Tag: slice of life

“Supermarket Narratives” (Poem)

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By Anton Martin Smith antonmartinsmithwrites@gmail.com

If you arrive at the supermarket checkout,

At the same time that another customer’s ‘stinkwave’ arrives at your checkout chick’s nose,

Their is a very high chance of ‘mistaken stink identity’.

You may see a poorly hid, ‘scrunched up face of horror’ in front of you.

Yet you cannot protest or explain – for to be seen as a ‘drama queen’ is much much worse.

All you can do is keep quiet & put your armpit’s reputation on the line,

& hope that next week the same exact thing doesn’t happen again.

Yes visiting the Supermarket in person is full of risks of all kinds.

You’re better off ordering alone by yourself from a soulless screen –

Where their is zero risk of ‘mistaken stink identity’ –

Where if there are any ‘stinkwaves’, they’ll be ‘own brand’, your own nose, & you won’t give a shit anyway.

But then I ask of you Sir or Maddam – where’s the fun in that?

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

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.

“Nuthouse Candidate” (Comedic Prose)

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By Anton Martin Smith Antonmartinsmithwrites@gmail.com

When I walk around town and see the people, I like to play a simple game – I ask myself: “If it was still 1950 – who would be locked up in a nuthouse? From there on is is a fairly simple taxonomy & observation exercise:

Lady at second hand book sale slams books down on the counter like they are sledgehammers –nuthouse candidate.

Lady who when talking to young German tourists can’t get over how far from home they are – nuthouse candidate.

Alcoholic old staff lady who frantically called the cops on a handsome middle aged male customer for making over-the-top jokes with the young female staff – nuthouse candidate.

Homely middle aged lady & checkout chick saying at high ‘customer audible’ volumes to similar staff lady next to her that she “hasn’t had sex in so long that it’s almost grown over” – nuthouse candidate.

You might notice a pattern emerging from this: a lot of middle-aged females. Well this is an understandable but technically false assumption: I would have written down the ‘nuthouse candidates’ who were ‘male’, however as they are all business owners of stores that I regularly frequent (Bookstores, Takeaway Joints, Bars, Pool houses, Cafes), and I am worried they will swiftly ban me on account of if write of them, and they duly recognize themselves in the text.

This is why I will not ever mention a guy like “Joeblo” the vertically challenged snot-nosed barmen who breeds Guinea Pigs and whose nickname is “Richard Gere don’t do that”.

Moreover they also get a free pass from being ‘nuthouse candidates’ as they are economically too important, are often very stupendously witty, & I on too many occasions often agree totally with them.

The moral of the story? Don’t let a flawed research methodology get in the way of having really fun a day out around town.

And always remember to love the crazies because of the ‘it takes one to know one ‘thesis’, and also the other so-true thesis of “there’s nothing worse than being boring”.

And as a postscript – whatever you do, don’t ever listen to the thesis of “If you don’t have anything nice to say don’t say anything at all”, after all your grandmother was a statistically probably a bitch, and following that thesis would rule out the entire arts & literature game entirely – clearly this is bad-bad-bad.

“If The Results Are Good” (A prose Poem)

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by Anton Martin Smith antonmartinsmithwrites@gmail.com

A Gas-station coffee run it is.

“I’d like a flat white please”, I request.

“Do you wan’t sugar?”, she queries.

“No honey”, I say cheerily.

“If you keep talking like that you’ll get it served in your face!”

She is serious.

Her face is contorted, pained.

She’s in her 50s she has grey dreadlocked hair, a face lined by a share of hard times.

Up until that moment our customer to customer service relations had been friendly enough, perfunctory.

Aiming to quickly diffuse the moment I apologize.

“Oh sorry I didn’t mean anything by that, I didn’t mean to offend…I must be getting old”.

It seemingly half works – after all scolding hot coffee has not hit my face, has it not?

“Would you like a marshmallow?” She says in a as-per-standard-question way.

“No thanks” I say, wondering why she is offering marshmallows for a flat white.

She finishes & hands the coffee over.

I matter-of-factly pay, & leave to my awaiting vehicle which with my ‘ troublesome coffee’ in hand.

As I drive away wearing sunglasses, I glance in to see the counter area.

I’m ascertaining the body language after the unsavory event.

The other staff member that had witnessed it all is looking at me black faced – I take that as a minor win.

The one who served me is obscured.

As I post-mortum the situation – my internal narrative is of two strands:

One is self serving:

“Geez some people can’t control their emotions at all, why no sense of humor – especially in that role”

The other is of a negative bent:

“Oh no you’ve put your foot in it again – why did you say that you fool – ‘no honey’…Geez!“.

As I drive away to my home, I take a sip of the “troublesome coffee”.

I now know why she offered a marshmallow after I ordered.

The sweet taste is sickening.

It is very much a hot chocolate, & not a flat white.

