Johnny Minimal never went over the top. He only went to war against unnecessary need.
He kept everything under control and kept it all bottled in. A cork in his mouth; He was a man of very few words.
He gave his love in small doses. Just enough to keep her going. He never whispered sweet nothings ‘Cos nothing sugary was sweet to him.
He didn’t believe in pie in the sky. He didn’t talk of God or Christ. He led his life accepting death. He never acknowledged anything more.
Everything would be a close-guarded secret. Everything he kept close to his chest. His private life was strictly private. He never let anything leak.
When he went, only close friends came. As the coffin closed, it was left unsaid. Nothing flowery was at his funeral. What he would have wanted, at least.
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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