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

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…

“A Fate Worse Than Death” (A Poem)

by Anton Martin Smith antonmartinsmith@gmail.com

In any human society with a culture – there are three overarching mental states:

Life

Death

Anti-Life

The most advanced cultures mostly embrace ‘Life’ & so thrive the most.

The stock average culture has large doses of the second & third contaminating the first but gets by.

The most fucked up cultures are too stupid to know how badly ‘Anti-Life’ they have become, these are the forever hell-holes.

Oh & come to think of it – this also works on the individual level too.

So even in all the Earth’s paradise’s there can still yet be demons,

And in even in all the Earth’s Hells their can still be angels.

‘Everyday life’ is a very strange thing indeed.

(& don’t let some fool tell you it ain’t).

“The Maiden Of Procrastination” (A Poem)

by Anton Martin Smith antonmartinsmithwrites@gmail.com

This poem was meant to be written.

It was a close-run thing,

With pen almost hitting the page on multiple occasions,

However, Procrastination’s elk-like swiftness batted each of the pen’s tentative literary forays away.

Alas, The Pen didn’t make even a single “dot” appearance on the page – period.

But The Pen showed redoubtable courage under fire,

& if not for an unfortunate series of events – namely these:

Musical distractions of classic rock ‘n’ roll nature;

Dreams of past misdeeds towards various long gone & now fictionalised exe’s;

Too many tasty crunchy bloat-ey chocolatey snacks;

And the big daddy reason:

Multiple acute (but not very cute) pangs of self-doubt –

Yes….that old chestnut.

Yes it had seemed that in the end – Procrastination won this battle.

And oh my what would have been!

It was going to be a real rollercoaster of literary truth & amusement.

The effervescence of true originality was set to bubble over all meridians & latitudes of Earth & beyond!

And I’m probably overstating it but –

The world may have tilted just a little off its axis in a slanted form of metaphorical joy.

Oh what a pity the battle was lost & alas nothing ever was written into the papery folds of space-time at all.

I’m sure someone far smarter & way more Ancient Greek-er said it before me, BUT:

When Procrastination wins – a bit of our future self, doth die.

Luckily there abounds one prescriptive partial solution to the sad wings of Procrastination’s foul swoops.

& It is thus:

Let ye write of thy valiant battles lost to that un-fair maiden-of-procrastination.

For then you have succeeded in the rare art of making something from nothing.

Which many of the more astute quantum minded of you will already know,

Is not entirely out of the realms of all possibility.

After all – is this poem not a testament to that oft disregarded fact?

The writer now wishes to congratulate the enemy of Procrastination for their hard-fought victory.

But the Pen holder is at least proud that they showed some old-fashioned last minute plucky-ness,

By retreating, recuperating & retiring to a handy place right behind the left ear.

& the would-be writer avows fiercely to return much stronger in the next Pen vs Procrastination theatre of war.

So ’till we meet again my anti-ephemeral anti-friend & arch enemy,

Till our next very weary psychological-warfare coupling,

Till our much-needed warring embrace,

Till in taking up arms we both inadvertently till the soil of that literary battle-scape called paper.

Or to modernise I guess I should really say ‘puter.

You never know – one of us may win the highly coveted “Iron Uncross 1st class”.

Yes, Fair thee well O’ our always defiant, ever-present adversary! –

O’ Unfair Maiden of Procrastination

Bye-Bye for now.

“The Watchers” (A Poem/Prose/Spoken word )

by Anton Martin Smith antonmartinsmithwrites@gmail.com

They hide away from anyone with brains who might educate/enlighten,

About that stuff that they know very little about.

For their fragile still teenage ego could not survive it.

For that would make them have to be honest with themselves:

They would have to squarely face their demons:

That they peaked in high school – & it was a fake peak at that.

For that was the place where they could hide ignorance,

Disguise it as ‘coolness’ via the trick of aloofness.

They still use this trick at age 25,35,45,55.

And the really committed losers do it till the death rattle sounds.

It’s one of the saddest things that you’ll ever see day-to-day,

Amoungst so many of the Earth people.

They miss out on their intended lives,

To use their own phrase – they make ‘old fools’ of themselves,

They turn away those who can help them grow.

We only hope this crapulent solipsistic behaviour is not madness or badness

But is because of some weird as yet undiscovered warped form of Milky Way shyness.

Oh you Humans when will you learn?

For I can tell you – Us Pleiadeans are getting rather sick of you all,

We are considering abandoning our elected post as the watchers.

The Galactic Federation is considering dropping you entirely,

Swapping you for another more paletable intergalactic zoo.

Yes earthlings – the Trappist star system humanoid oiks throw considerably less shit at each other.

