Buoying up what should only be anchored on a seabed, launching horizon thoughts from a beachy head, polishing off planks running red in gallons on bloody Mary galleons, mutinying off bilious dream decks into wavy waters off Albion; a pirate seagull takes a selfie from a cliff ledge.
Out-of-breath knee-rug centenarians in their Sunday best blowing out as many candles as possible to show who’s the eldest, sudden street-sleepers rolling out nicotine-rolled mattresses, metal-detector treasure-hunting wanderers wondering where it’s at is; a hypochondriac pigeon twigs it and drops down dead on its chest.
Shuddering scaredy-cats fidgety-pecking bread-crumbs, cry-baby pram-pushing toddlers make-believing their mums perfect perchers on rain-dropping bunting over wet pavement stones, nesty fledgling prodigies playground-beaking on xylophones; an Olympic swift breaks the all-time record at 32 metres per second.
Up-in-the-branches and away-with-the-fairies for whatever it takes. a modest million-strong division of camouflaged ambushers awakes, budget-totting scrimpers’n’savers blowing it all in one fell swoop, flashy film producing flashers put away for a long time in a chicken coop; a skylarking starling in mirror-sunglasses sweepstakes.
John Di Girolamo was born during the swinging middle ages as the Battle of Hastings raged outside on a cold, miserable Saturday evening just outside 'The Juggler's Arms' in Oxford, Torquay and Exeter at the same time. Born to a family, he spent most of his early years learning how to open umbrellas for a rainy day, and the runnings of horses and sword swallowers and the costs they incurred. Having graduated in 'Circus Management', he took to spinning plates for a living and persuaded his father to buy a restaurant to fund what he believed would be a lucrative career move. However, in the the days leading to The Age of Post Punk', he quit and would embark upon what was to go down in history doodles as a notebook.
Few knew it then but he had already started copying poetry, and often written by other people. As the minutes passed by, and Sardinia loomed, the idea of collages and drawings suddenly hit him as a way of filling up what had become a kind of book with pages and all. One day while storming off in a huff because his mum told him to, he struck upon the idea of putting it all together over a long-playing record (later a CD) and during a commercial break in the digital age, decided a blog would end Cromwell's ill-fated republic.
Sent off by recorded post, it would be by chance that his poems would get to their ultimate destination as, meanwhile, his pigeon who had queued so loyally for so long, sadly died the day before it was sacked.
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A Pretty Kettle of Poetry 