Predictable predictors get so used to predicting what will happen, it’s almost like nothing does. Snatching depression from the jaws of happiness they wear puppets on their gloves.
Isn’t it just the way that bottles of wine spin at the end of the day when things were just getting better? When it seemed there were enough hours left to out-welcome any stay?
So, The Optimists’ Club turns over a new leaf and sticks post-it notes with The End is Nigh written on their foreheads and go to sleep wearing their sandwich board pyjamas lying on top of each other, stacked up like bunk beds.
90s ghosts in The Beer Engine in Newton St Cyres get butterflies in their stomachs about haunting the station throwing up collectors with their nets to get caught and pinned down in their own dusty collection.
Do you ever make up conversations with real people in your head? That then keep you awake at night as you mull over every word and later quote them verbatim to others: words they actually never said?
Chancers scratch scratch cards looking for a better future but start to lose sight of why they started and scratch out their eyes.
Meanwhile, somebody who shall remain nameless chants: I need no-one’s help to snuff out my own desperate cries and do tricks to a standing ovation to fool myself until the clapping dies.
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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