I wake with a jolt Bolt upright in bed; Both bell-shaped ears clanging Either side of my metal alarm clock head.
Caricatured in a comic-book world Of sketched in pillow and sheet, I think out loud, as a speech bubble balloons; “Bloody ’ell! A working week!”
That ruddy routine and rigmarole; Striped pyjamas stripped off, shave n shower, Clothes, coffee and cornflakes, Breakfast T.V. on the hour.
Whereupon, I foulmouth the boss; The outsized miniature Mussolini! His fat-faced ugly mug (pinned-up) gets it As does Il Duce’s fat-arsed effigy.
The wage-earner’s wrath! The employer’s revenge! My poor piggy-bank : not in the pink. Thanks to a tin-pot, battle-weary salary My artillery reduced to a coin-clink.
Whatever, with eight-thirty a.m. I pull on my pullover, ready to roll. The N.I. numbers multiply. I add myself and go.
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 