About montag

My name is Montag. Except, it isn't. Montag is the protagonist of Fahrenheit 451, a sci-fi novel that was written by Ray Bradbury in 1953. It is set in a future where old books are burned but where this isn't a bad thing - it is law, and everyday normality. The story describes Montag's gradual awakening to the subtle barriers that his society erects in the way of free thought. Modern society may be starting to resemble the insidious dystopia that Bradbury imagines. This blog is an attempt to explore that idea - and have a lot of writerly fun along the way. M xx

Buckling Earthquake

I’m trying
To be
To ride
Buckling earthquakes
Of emotion
With a nonchalant
Of ‘commonplace’
On my lips.

I’m trying
But its hard.
Each peak
Each trough
Through my

This beautiful tumult
Has arisen in me
I know that these events
Are all but
The startling
Noticeable at each
Step on this
Me agape in wonder,
The form of future
That destiny is planning for me
This time.



Are gurus.

They lead the dance
On a stage
Under blazing lights.
Bathed in adoration.

Others inspire humankind
With thought, intelligence
Kindness or proficiency.

Am not to be found
In such exalted circumstance
I am he who receives no honour
Knows no pedestal

I console myself
With the knowledge
That I am


I bring people
and things –
Ideas –

Integrate B and Z
Petals and copper
And watch the sparks of
Divine creativity

I am guided
In this
My only enterprise
Love –
As it is
God and man.

I decode the
Dots and dashes
Of my emotional turmoil
Into instructions
For my singular ability.

That of

A Short Story About Commuting (or Modern Life Is Rubbish)


Raymond was looking forward to getting home. He knew that his wife and two lovely little daughters would be waiting for him. He hurried along the wet sidewalk.

Presently he arrived at the point of the journey he always hated. Here, he either had to walk through a cold, dirty dark tunnel which – if he avoided mishap – would shave many minutes from his journey, or he would have to take the safe but long way round. It was a horrible day – cats and dogs would be a suitable epithet and he had left his umbrella at home that morning.

He decided upon the tunnel.

Within seconds he realised it was a mistake. A dirty individual in ragged clothes leapt out from behind the wheelie bins and stood in front of him. Legs apart. Confrontational. Raymond instantly recognised him, and knew he was in for a bad time.

He tried familiarity.

“Virgil Trails” Raymond started confidently. “I haven’t seen you round these parts for ages”

Virgil grinned. It wasn’t a pleasant grin. “Wait there” he grunted.

He ventured behind the bin and returned seconds later with a baseball bat,

“What the fuck? – ” Raymond exclamation of surprise was interrupted by the bat crashing into the side of his jaw. He saw the string of blood sailing through the air.

Virgil regarded Raymond’s confusion and surprise with satisfaction. Suddenly he stepped forward and drove the fat end of the bat into Raymond’s solar plexus. The sound of ribs breaking could be heard and the commuter doubled up in pain, coughing.

Virgil stepped back again as if to admire his brutality but in fact he was simply better positioning himself to arc a vicious uppercut swing which caught the bent-over Raymond on the point of his chin.

Raymond  toppled over, unconscious.

The ruffian sauntered off to his space behind the bins once again and this time returned with a bucket of ice cold water. He threw it upon the prone figure of Raymond, who shuddered and then came to.

Rising gingerly to hist feet and wiping the blood from his mouth he started moving backwards. Terrified. Through his broken jaw and teeth Raymond was only able to mumble a single question.


Virgil cleared his throat, fixed his shirt and very politely and delicately announced

“I am very sorry for the broken nature of your face. This was caused by a malfunction in my psychological operations. Virgil Trails apologises for any inconvenience caused.”

He smiled brightly and disappeared back behind the dirty bins.

The battered, cold wet – and late – Raymond ran off crying with pain and disbelief.

Surfing Again

I thought

I was done with surfing.

I had enjoyed the

Late-life experience

Of roaming oceans on

A polished plank of



Back on the beach

Prawn kebab and beer in hand

I thought “it’s finished”.

Surfing now simply

A story to regale them with

In later/other life.


But staring at the sea


I felt its call

Its primal pull.

And this afternoon I found myself


Waxing the surface

Of my precarious vehicle.

Not even remembering how

I had entered the shed –

So dazed am I.


Big swells are coming they say.

I fear

And hope

That I’ll be out there.

Zombie Screen Face

I’m going to sound like a proper Luddite – or maybe because it’s because I live in a part of the country that appears not to be considered in such initiatives – but I’m going to rail against free wifi. Free wifi on trains is great for busy commercialists who need to get things done super-pronto, but for your average commuter is it really necessary? It’ll just encourage us to read more news/propaganda, buy more crap/consume and stop us thinking about the big issues that matter today.

Personally I love the dead time, the non-net time. It encourages us to read real books and do real stuff instead of pulling that zombie screen face the whole time.

I think I said it better here: https://revolutionfrommybed.wordpress.com/2014/12/21/anti-quantic/ and here: https://revolutionfrommybed.wordpress.com/2014/12/22/dont-go-digital/


Nightmare of Suburbia

I immersed myself
In the suburban dream
Gorged on it
Spun and twisted
Like a crocodile high
On fresh wildebeast steak

And now?

Now I feel sick
Nausea rising from
My solar plexus.
Each glimpse
Of this over-righteous
Self-important landscape
Results in yet another
Involuntary spasm.

I need escape.

To flee from this world and
Return to the nitty-gritty
Of soul, poetry, music
And not this life-as-materialism,
This death-in-life
That lives behind the
Manicured lawns
And neat facades of

When We Didn’t Know What We Were Doing

(For Jessica York)

We were young then.

Or should that be younger

We didn’t know what we were doing

We don’t now, but hindsight clarifies the folly of our youth.

As living blurs the folly of now.

But even so, our dreams were filled with love,

Creativity and (the need for) self expression.

So down to Betterton Street we went

And Jessica agreed,

So we gathered to read our words,

Send out our vibes

And share our love.

We’re older now.


And less social

But still have the need to express ourselves

In poetry

But back then defined us.

Beautful moments in our lives which I suspect will echo in eternity.

So thank you Jess

For you helped these children boogie