The birds are back in the square and my flat cat would love to attack for a dare as they swoop from the skies to the tree. But he’d find it nigh on impossible to be fair to make any kind of capture or kill in his lair even if out on the streets. No chance of doing his devilry.
The birds are starlings. The poor dear darlings. Mediterranean magpies on rooftops watch and crank it up a notch for my flat cat that would love to try taking them on too but he’d probably come off worse and die?
I’m on my balcony quite serene with a bottle of white watching the scene. The chances of murder as slim as my cat’s though in my head there’s imminent attacks.
For example, this very day and the washing machine technician who didn’t bother to come. You kept me waiting despite the frigging appointment for four hours, son. I’ve been without a washing machine three weeks. It’s under guarantee and, but for hand washing, my clothes would reek.
Meanwhile, the birds are making a racket in the tree. My flat cat has gone to sleep off his disappointment in dismay. And I’m left having to chase up that technician between a rhyme like third degree or foul play.
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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