TTFN

Hi all,

I’m going to be making Revolution From My Bed unavailable for a little while. This is because over the next few months, I shall be contacting publishers to see if anyone is interested in setting my work down in print.

Wish me luck!

Naturally if I fail in this mission I’ll be back. If I succeed however, I’ll still be back, but with a link to my shiny new collection.

See you soon I hope!

Montag x

 

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Poetry!

Can’t stop writing at the moment!

Hope you are enjoying the work.

Montag x

Not No More

I can’t pretend
Not no more
Not no longer
I can’t talk a good game
About numbers and profit
Can’t beam with fake
Excitement at being
Given more of the same
To do
Even the money don’t
Matter
Its potential for
Transformation into
Material things is
Far less important
To me now.

I wanna chase
Rainbows
To the place
Where the
Sunset sky
Meets the horizon
Make music
Sounds and art
Write
And read.
Please
No more of this materialistic
Claptrap of benefit
To no-one
Nowhere.

Escape
Now there’s a thought
Shall I do it?

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

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.