In a field not far away and nearer than it’s far, a team of cats are practicing in Circuslandia. Props for paws are all set out for them to do their tricks, Daring furry exploits in a moggy mayhem mix.
A giant plastic foot for them to wrap their claws around, to then leap from, in unison, and twist back to the ground. A balcony to jump upon, just millimetres thick. To see them pad it, so high up, may leave u feeling sick!
No obstacle course of furniture will have them slipping up. In and out of spring-hinged wardrobes just before they shut. Spectacular sofa scratching synchronized, covers all thread bare. Pegs and rubbers, coloured balls, juggled here and there.
Hide’n’seek from room to room in a game of ambush tag. One minute in a cardboard box, the next in a shopping bag. Mechanical hands and arms play-fight as, in formation, they attack Landing in perfect time together, rolling over, charging back.
In a field not far away and nearer than it’s far a team of cats are practicing in Circuslandia. Coming soon to your living room, kitchen and much more! The greatest show ever seen through the cat-flap by your door!
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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A Pretty Kettle of Poetry 
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