So, don’t take us ‘watchers’ for granted, ok?

For now just rest at ease, o’ wild Humans.

For just like on Earth,

The wheels of Galactic Justice also move slowly.

You can still turn things around.

Us Pleiadian Watchers all doubt it – but in theory it’s still possible.

To All The ‘Wild Bill’s’ Of The World (A Poem/Prose)

By Anton Martin Smith antonsmithwrites@gmail.com

You are talking to someone you know.

Another person is nearby.

They try to introduce you this ‘new third party’ – let’s call him ‘Wild Bill’.

I’ll come back to Wild Bill in a second.

Now a partially half-well-adjusted-adult generally does this as an introduce-ee:

They muster at least a quarter smile, aim it towards those they are introduced to, & and emit at least a passably pseudo-cheery hello.

But No No No! – this is not always so!

In small towns throughout the cosmos, namely Earth – this skill is often missed.

Yes, our smalltown Wild Bill – instead of acting like a partially well-adjusted adult who knows how to say hello –

Decides he would rather look like he is at a funeral,

Looking at you cadaverously, without an once of good humour,

As frozen as an iceberg, while his tiny mind ticks over.

Wild Bill is trying to figure out whether you are worth talking to,

He’s hoping he might have known you for a minimum thirty years, but has temporarily forgotten.

Because Wild Bill knows that dealing with an entirely new person from scratch,

The ‘blank page’, if you will –

Is a bridge too far for him – in fact it is far far far far far too far for him,

& thats still putting it lightly.

For his fragile quadruple bubble wrapped ego can’t handle it.

For hidden deep in the recesses of his psyche – he knows if he does this – his cover will be blown.

He’d rather treat the ‘blank pages’ of the world poorly & so come across like a total hick,

Than risk actually being seen.

It is simply the price Wild Bill is more than willing to pay –

For he can stay comfortably unseen, invisible, without ever experiencing any stressful growth pangs,

& who cares what some total stranger thinks of me anyway, he tells himself.

Of course, I’m not hating on the Wild Bills of the world –

As it is always a fool’s errand,

To judge those who know not why they do as they do.

Especially as we are all like Wild Bill in some ways, or at least some stage in our lives.

But in saying that,

It’s bloody annoying when it happens to you all the same.

Unfortunately there is no polite antidote to it, other than to steadfastly not get sucked into their abyss.

This of course takes great practice.

One day I will rudely confront Wild Bill like this:

“Bill, Bill, Wild Bill – oh when will you learn to say hello properly for god’s sake?”

To which Wild Bill will probably reply stony faced:

“Not in this lifetime stranger”.

And then if I’m really lucky – a mutual disarming chuckle & will break out across these dusty windswept savannahs –

Finally allowing me & ‘The Wild Bills’ of this Earth to see eye to eye.

It’s a rose-tinted romantic hope, & as such, I won’t hold my breath.

So, all that is left to think to yourself about Wild Bill, is this:

Wild Bill – may one day your wounded soul find restful peace, with all your undue fears long gone.

You are now a-hoppin’-skippin’ & a- jumpin’ through the clouds with unremittent gay abandonment,

Greeting every otherworldly evanescent stranger you meet along the way like a manically happy labrador,

Who has just now seen his long-term owner & best friend, whom he had mistakenly thought was long dead.

God speed to you Wild Bill.

“Toast Your Inner Void” (Prose)

by anton martin smith by antonmartinsmithwrites@gmail.com

I have an inner void.

It’s there.

But that’s not the interesting thing.

The interesting thing is this question:

Is the void normal, or is it a pathology.

I used to think it was depression –

But then when older & wiser, I realised this wasn’t so.

Was it the void that all ‘children of divorce’ carry their whole lives?

Perhaps the void is the child of the ‘child of divorces torment’ itself.

Perhaps the void is some generalised genetic trauma.

Of being a bedraggled ‘colonial sendoff’ out of England in the 19th century to New Zealand.

Perhaps it’s a lack of love, now so ubiquitous & long lived –

That I’ve forgotten every mammal – including myself needs it.

Perhaps the void helps me,

Perhaps it’s there to make me think.

Perhaps if I forced myself to not think about the void,

I wouldn’t be writing about it now.

The truth is that the void becomes your colleague –

Because it’s always there, it’s predictable – there’s a maligned but real comfort.

You don’t know what it would even be like to be without the void.

They say the everyman lives a life of quiet desperation.

Yet I’m sure my ‘the void‘ is more special than that.

My void writes poems, while their voids write better CV’s –

It can’t be the same thing as everyone elses void.

Please lord let my void be unique, one of a kind, a gem, a unicorn.

Make my misery mine, I do not want to share.

