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
In The Groove. Photo by A. Nowell
James Brown famously recorded a track entitled Doing It To Death. I discovered this tune as a young man in my twenties (via my younger brother who was a huge JB fan). I loved the attitude that this record suggested, and I felt that it reflected my then hedonistic sentiments entirely. In the midst of sweaty, 1980s dancefloors – and while surrounded by my peers who were also creating intricate physical interpretations of a 4/4 rhythm – I vowed that, like Mr Brown, I too would being doing it until death. The it which I was pledging to do was to dance, to dig music, to be funky. How, I thought then, could life be worth living without the appreciation of funky and soulful music. I reasoned that even if septuagenarian dancing became painful and difficult, I was still going to attempt it – just to show the world that I was still alive.
Press the fast forward button. Continue reading
In my dreams
I stand nervously
My toes curl around
The edge of hard
And I am scared.
I am exhilarated
As I dive right into
International Klein Blue
Takes me over
Depth made actual
With eyes open
I drink blue
I consume blue
I become blue
And blue is me
The secrets of the cosmos
Reveal themselves to me
When I swim in
International Klein Blue
And the secret is love.
I may emerge
In another universe
Or in the day after tomorrow
But for this instant
Where everything is one
Reduced to the heartbeat of love.
We all can do this.
I’ll see you,
International Klein Blue.
(for Yves Klein)
With all its quantum capriciousness
Warps the image reflected back at me in the glass
In what seemed like the previous instant
(Or perhaps it was an epoch ago)
A young face used to stare at me
Uncertain, hopeful and optimistic.
Those shades of expressions haven’t changed
But the face has;
It’s grey, lined and worn –
A testament to the fact
That I’m riding a fast train to another plane
And by that I mean death
And the adventure that awaits us all.
This aging face is like an affirmation
Of the things that man and and science does not understand.
It’s like looking deep into the cosmos
And fills me with wonder.
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
(for Sarah Annetts)
I’ve been playing this for too long
Eyes burnt out
Staring at screens.
It seems there are only three levels
In the game.
Level One seems like so very long ago.
‘The Terrors of Middle Age’ –
Level Two –
Seemed so complex
Such a deep, dark, twisted puzzle
At its start
Prizes and booty banked.
The machine of life
And I’m here,
All the stratagems
And accumulations of yesteryear
Proving ineffective once again.
One last effort
A final big push
In this unknown domain.
The end is not so far away
And with it the prize?
Love in a garden of spring
No rain here
Keats skipping after urns
John chasing notes that have no end
David singing for the children
This is not job
Not money. Not fame
Hate and hurt are banished elsewhere
Here be love in a garden of spring
And those who come here
Feel the beauty