People arguing and breaking windows being carried off in a big balloon and coming to blows. The world is getting flatter by the minute with politicians in white capes winging it up to the top of their ivory towers hot-air propelled by their motions and powers. The world is getting flatter by the minute. Taking sides, falling off the edge opposite.
Sleepers-on-the-streets cardboard curled passers-by watching their money hurled into the bins of the alright jacks. Retired disciplinarians getting kept back for smacks. The world is getting flatter by the minute and everyone’s losing control and having a fit being led a merry dance in queues stepping in unison to blow a fuse. The world is getting flatter by the minute As the bombs rain down on the candles they lit To put them down and out of their misery Before their eyes have seen the Lord they won’t see.
Watching the news with the sound off. Silent movie piano and captions are enough. The world is getting flatter by the minute though polls say it’s round and you can spin it.
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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