Alien Visit

This place is outer space
where aliens arrive
and they love slumming it
in this exotic dive.

Where they come from is pure,
unspoilt, and as it’s always been.
They beam images back home
and pose in concrete and green.

They’re too clever for anyone here
and do their touristy invisible thing
cos where they come from is pure,
unspoilt, and as it’s always been.

They wonder how this species
never got to them and where they are.
But when they get a closer look
they see how far they have to go, how very far.

Secret reconnaissance
with star spies standing out visible
walking among them as human but undercover
sending back intelligence on this rival.

This place is outer space
where aliens arrive
and they love slumming it
in this exotic dive.

They’re too clever for anyone here
and do their touristy invisible thing
cos where they come from is pure,
unspoilt, and as it’s always been.

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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