ode to being single at 40 plus.

And so, of it all – I dare not talk of solutions.

I’m mostly just happy to just know what’s going on –

For I didn’t have a clue back then, fifteen years ago, when I was thirty-two.

As a battle hardened (or perhaps battle defeated) youngish-old-coot,

I know that to be true.

I guess I better go back to the Red Shed to buy that pillow I forgot about.

After all, I’ll need it anyway.

“The Party’s Over” (A Poem)

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by Martin Anton Smith martinantonsmith@gmail.com

I think men age better than women,

But women want to party more as they age.

But by age 50 men & women are in the same place on that matter –

Neither of them wants to leave the couch.

That’s when the old party animals all marry each other,

Always in the now traditional ‘Western De-facto way’ of course,

With both the man & the woman finally both admitting total military defeat.

And while they have both agreed to unconditional surrender,

They can still argue peace terms until one of them dies.

So they can now pick away at each other equally, like cohabitating pigeons.

Sometimes pecking softly, other times the pecks reign down like the falling Sword of Damocles.

And all is good.

This one-part misery, one-part part heaven, is after all what they’ve been training for all their lives.

This all keeps both of them mentally agile,

Helping both parties stave away ‘early onset dementia’.

And all this sillyness is the correct amount of punishment for all that ‘wanting to be free’ for so long.

All in all,

I’d sum it up it like this:

All’s well that ends well.

Or as my old dusty old Chemistry Professor said:

“Like dissolves like”.

For it is true, isn’t it?

The world’s problems & most divorces for that matter,

Are surely mostly caused because people insist on trying to mix oil & water.

Can’t you see it’ll never work baby?

Even those old shabby co-habituating party animals can see that!

Let us always remember,

Wisdom comes in many guises,

And it often ain’t so pretty.

“Alas The Poor Fellow Has DHPS” (A Poem)

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by Martin Anton Smith

Women prefer good looking men.

But what they really really live for is a “fixer upper”.

YES, Women prefer ‘Simpletons’.

So if you have brains, you better hide it fella!

That is, if you want to get laid.

Which, if you are the average joe schmoe,

You will be willing to lose your life for.

The odd Black Widow aside, this, usually happens metaphorically of course.

That deadening drawn out-ed-ness spiritual death.

of long-term Domestic Hen-Peckery.

This doesn’t all happen out of nowhere, so let me explain.

It all happens like this:

The bloke is so desperate for sex he marries a henpecking bitch,

Who soon enough ends up not shaging him anyway.

Soon enough he’s left only with a Henpecker, that won’t touch his Pecker.

Which is, inarguably so, a fate worse than death.

The only thing left to hope for for these poor fellows, is for a World War to again break out.

For when WW1 & WW2 broke, these henpecked & dusty peckered lot rejoiced heartily!

For they were no longer trapped at home with their wives & children!

Sure they might get their heads blown off by flak or rifle fire at any minute,

But that was a relatively small price to pay in comparison to their Domestic Henpeckery.

This is the problem with most men you see –

They overprice the chances of gleeful marital or defacto sex,

Yet totally underprice their chances of daily freedom.

For a man without a modicum of freedom, is truly not really a man.

He is but a shell of one.

That fact should not be deemed controversial, old fashioned or untrue.

Of course ‘Domestic Henpeckery’s’ got so so much worse nowadays,

As Nazi-like feminism has become as normalised as a deadly WW2 Panzer attack in 1940.

And so after decades upon decades of this phenomenon,

So now men have become women & women men.

And often very literally so.

It is an attrocious state of affairs!

So I have a final message to the modern 21st Century man:

Don’t be stupid,

Don’t marry of even date a Hen Pecker! –

Value your freedom of Association!

Value your freedom of Speech!

Value your freedom of Movement!

Value your Solitude!

Don’t marry a Hen Pecker,

Not Now,

Not Never,

Or on behalf of you Pecker!

Which contrary to working class beliefs,

Has acutely limited executive function.

It’s either that or get trapped & wait for WW3,

To finally set you free.

Don’t say I didn’t warn you!

Although I’m probably kidding myself,

As men who over-trust their peckers, also don’t read books.

And so certainly – not my obscure & curmudgeonly written poems,

Emanating from the Arse-End-Of-The-World.

Luckily for me,

A subset of them might.

Perhaps a few hardened prison inmates might end up read these words,

So I’ll also half-dedicate this Poem to them.

Off course my warning is largely useless for these jailbirds,

For they are already protected by the Deadly Henpeckers by wrought iron bars,

Those Lucky Bastards!

But then again – one day they’ll too rejoin us all in the prison without bars.

But for the rest of the henpecked non book reading dopes out there,

They can only hope that their Putin stands strong & then their Trump retaliates with fire (or vice versa).

And so then,

Once again,

And as always,

A World War can come quietly to set them free,

From that casually murderous misandry,

Known in the near future in the Psychiatrist’s DSM manuals as:

Domestic Hen-Peckery Syndrome.

(Or DHPS for short).

“Henpecked” (A Poem)

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By Martin Anton Smith

If you have to ask permission from another adult,

They are either your parent, babysitter, teacher, jailer, or boss.

