About
They call me "The Genre-Spanner."
Welcome to what will no doubt be a groundbreaking work of collage/literature -- my ruddy and thrusting poetry and a brief glimpse/teaser as what's been described as my "shockingly muscular" prose style, think Hemingway meets Coltrane -- "prose so taut you can feel the veins," Tom Paulin. (I like to think of this particular volume as the part of the missile that is jettisoned after launch. My ensuing torrent of novels being the next phase, watch this space.) If this Introduction seems fractured or angular bear in mind in between sentences I always reach for my trombone (or flugelhorn if it's poetry I am hammering out). Sometimes I compose music and poetry at the same time, a cacophony of creation, munching here on a sausage, smashing out a chord on the piano, ink-stained hands from poetry and criticism. My life is a cacophony of creation, a huge and pullulating comet of art . . . Such is the life of Howard Moon, novelist, poet, jazz musician, painter, cycle courier, and after dinner speaker and marsupugilist.
How do I keep myself so strong and lithe? I may disclose some of my jazzercise techniques, along with the history of the brass trumpet, the evolution of the tabletop globe, a generous portion of embossed bookmark designs, and I will also be sharing with you my encyclopedic knowledge of the pipe. I will be taking you into my inner psyche via some modern literary devices.
I will be opening up my psyche via the very underemployed device of stream of consciousness or automatic writing. No editing, no censorship, just raw undiminished Moon. Prepare yourself, clear your mind, indulge a mantra of choice, pray to whatever gods you hold dear and dive into the plasma pool.
With kindest, deepest, throbbing regards,
Howard T.J. Moon
Journal
Howard Moon's Arctic Journal
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