Jack-a-Nory E.P.

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Safe Hot-Water Bottles Everywhere

Mum taught me something I’ll never forget:
When you fill a hot-water bottle with boiling kettle-boiled H2O,
hold the bottle over the sink in case it falls
‘cos if u scald yourself you’ll know.

To everyone in the world now,
Peace and Love. Hope it’s so close to home, you’re care free enough to freely care.
To those who are victims of war and who can’t take it for granted,
Safe hot-water bottles everywhere.

One of the Robots

You’re one of them.
You don’t give anything.
I try to keep in touch.
Bipolar stuff that leads to nothing

I push your buttons.
You don’t react.
You carry on as normal.
You have no heart. Fact.

What makes you tick?
How do you work?
I’ve got steam coming out my ears.
You’re relentless. You never shirk.

When I Grow Up

I want to be a vet.
I like animals.
My best friend’s dad is a vet.
I’ve seen calves being born in fields.

Hour-old kittens being warmed.
Parrots, dogs and rabbits.
All creatures great and small.
I like animals to bits.

I want to be a detective.
I like solving mysteries.
A good friend’s daughter is going to study forensics.
I like whodunnits and serial killer TV series.

Finding DNA that proves the proof.
Fighting defence lawyers to make it stick.
Not letting anyone slip through the net.
Understanding victim AND culprit.

When I grow up
I want to follow every pipe dream I ever dreamt.
Be taken to hospital to be newly born
and not waste time going to interviews where dreams went.

Have a super human brain.
A know-it-all lifting the cup.
Have what I need
when I grow up.

Sudden Still

The misfits want to be fit misses
in demand with box office kisses.
On a night out when staying in isn’t in
when whatever isn’t original is a sin.

Bartenders juggle bottles to cheers
as eye-phones film on blurry sees.
While the third world war will be digitalised
banned home movies have become feature films disguised.

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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