One of my most military memories I remember is a memorable memorial on Remembrance Day. There were flags unfurled flaunting fighter-jets frolicking overhead with flowery smoke in the fray. Previously primed primary school children with chalk chatted and chomped on their rationed chocolate with high-flying lowlifes leading lowly folk longing to follow a philosophy, or any old cold callous cut.
As three-market thatchers thought about thinking, and thanked their lisping stars they had no thpeech impediment, Workers were willed to work on their soft ‘R’s but couldn’t help but Really Resent that their bullying betters believed in butchering them to a bit of beef to be ground down and brutally bred as groaners in their own grief.
As the years yearned on yearly, not yet to yield a tomorrow but a yesterday the preach-privileged pried on property with propriety and prosperously preyed on its precarious prey.
‘Alliteration’n’National Anthemology’ read by JDG schizoid
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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