in my own little world i’m not such a nerd (as i can be) in my own little world what you’d call absurd becomes reality
all the girls fall at my feet and pop stars are just people on my street i don’t want no more whatever i fancy i click my fingers for
in my own little world i get fame and fortune (a star overnight) in my own little world what you’d call a silent film isn’t black’n’white
no-one acts their age or knows what it is no-one who shouldn’t gets into showbiz only those i like get on top of the pops no-one feels any peer pressure and if they do it stops
in my own little world tight-fisted money-grabbers get their hands chopped off in my own little world what you’d call people who don’t listen get a van gogh
i’m a poet of international renown wherever i recite i’m the talk of the town half the beatles aren’t dead and didn’t split up and george best could drink what he liked without a hiccup
in my own little world there’s a price on my head (and i get it!) in my own little world what you’d call ‘everything‘ turns in my favour (bit by bit).
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.
View more posts
A Pretty Kettle of Poetry 