Some times all a man or woman has is their misery –

Or the delusion that’s it’s becasue of their personalised little grief story.

Maybe to be human you have a built in the void as per factory settings.

To deny our void-truth we try to reprogram ourselves with fancy life-setting.

But no matter how we try, the ‘return to factory setings’ button is always pushed.

Perhaps it is child-like folly to think I, or anyone, can beat the void.

For no one can deny their destiny & be better off for it.

Let us all raise a glass to the mysterious the void – be she a pervasively permanent beast,

Or he a spectre-like figment of our depleted imaginations.

I mean really – given we know nothing at all – what else is there to do?

To the void,

Our hang-around friend, our arch-enemy,

Our source of inspiration & exasperation,

We know you’re not going anywhere soon,

We all think you’ve been given far too bad of a rap lately,

So sit down & have a quiet drink with us won’t you?

I’ll make a table for the four of us –

Me, myself, I & you – the void.

if its anything like the last time,

It’ll be a real knees-up.

Oh..and one more thing…..

My dear the void, if you do decide to come – whatever you do….

….don’t tell anyone.

“Yes! We Have No Bananas” ( A thought/Prose)

by Martin Anton Smith martinantonsmith@gmail.com

The only truly good thing about ‘big time sports’ is the crowd hubbub – for crowd hubbub is a human kind of birdsong.

It is beautiful in its brutality.

The athleticism of the athletes is of second order rank, the contest itself an even more distant third rank.

The score of the game is totally irrelevant, but the outcome isn’t. The score is something like 34-12, but the outcome is not at all the score.

The outcome is one man turning to another & saying –

“Hey Joe what a great game!, it made me forget how me, you & all our kind are modern age forever slave-serfs”.

That casual epitet of the everyman is the true outcome of a ‘big time’ sports event.

Centrally planned contrived escapism for the slave serf so to delay a People’s Revolution.

And it’s worked a treat since the coliseum days, which incidentally never actually ended.

Yes, “The Truth About Us” is depressing, but from Truth does enlightenment flow.

All good philosophers intuitively know this.

All bad politician-authoritarians do as well.

And that we know the truth – our pathway to enlightenment – that ain’t a bad thing at all, at all.

The ‘ignorance is bliss thesis’ is just slave-master propaganda.

So let us enjoy the sports match, but also kick the politician-authoritarian up the arse now & then.

Becasue our serf-slavery won’t end anytime soon,

That is self evident to anyone who reads History.

The point of our enlightenment is this:

Our slave-serf conditions have deteriorated far to much lately & we deserve better.

Let us aim to kick politician-authoritarian arse regularly & non violently.

Like John Lennon said “We’ll do it with humour”.

For he’s right – humour is the only thing the Slave Master is really afraid of.

In Closing:

So Bra –

lets Ha Ha Ha…

to the La-de-dah.

to get thrown a better…

Ba-na-na

“Corporatitus” ( A Poem)

by Martin Anton Smith martinantonsmith@gmail.com

The longer you have divorced yourself from the banal “Corporate World” the more you recognise it as a disease.

If you are good you can literally see it emanating off those who still suffer from…

Let’s call it “Corporatitus”.

Although we shouldn’t hate these people.

We should feel sorry for them as they are merely victims of the ubiquitous focused brainwashing.

We should quietly, compassionately, & creatively help to bring them to the light.

So that one day in the hopefully-near-distant-future,

They will realise they have become poorly paid supporting actors,

In a very bad movie,

That they didn’t write.

Then they at least have a chance,

To slip out the back studio door & once again feel real-life sunlight on their face.

“Routines” (A Poem)

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.

“Release Day”. (A Poem)

by Martin Anton Smith

Kids in School want to leave School but can’t,

While teachers think they can’t leave School, so don’t.

They are both in Prison –

The Kids’ Prison is physical,

& the Teachers’ Prison is mental.

Both Prisons are equally real.

Kids & Teachers are both each other’s inmates,

Just marking time till release day comes.

Both parties think of ‘release day’ like this:

A future event that exists only as the proto-thought,

Of a nebulous & uncrystallised far-flung dystopian future.

Both prisoners at heart know they will be released.

But they still somehow don’t quite believe it.

This intrusive thought is the tip of the iceberg – peaking above the surface.

For hidden in the psyche lies a brutal Truth:

Modern life is just a giant ‘prisoner exchange scheme’.

When The Kid & The Teacher are ready,

Their brains will ‘release the files’.

And they will be released.

We the Kids & We the Teachers,

All of us.

And then with our brains at the ready,

& with our knowledge fully intact.

We will finally have come to know serenity.

For how could it be any other way?

For once man has arrived at the final & true destiny,

There is no want to argue.