So she has either intentionally or unintentionally punished me on the spot.

I do half a u-turn & then I think better of it & abandon the u-turn.

I’m again driving home.

I’m feeling a little mentally deflated about it all – not that it’s a big deal or anything.

When I enter my driveway I park & disembark & I suddenly perk up a notch.

“Ah…This is good writing material!” I have suddenly realized.

“Thank god I took up writing!” I say to myself with relief.

Writing really has added so many silver linings to the blackest of social thunderclouds that abound.

Of course the worry about this phenomena is that you will create drama in order to write about it.

I wonder – Am I already do this without knowing it?

the problem is of course. as they say – an old chestnut – but is it good or bad?

Well, I cannot categorically answer that – as the answer embodies a conflict of interest.

But as an imperfect, rough & contaminated answer I will say this:

If the results are good…

“Bells, Burgers, & Language Instruction ” (A Prose Poem)

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by Anton Martin Smith

It’s midday.

“Shall we get pies or burgers” I say to my elderly mother.

The usual ‘bought lunch’ is a ‘chicken & mushroom’ pie for mum,

And a ‘Mince & Cheese variant for me from the ‘servo’ –

along with other incendiary items:

Classic Big Orange Drink that comes housed in a Plastic 2L ‘Milk Container’.

One Coffee for me either in a can or barista – depending on the weather.

“Yes let’s go for burgers” she says with a half energetic thought.

So the good but not really good servo pies are out today.

In my car I go.

I go to the asian eatery – where I have become a novelty.

This is because I like to engage with the staff – who are of various levels of ‘broken english’.

So Burgers now ordered, haggle over a ‘cash price’ done & negotiated.

While waiting I talk to the ‘most broken english’ staff member – the husband of the best talker.

He reminds me of the kind of foreigner that is working too hard to be able to learn the language.

This is not a criticism – just an observation – for we westerners are glib at how hard it is for a ‘far flunger’.

But this time he is keen for an ‘impromptu lesson’.

I see a ruler on the counter – I pick it up & say slowly, demonstratively the word ‘ruler’.

Of course ‘r’s’ & ‘l’s’ are impossible to pronounce, & this word has a double does.

After the as expected bad pronuncial result – I chastise myself for choosing that prop.

I see the counter bell

I say again clearly, teacherly drawn out, demonstrably & repeatedly

“Bell”….”Bell”…”Bell” as I finish it I rung the bell a little.

Before he has the chance to reply comes a disembodied from the back kitchen voice:

“I’M COMING”

We both laugh at this unintended consequence.

Isn’t it great? – the language of physical comedy needs no teacher.

The lesson ends as the now embodied voice comes in & hands over the burgers.

“There’s Extra beetroot for you” what a delight I think as I say my friendly goodbyes.

These little ‘slices of life’ are quite uplifting.

NB: I can report that at home the burgers were well received.

“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.

“Fire Hydrants, Leadership & Assholes” (A Poem)

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by Martin Anton Smith

I was walking to the corner convienience store,

The usual fix: coffee, a pie or something fried.

On my way I saw the car parked of the very young man –

It was Parked over the under-the-street fire hydrant,

He parked there even though it stuck out like a sore-thumb:

A bright yellow metal grating plate,

That also had a 3-foot radius thick yellow circle around it.

Also, it was despite the street being devoid of other cars.

I guess I’m saying he had no logical excuse.

I file the information away.

I walk into the store, order, & they make my coffee.

While I wait, I scan to see if the boy is there.

He is.

I get his attention.

“You know you’re parked over the fire hydrant?”

I say firmly but fairly.

I wondered if this prooves I am definitely entering ‘early old man phase’.

“No” he says becoming embarrassed.

“You know if there’s a fire, they wont be able to connect”

“You’re also risking a fine”.

He just stands with awkward embarrassment.

He doesn’t connect that there is also a chance a house could go up in flames,

& his dopey parking could result in someone burning to death for lack of firehose water.

As I leave I say:

“If I was you i’d move that car asap”.

I don’t think that comment landed either.

I don’t usually agree with ‘the feminists’-

But they are definitely right on this particular sub-set of males:

Very young men are usually very very dopey.

Statistically speaking I predict this young fella will keep on doing it,

For is it not a rule of the Universe?

That young men park over fire hydrants?

This is also why I didn’t overplay my hand.

The world has far too many grumpy assholes who are scanning the world,

So as to pull up someone on some minor matter.

Of course, it is always a fine line between being a strong leader of men,

& being a total asshole.

In fact I do believe the two are not necessarily mutually exclusive.

I think assholes can also be good leaders,

But it is also a matter of degree.

And a good leader certainly doesn’t have to be an asshole.

In fact, this makes me wonder:

Is a ‘Great Leader’ simply a ‘Good Leader who is never an asshole’