There are no exceptions, it applies to everyone at all times.

Let this become your credo.

Your window to reality at all times of life –

your ability to see yourself.

After all, to be henpecked or rooster-pecked for that matter,

Is surely a date with death.

It’s not nice to watch from afar either.

“Some Drunken Life Advice Is Actually Great”(A Poem/Prose)

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By Martin Anton Smith

The place was a writer’s dream – cheap & clean, & mostly empty of people.

But just enough to provide some potential material.

The room & overall building were perfect! – old quant but quality architecture.

These century plus old places have memories that whisper into your ear.

It was placed nicely up high & so had the city & ocean views.

Turns out I didn’t write squat while there – but I got ‘writing fuel’ – & that’s all that matters.

With these short trips you feel like a lord – that’s just one of the devil’s sneaky trick’s –

He takes away 90% of the year but gives you a luxurious mirage for the 10% balance.

I go to the nearest dive bar, which is a quality one – a hybrid, if you will.

The bartender is a suave fella tall & slender, wears black, looks like a punk rocker & has an English accent.

He’s way too good for the place, unless he agrees his place is to make it better – which he does.

I believe If he believes it, he’ll survive better.

So on the second night I decide to drink.

I drink the cheap beers, slung over the bar stool at the bar.

It’s quiet so I have plenty of chat time with old Bartender Bob.

There’s the normal patter, but I’ll stick with what’s good.

He tells me he’s been with a chick for 7 years, but it’s well on the slide.

There’s no rooting & no talking, they hardly see each other.

They’re living what is adroitly called “parallel lives” – a typical story.

So my ‘older man gives advice to the younger man’ eyes light up.

I know he’s a quality man so I tell him “if it’s turned sour don’t wait till you 40 to turf it”.

I think that’s fair – those years from 33 to 40 are prime & not to be wasted.

And If you’re gonna crash out in life those years will be the ones,

& if you’re a Bloke – it’s almost certain that a chick will be the catalyst.

Yeah – I Know what you ladies are screaming- “SEXIST PIG!!!”

But facts are facts – I’m just relaying what I’ve seen of others, & what’s been done to me.

And I’ve been around the blocks – I’m pushing 50.

The most important Life “Facts” come from a metaphorical Auschwitz AND they are true.

The fools that refuse to see it, eventually have their rose-tinted glasses shattered.

The rest of the night was of no interest.

I went back the next day for a few more beers.

I followed up on our conversation.

Bartender Bob had moved quickly.

He told me as soon as he woke up while half asleep he’d broken up with her.

I guess he listened to my wise sage like advice –

But in those situations, you feel a tinge of guilt.

The thought crosses your mind

“Did I just play a hand in totally fucking up this decent guy’s life”.

But I’m a wise man & thought about this yesterday, when I was giving advice –

I merely said that he should tell her “I want to go on a break”.

You see, that way it can be a reversable healthy thing that’s going on.

They can get back together if that’s the right thing to do,

or not, if that’s the right thing to do.

And if she holds a massive grudge & hates him for it?

Well then she’s a total bitch & the decision was proved right beyond doubt.

I rest my case your honour!

I take no responsibility for any shit that now blows up in Bob’s chisled punk-rocker face.

I only hope he doesn’t think he ‘loves her’ – then he’s in for a ride from hell regardless.

God Speed, Barman Bob.

The rest of the six day trip was pretty boring,

Other than a bloody great second hand bookstore,

Full of pre-loved books,

That still have a lot to offer a new person with fresh eyes,

Even though they are battered, musty, stained & worn.

There’s a lesson in that for us all (incl. Bob).

“What a drag it is getting old”. (A Poem)

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By Martin Anton Smith

The worst thing about getting older is your social life dries up,

Young people treat you like you are aged 125 & fuddy duddy.

Your sex life also almost entirely disappears @ you get used to it –

which is even more depressing in itself.

Another problem is it becomes near impossible to make new friends –

This problem is caused by the ‘set in your ways’ mental homeostasis crystalising.

When you are young everyone has left of centre views other than a few freaks –

These were the freaks that had already joined the tory party & already dressed like office managers.

But now when older you are either in the centre or the left or the right –

& those political views seem to now be great social chasms to traverse.

Whether you are a man ot a woman, getting old is still a tricky business to navigate –

And the phenomena of status & social standing has a lot to do with things.

In terms of ‘social standing’ – it’s fair to say it is quite different between the sexes.

I won’t list other than to get right to to denoemont:

Men who don’t have money & never looked good are lowest on the pecking order;

Men who have money & looks are on the top;

Men with Money & no looks are second;

Men with looks but no money are in second last place.

Not being Female, I will not pretend to do the same analysis –

Other than to say that the ‘former beauty type’ seems to suffer the most.

You can find these types working in retail shops in Malls –

preying on the customers for kicks.

Of course in terms of bodily health men & women both decline,

But men who exercise a lot seem to gain youth by way of muscle mass –

muscles seem to be there own ‘fountain of youth’.

For both the sexes the worst off is undoubtedly this one catorgory:

The long term career public servant or corporate office dweller,

Or as I like to call them “Unhappy Office Blobs” or UOB’s for short.

