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People are gate-crashing
the politicians’ world party
cracking open crates of ale
and raiding refineries for gallons of oil.

No one knows what fate awaits
the fleeing President of the Big United Mates
but it is believed, doing a bunk,
he may be in a bunker.

Ordinary people, in so many words,
have told leaders they’re a bunch of nerds.
No one knows their whereabouts
but wherever they are, they’re probably out.

Unconfirmed reports suggest it’s just a utopia
as the old flags burn and the new one flies.
Opticians, reeling from the unforeseen demand,
say revellers just can’t believe their eyes.

World At One

He or she shouts at him or her
You’re fucking useless!
which isn’t really fair,
Just their life’s a mess.

Everyone has their flaws
behind closed doors.
I got mine and you got yours.
Let’s live in peace.

T.V. War

Tin-pot dictators in palatial parliaments
have their people exit-poll in poverty
as democratic leaders on Speakers’ Corner
get on higher soapboxes for superiority.

Journalist cats get caught
by snuff movie makers talking in tongues
no-one understands, with notes
foreign newsreaders can’t read but call ransoms.

Bombs drop and regimes fall.
Truth is the prerogative of braggarts and liars.
All the allies furtively round the table
‘cos enemies don’t kill as many as friendly fire.

And You Can Quote Me On This

I’m not here to be right;
I’m not right.
I’m just here to right.
Right as in a wrong.

Or was it;

I’m not here to be right;
I’m not right.
I’m just here to write.
Right as in spelt wrong.

Or was it;

I’m not here to be right.
I am right.
I’m just here to write
Write as in what’s wrong.

Or was it;

I’m not here to be right.
I am right.
I’m just here to write.
Write as in I’m wrong.

Published by aprettykettleofpoetry

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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