Join me down the waterfront at The Prospect. Millions of memories going introspect. Well maybe not millions but quite a few. We’ll have a couple of pints or the proverbial one or two.
The world spins round at such a pace with its starter pistol at the start of its rat race that before you know it, your day is already what happened yesterday and what you thought would last forever has gone and buggered off to a time far far away.
You’re an elegant woman and a handsome one too. That’s nothing new. Bad angels curse good angels and good angels give as good as they get. Fancy smashing up some glass mansions to let?
Just a little word in your ear. Shall I whisper it so you can’t hear? I suffer from nostalgia. And if my memory serves me well, Miss O’Connor gave me a sticker star for it.
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 