The chrisom is placed around my head. The midwife to charm me. The pastor to bless our family bed. Has the wheel turned in my favour? Is happiness foretold by the fortune-teller? My Catholic fingers in font-water. Ale in the alehouse makes better my humours. Poachers and apothecaries rest in the tavern. Drinking, adversities are briefly forgotten. Move the moon towards my sad rosary. Will the harvest heed us? How ought i to see?
Providence and promises haunt our village church. Spectre-eyed priests, in the pulpit, watch. Does the lantern, tonight, mourn our loss? As merry as Mary by the cross. Otherwise, there are street-acts to sorcer With contentment, almost, in the tricks of the conjurer. My lonely desires are as lonely as me. Merchants, elsewhere, mundanely make money. Mournful Hamlet phones the Samaritans. Have i my horoscope? Is this my talisman?
I am a peasant with peasant blood. My simple plough for prosperous earth. Drink a keg to life-long love. Then scatter my ashes in the pub.
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 