This man needs no introduction (to those lucky enough to know him!). He’s recited my poetry on many occasions before. A great friend, a great song-writer, musician, poet, artist himself; Johnny Morris! ps I wrote the poem Saturday evening, Johnny recorded this recital Sunday morning and I did the collage Sunday afternoon. Instant Karma.
The streets are empty when a blink ago were full. The buses running with no passengers are just the ticket for wasting fuel. The beggars have nobody to beg to or have a two-metre vaudevillian wooden arm out if they do.
The local drunk shouts out to walled-in deaf ears You’ll die of the virus! I’ll die of alcoholism! as he holds his bottle of beer. Supermarkets are still open to shoppers in their cellophane masks who weigh themselves on the scales and stick the prices on their arse.
Dogs are a new leash of life to get out the house for a stroll as owners, tongues hanging out, jump with excitement as police patrol. You can’t go out unless absolutely necessary or you’re in the doghouse as helicopters above make sure anyone below looks like a mouse.
Statistics is the new board game and quiz show everyone’s glued to on their sets As hospitals have stress shooting off the graphs in their attempts to offset the sad, inevitable truth that people, cut off from their loved ones, are dying and funerals can’t even be had for any god’s want of trying.
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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