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.

Wiser

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

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Strange Deliberations of the Fates

If you were to have entered that room you would certainly have been taken aback. In fact, it was much less a room, more a cavernous space. Within, there was an unfathomable number of little beings rushing around, busily engaged in various tasks. They – the beings – were odd-looking. All were naked, although the concept meant less to them as they didn’t have any private parts to hide or expose. Their skin was a pleasant grey-brown colour and their heads were small and oval (wider than they were high). A pair of attractive almond eyes – like a cat’s – were set in each head.

The frenetic activity was taking place on a dizzying variety of horizontal levels in the space. The majority of the creatures were working at floor level, but there were also others who were busy on multiple mezzanine levels. Some were even suspended in mid-air from harnesses, gliding like trapeeze artists between levels and workstations. Lights, dials and screens entirely covered the walls and desks and this equipment was the focus of the beings’ attention. The centrepiece of everything was an enormous table set on the ground floor, upon which was a miniature landscape. The model was covered in thousands (or maybe, millions or billions) of small figures, which reminded me of plastic toy soldiers. A cluster of the alien beings surrounded the table and were engaged in what seemed like heated discussion.

I couldn’t understand their burbling, high-pitched language, however I later learned what they were talking about. Apparently, it was along the lines of the following. Continue reading

Fly With Me

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Eagle Flying High. Photo by Montag

Well then, it certainly seems like poetry is the thing for me at the moment.

If you, dear reader, understood anything about the real Montag (although me understanding myself is something that I continually struggle with!), you’d know that I am first a poet. Everything else is secondary: prose writing, music, art, photography – they all play second fiddle to the yearnings of my poetic heart.

I starting scribbling in my early teens and continued throughout adulthood. During early manhood I needed to keep it concealed because, where I grew up, poetry was most definitely not cool. At college and university I found souls who understood the poetic aspect of me – and that was wonderful. Shortly afterwards, I started an early internet poetry zine, which attracted quite a bit of love at the time. We held events in London and even published an anthology. Continue reading

The Shabby Suit

Eight or so years ago, I wrote a poem entitled The Shabby Suit while sat in the concourse of Sheffield railway station watching the world go by. In the years that followed, events would cause me to think about the poem. On a couple of occasions I even searched for it in my boxes of scribbles – to no avail.

Earlier this morning I was having a clearout, and guess what fell out of a dog-eared notebook? A folded A4 sheet with said poem scrawled on it. Allow me to share it with you – was it worth the wait?

The Shabby Suit

Once upon a time
It was a source of pride
It indicated that he was
Getting ahead,
That he was important
Somebody;
He wore a tie.

I see him today on the
First delicate,
Beautiful
Day of spring.
Young students sharing discoveries
In scruffy jeans
Hobos smiling and observing
Beauty via a can
Of beer.

He regards the love of others
And envies it.
For the thing that
Once meant so much
To him and
Defined his
Existence
Is now threadbare and
Worn.

He has fallen out of love
With its symbolism
It is old and grey
Like the man himself
And he realises
There’s nothing else.

JD in Bed

cropped-cropped-dsc_0008.jpg(This post was originally drafted on 22nd February 2015. Publishing today as a tribute to Jenny Diski who died aged 68 on the 28th April 2016. I was a huge fan)

Right now I’m in that bed – the one in the header image of this blog.

Coincidentally the bedclothes are the same as in the photograph (I do have numerous other sets – like I said, coincidence). The cat (Morris) is curled up next to me and we’re both enjoying beaucoup du soleil.

I’m still feeling the lovely wooliness from the ganja-on-toast that I enjoyed last night (I gave up all smoking about ten years ago but still enjoy getting stoned occasionally). So what else is there to do but chill in bed and write (plenty actually, I want to go downtown and take some photographs. I also want play some jazz on my guitar. I’ll be out busking later this year – and don’t mention the garden…) Continue reading

Still Learning

There’s always more to people than meets the eye.

Take me for instance.

wordpress-logo-simplified-rgbI can be critical and evaluative as will be immediately apparent from my other posts on this site. Certainly, as one who seeks to cultivate that cool beloved of writers, I like to come across in my prose as ironic, objective and knowing. The result of this affectation is that it is sometimes difficult for me to reveal other (perhaps more genuine) aspects of my personality. This difficulty is nothing cognitive or philosophical – it’s emotional. The truth be told, it’s foolish embarrassment. In a writer’s world where only knowing irony is respected highly (or so I believe), I’m sometimes a little ashamed to be my other self.

Continue reading

2015 Ahoy!

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Shoreline. Photo by Montag

I’ve bought myself a new ChromeBook. It’s great aside from the knowledge that Google could be, or actually are, tracking everything that I do on this computer. It’s not really a problem though because I’m simply using this cheap and cheerful device as a glorified portable typewriter.

All the really dodgy work is done on my offline PC at home. Only joking Mr Google surveillance man! Don’t arrest me!

So here we are in the 2015 and I’ve survived the first week back at work, indeed I’m filled with that post-survival heroism, thinking that my employment isn’t so bad and I might even achieve great things this year. Yeah, right. Remind me of that again on Wednesday around about 15.39. Continue reading