Butterflies (It’s alright)

Music purists with a mess in their veins
spew out needle-injected words from their precious brains.
Blabbing-about-nothing and soon-to-be forgettable socialites
dodgem-car roll at smoky jokes that waft off to canned laughter into noisy nights.

If anything gets heavy,
it’s alright ‘cos it’s only temporary
and butterflies in a belly
beep faint signs of life by the hospital’s bedside telly.

Into the small hours, and revising memories for the next day,
swotters and blotters sit a 24-hour test of time that won’t last anyway.
Hot-air balloon and on-the-pull blow-up dolls and action men
randomly float away by mistake to a disco of karma and zen.

If anything gets too light,
It’s alright ‘cos it’ll fall with all its might
and butterflies in a belly
beep faint signs of life by the hospital’s bedside telly.

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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