Those UOB guys age the worst – so as a message to the young:

Don’t be a UOB if you can help it.

There is one good thing about aging: You start to enjoy solitude more,

You appreciate nature more & are better at spotting a bastard or a bitch.

The moral of the story? – Yes, ‘aging’ sucks but as an accountant might say:

“There are significant fringe benefits to be had”

So if we are wise – when faced with the scary prospect of ‘aging’ –

There is no need to frantically clutch at lifes shrinking straws as we fall towards the graveyard,

We simply need to accept that the exciting war of youth’s past is long dead,

So as to finally enjoy the low-key-peace-era that has long since broken out.

The other option would be to be a forever partying wrinkled old fool…

But this is folly as you cannot recapture the past, no matter how you try…

for that perfect old adage is true

“You cannot put your arms around a memory”…

For is it not the inaliable right of a good citizen to grow old with grace?

NB: Like the crooked celebrity docter, I The writer hopes to be able to follow his own prescritions…

I will keep you posted with my progress in future as yet unwritten poems…

“How It Went Wrong With Yippy Y’Pong” (A Poem)

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by Martin Anton Smith

I once met a girl called Yippy Y’Pong,
Or Y Y for short, which incidentally, she was.
O ‘culture wars’ did untie this fragile ‘Knot’.
Yes, We got what we got,
& we got the lot.
The Disagreements were decidedly epic;
The passive aggressiveness?
It was unfortunately unwaveringly,
underminingly uncomfortable.

So sadly, we soon divorced our special friendship.
The worry in the aftermath,
was equal in worth to mathematical infinity.
Yes – with My heart being so broken,
My formerly beefy baritone voice,
Became so softly & squeakily spoken.

My heart thus being swiftly & unyieldingly smashed,
Went from foppish aflutter to apoplectic palpitation.
So perilous was this heartless fact,
Its stringy moorings were no longer in-tact.
yes -it did Olympically jump out my chest,
& splattered downwards into the gruesome dingey gutter,
& Then fell down the dangling dirty depths of A sidewalk drain.

I stood wounded, literally heartless & dispiritingly dejected,
& Without much words or even a low decibel mutter.
I stood ‘stoopily’ with unevenly hunched shoulders.
Of course, it goes without saying: I was unhappy –
Suckered into being exquisitely, surgically, psychologically, ‘undone’.
Even worse the victor was watching my unravelling: it was Yippy Y’Pong
Just standing there watching, with a uneven smirk,
laughing when my heart rattled downwards with a
“Da Doink Da Doink Da Doink”.

And here’s the point:
O why O why
Did I Choose someone called
Yippy Y’Pong?
With her ‘worldliness’ in tow?
Alas! I was drunk with on Love!
Blinded by dead doves.
To her,
My flights of fancy,
were far more than just chancy,
They were deadly:
I might not just bore her to death,
I might have opened her eyes to something,
she had until now failed to see.
A dangerous idea that just simply couldn’t be.

“To Yippy Or Not Yippy…?” (A Poem)

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by Martin Anton Smith martinantonsmith@gmail.com

I once wed a girl called Yippy Y’Pong,
Or Y Y for short, which incidentally, she was.
Sadly it was ‘culture wars’ did untie our fragile ‘Knot’.
Yes we got what we got,
& we got the lot.


The disagreements were decidedly epic.
Was there passive aggressiveness?
Yes -it was unfortunately unwaveringly,
& underminingly uncomfortable.
So sadly, we soon divorced.


The worry in the aftermath,
was equal to mathematical infinity.
Yes – with my heart being so broken,
My beefy baritone voice,
Became so softly spoken.


My heart was so swiftly smashed,
In a seismic click in the fingers,

That created a pulmonary shock wave.

The pump went from foppish aflutter – to apoplectic palpitation.

It all happened in the blink of an tear filled eye


So perilous was this fact,
Its stringy moorings were no longer in-tact.
It Olympically jumped out my chest,
& splattered downwards Into the gruesome gutter,
& Then fell down the dangling drain.

I stood dispiritingly dejected,
& Without much mutter.
I stood stoopily
Literally heartless & unhappy
At being so exquisitely most definitely undone.


Even worse there was Yippy Y’Pong
Just standing there watching
When my heart rattled down the drain with a
“Da Doink Da Doink Da Doink”


And here’s my point:
O why O why
Did I marry someone called
Yippy Y’Pong?
With her ‘culture wars’ in tow?
Alas! I was drunk with on Love!
Blinded by dead doves.


To her,
My flights of fancy,
were far more than just chancy,
They were deadly:
I might bore her to death.


& what started it all?
A conversation…a silly conversation!
She said ‘alls fair in love & war’
& then I replied glibly
“Yes, but we all know war is a racket”
then she added to my words
“..but love is a club”
Yes audience – to that –
I groaned loudly at her.

From then on,
For Yippy Y’Pong
I was as they say – ‘well gone’:
For She couldn’t stand a hypocrite…
Let alone be married to one.


P.s. To my knowledge YY is still single & annoyed with me
But is now known as “Dennis McLloyd”.